THE CASE OF A GRUMPY PEEPING TOM
older neighbor!bucky barnes x female!reader [15.3k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door and he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience. everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you aren’t really that far behind.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: non-canon; set in summer; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s but it’s only mentioned that she is younger than him); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky; loner!bucky; size difference (bucky is taller + beefy); they’re both perverts; possessiveness & jealousy; obsession; stalker-ish behavior; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); sexual fantasies; dirty talk; masturbation (f & m); fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; brief spanking; sexual acts in “public”; pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; slight degradation; a few uses of slut & he calls himself old multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; creampie.
A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵
sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams.
hope you’ll enjoy it 💋
The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.
Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.
He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.
This only makes him more noticeable.
He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.
He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.
His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.
See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.
As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.
He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.
He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”
Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.
He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.
His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.
And it works. Until your arrival.
The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.
Then you step into view.
You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.
Bucky’s frown deepens.
You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.
The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.
Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.”
He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.
Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.
You lift your hand and wave.
“Hi!” You call warmly.
Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.
From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.
Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.
The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.
“Oh, hi!”
Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.
He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.
“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.
You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.
However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.
“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”
You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.
That somehow makes it worse.
The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.
He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.
“Morning.”
He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride.
Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.
“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.
Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind.
He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.
“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.
Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.
You don’t stop greeting him after that.
At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.
On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.
“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory.
He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.
“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”
He’s already walking away.
That interaction bothers him more than it should.
The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.
He stops without meaning to.
You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.
“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.
He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.
With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.
Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”
Bucky shrugs, already turning away.
“Have a nice day!” You call after him.
He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.
By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.
Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.
Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.
“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.”
Bucky’s nostrils flare.
How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.
And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.
Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.
Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.
On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows.
He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.
“Hi.”
His hands freeze.
You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.
Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.
“What do you want?” He asks flatly.
You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.
“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”
That gets his attention.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.
“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”
His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”
The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.
“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”
“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.
You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.
You nod once. “Okay.”
Your eyes drop to the ground.
“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.
That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.
The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.
Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?
It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.
That’s when a light flicks on across the street.
He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.
At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.
Straight into your world.
You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.
Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.
An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.
He shouldn’t be watching.
The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.
Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.
When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.
Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.
He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.
The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.
He looks anyway.
Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.
His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.
It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.
And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.
The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.
Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.
He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.
Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.
When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence.
Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?
Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open.
When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.
When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.
Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.
It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.
You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.
You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.
Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.
Tonight, you are definitely not home.
Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.
This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.
You’re not alone.
Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.
It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.
Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss.
He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.
The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight.
Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.
Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.
The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.
In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.
The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.
What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.
As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.
That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.
But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.
They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.
Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.
And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.
The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.
The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.
Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.
Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.
“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.
Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.
He cuts his own engine and gets closer.
“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.
You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.
“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.
You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked.
You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”
He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”
There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line.
“You don’t have to—” You start.
“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”
You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.
“It’s fine.” He mutters.
Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.
When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”
You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.
Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”
He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.
Or maybe not close enough.
“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”
His body stills completely.
“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”
“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.
You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”
He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.
“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”
Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.
“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”
There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.
“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”
Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.
After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.
Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.
And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.
Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.
Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.
“Move.” He grunts.
The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.
“Bucky, hi. What—”
“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.
He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.
Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.
“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”
He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”
Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.
He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.
There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.
Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.
You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.
Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.
He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.
Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.
Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.
He stilled for exactly ten seconds.
Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”
He grunted. “No.”
It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.
The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.
Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.
Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.
The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.
It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.
The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.
Empty, except for your car.
Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.
Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.
He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.
Your light is on, and there you are.
No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.
Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.
He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.
The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.
He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.
You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.
Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.
What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?
Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.
He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.
“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.
A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.
Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.
Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.
Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.
When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.
When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.
His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.
His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.
He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.
His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.
Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.
His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.
Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.
They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.
Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.
Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?
Bucky growls out a curse.
He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.
When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.
With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.
When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.
Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.
That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.
By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.
You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.
A second rumble follows several minutes later.
Then a third.
And rain starts shortly after.
At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.
The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.
You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.
It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.
For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.
The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.
The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.
Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.
Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.
“Are you alright?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”
His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”
There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.
“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”
His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.
“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.
“What?”
“The one that fell in your backyard.”
Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”
A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”
“Oh.”
That’s what that noise was.
“Did it hit anything?”
Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”
One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”
Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”
For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.
Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.
Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.
“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.
You blink. “Okay?”
His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.
“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”
Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.
If anything, he seems uncomfortable.
It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.
The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.
For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.
He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.
Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.
You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.
The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.
Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.
The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.
The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.
Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.
Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.
“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”
The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.
The psychology section catches you by surprise.
At first you notice one or two titles.
Then five turn to ten.
Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.
Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.
“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.
You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.
“Oh, Bucky.”
You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.
The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.
You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.
The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.
Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.
Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.
You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.
The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.
The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.
You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.
She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.
As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.
Every entry is about you.
Every. Single. Day.
Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.
She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.
As usual?
How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?
Your eyes move lower.
I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.
The entries continue. Page after page after page.
The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?
She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.
Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.
You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.
Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.
Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh.
It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.
You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.
You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.
Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.
You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.
She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.
You gasp at the next paragraphs.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.
I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.
His girl?
The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.
She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.
I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.
This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?
There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.
This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.
Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.
I should stop looking for her every night.
The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.
I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.
I should stop. But I don’t want to.
By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.
When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.
The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.
“James.”
This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.
“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.
That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.
Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.
“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”
His expression tightens. “No.”
“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”
“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”
He swallows thickly.
“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”
“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”
His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.
“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”
“I just wanted to help you.”
“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”
The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.
Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.
“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.
You scoff. “From what? Dating?”
“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”
You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.
You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.
“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”
“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”
You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”
“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”
Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.
“I know.”
“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”
Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.
“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”
“And yet.” You mock ironically.
“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.
“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”
His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.
“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”
“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.
“To stay away from you.”
You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.
But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.
His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.
God, he wants you so bad.
He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.
He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control.
His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.
Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.
His sanity.
And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.
Because you need this.
You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.
Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.
The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.
The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself.
It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.
You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan.
Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.
Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.
His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.
“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.
You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens.
“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”
You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”
For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks.
“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.
“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”
“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”
Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.
“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp.
“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind.
“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.”
Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment.
His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”
Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little.
“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.
He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house.
“Better stay quiet then.”
And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass.
Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure.
“There we go, sweetheart.”
You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker.
“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”
You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.
“Answer me.”
“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.”
“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”
Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.
“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.
“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.
Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you.
“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.
His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.
“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”
You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.
“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”
Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.
“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.
He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.
You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes.
“Need more.”
He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.
“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill.
His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway.
“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs.
He promised he would let you touch it.
“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?”
You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.
It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.
“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.”
His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”
“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”
Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.
“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”
You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.
His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face.
“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”
You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.
“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”
A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.
Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.
“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”
You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan.
He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.
“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.
“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”
The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.
“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut.
Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.
His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.
“You can take it.”
Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.
“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot.
You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur.
However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.
“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”
You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.
“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.
Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”
You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.
It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.
“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.
Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.
“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”
He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.
“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.
“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”
“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see.
Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.
“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.
“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.
“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”
“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”
“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”
“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.
This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.
“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.
You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.
Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.
When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.
A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.
“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.
He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.
“Finally mine.”
The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.
Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.
And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
pairing: mafia boss!bucky barnes x female reader x mafia enforcer!steve rogers
summary: you've been caught by the boss of the Brooklyn mafia and his most trusted enforcer while trying to steal the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë. though you refuse to tell them who you're working for, the two ruthless men will find out what they want to know—one way or another.
a/n: here's the second part of my fic for @thezombieprostitute's Let's Plan A Heist challenge!! it's the smutty resolution to the setup of the first part and will hopefully live up to everyone's expectations 😅 i had a lot of fun writing this mafia Bucky and Steve, along with their tricksy little thief, and i hope y'all enjoy the resolution of their story!!
In the life of a thief it was important to always know your escape routes, to have a backup plan if something went wrong. That was how you’d always operated. That was how you’d always managed to get out of any difficult situations you’d found yourself in.
But your perfect record had finally come to an end. You were trapped with no escape routes and no backup plan, in the house of the feared Brooklyn mafia boss Bucky Barnes, all because you’d been caught by his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers. They had you caged in between their large bodies, Steve’s strong hand a shackle around your wrist.
It didn’t matter that Steve’s other hand, along with Bucky’s two palms, were resting possessively on your waist and hips, feeling less like restraints and more like a promise of…something you didn’t want to think about. Not when you needed to get out.
Gathering your courage, and the fire of desperation simmering insistently in your belly, you shoved against Steve’s chest, trying to twist your knee up into his groin while creating some distance between you and the two men. But Steve was stronger and quicker, and he simply yanked you closer, allowing Bucky to crowd you into the broad body of his enforcer.
You were stuck, and it didn’t take long before you recognized that trying to fight your way out from between a rock (Steve’s firm chest) and a hard place (Bucky’s broad body) would only leave you tired. When your struggles finally ceased, Bucky gave a low, teasing chuckle, the warmth of his breath ghosting down your bare neck as he loomed above you from behind.
“It’s a shame you caught her so soon,” Bucky said, speaking to Steve even as his hands shifted higher on your body, curling around your ribs. His palms were scorching hot and greedy through the thin fabric of your gown. “We might’ve been able to learn what she was up to without having to pry it out of her—but it is more fun this way.”
The casual way the mob boss spoke about you, as if it was a foregone conclusion you’d spill all your secrets to him and his enforcer, pricked at your pride. You straightened your spine and tossed your head in annoyance, glaring at Bucky over your shoulder.
“I’ll never tell you anything,” you hissed.
The steel in your voice had no effect on the mafia boss.
If anything, he looked even more amused, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth deepening infinitesimally, and his blue eyes sparking with a glimmer of delight. The tips of his fingers brushed the underside of your tits, distracting you, and it took everything in you to stop yourself from shivering at his touch.
God help you, but it felt good to have Bucky’s hands on you—and not just his, but Steve’s too. Their fingers were deft, their palms warm. It didn’t matter that you were certain their hands had, at one time or another, been stained in blood. Not when they touched you with so much greedy possessiveness, it was liable to make you forget your mission and why it was so important you get that diamond and get free.
“Y’know, when a woman tries to infiltrate my organization, the first thing they do is sleep with me,” Bucky went on, as if you hadn’t spoken, his tone entirely too conversational. You tried to focus, but it was difficult with both men touching you.
“Oh, have a great many women infiltrated your organization, then?” you shot back before he could continue, ignoring the thorn of jealousy that had lodged between your ribs, making it hard to breathe. It certainly had nothing to do with the proximity of the mob boss and his enforcer—nothing at all. “Sounds like you have a security problem.”
Your eyes found Steve, giving him a sarcastic sneer that had his gaze heating, his hand tightening around your wrist in a warning. Bucky’s fingertips dug into your ribs and he pulled your back flush against his chest, the long line of his body fitting perfectly to yours—so perfectly that you could feel the hard bulge of his cock against your lower back.
“But not you, doll,” Bucky said, ignoring you again. Instead, he ground his hardness into your ass until you were sucking in a gasp, heat pooling between your thighs as your body ached to shift so that thick bulge was pressed against your heated center. “Did you think teasing me, making me hard for you and leaving me wanting, would make me a dumber, easier mark?”
Truthfully, that had been your plan. Sort of.
In your life as a thief, you’d learned that every job needed its own approach, and that most men were much easier to manipulate when they were thinking with their dicks. With his playboy persona, you’d thought Bucky Barnes would be a simple mark who would be too distracted by your tits and ass to notice you robbing him blind—and that his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers, was too much of a meathead to catch you.
What you’d failed to account for was how much the two men would intrigue and charm you. Bucky, with his charismatic smile and dazzling personality, and Steve, with his handsome glower and too-sharp eyes, had snuck their way beneath your defenses, stealing more of your heart than you’d even realized.
Well, on some level you’d understood how dangerous they could be. That was the real reason you hadn’t slept with Bucky—you knew that if you fell into bed with the mob boss, you might start envisioning a life where you were free to be with who you wanted, rather than indebted to your employer. Leaving Bucky wanting had just been an added bonus.
Still, your pride smarted from how easily he’d nailed it on the head, and you couldn’t let that slide. So, you raised your chin and managed to look down your nose at the mob boss, giving him an imperious look as you responded to his question.
“No, I just didn’t want to fuck you,” you taunted, lying through your teeth. “I may be a thief, but I have standards.”
It was the wrong thing to say if you’d wanted to placate the mafia boss—which made it exactly the right thing to tell him, since your only play was to poke and prod at the men trapping you until a chink appeared in their armor and you could slip away. You just had to bide your time, you were sure, and then you could escape.
Bucky’s expression darkened, like storm clouds rolling in to block out the sunny blue sky, and you had to bite back a grin at the obvious ire on his face. You didn’t know what to expect from him, didn’t know if you were prepared for Bucky’s anger, but a part of you welcomed it with open arms. You wanted to see what he’d do if you pushed him far enough.
But it wasn’t just outrage in the mob boss’s expression—there was amusement and desire, too. Maybe even a hint of respect. It swirled into a heady cocktail that had your body clenching tight in anticipation despite you trying to ignore your attraction to him.
Quick as a flash of lightning, Bucky shoved one of his hands between your thighs, cupping your heated core through your dress. Your body jerked in surprise, even as your pussy pulsed with desire at the warmth and strength of his palm. You squirmed in Steve and Bucky’s arms, trying to get away from the burgeoning pleasure you felt.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you intended to ask the mob boss what the fuck he was doing, but before you could, Bucky’s hand was pulling back. Then, he gave you a sharp smack, right between your thighs—right against your pussy.
“Ah!” you cried, a little stinging pain mixing with a whirlwind of pleasure that tore through your body, making you lurch forward, only for Steve to hold you tighter. You braced against the enforcer with your free hand, turning your head to catch Bucky’s eye over your shoulder. “What the hell was that for?”
Instead of answering your question, Bucky only grinned unrepentantly, and did it again. He spanked your pussy while he watched your face, waiting for your reaction, which you were determined not to give him.
The fabric of your dress and panties softened the blow, so it barely stung, but despite your best intentions, you couldn’t hide the way it left you panting and feeling empty. A dizzying desire surged through your body, clouding your mind and making your eyes go hazy, your mouth dropping open on a soft sound of need.
“For every lie you tell, doll, you’ll get one spank,” Bucky rumbled, his chest pressing against your shoulders until you were pinned to Steve in front of you.
There was nowhere for you to go, nowhere to look but into the mafia boss’s heated, sparkling blue eyes while his enforcer held you up. It was embarrassing to realize how shaky your legs were after a couple of soft spanks, and you resented how grateful you felt toward Steve for keeping you upright, so you didn’t lose your dignity—not yet anyway.
“If you keep lying,” Bucky went on, rubbing his palm against your smarting center and making your breath catch in your throat as you held back a moan. “You’re only torturing this sweet little cunt, and she doesn’t deserve that, does she?” He petted you between your thighs, managing to make the soothing gesture feel condescending.
“I…I haven’t lied,” you said, wincing a little at how breathless you sounded. But you dug deep for your own self-preservation and scrounged up a glare, hurling it at Bucky while he loomed over your shoulder.
The mob boss tsked low in his throat and slapped your pussy again, harder, making you squirm and bite back a whine. Your heart pounded in your chest and you were growing uncomfortably wet, your panties sticking to your damp flesh, but you tried to rein yourself in, not wanting to give Bucky the satisfaction of seeing any more of your reaction.
“That’s lie number three,” Bucky tutted, soothing your pussy with soft, teasing touches that were working you up just as much as his spanks. “Should I tell you what the first two were, or would you rather be a good girl and confess?”
Something in your belly swooped at the words ‘good girl’ and you had to tamp down on the urge to do what he asked. Instead, you gritted your teeth and glared at him, shaking your head. Bucky remained completely unfazed, chuckling at your furious expression like you were nothing more than an unruly kitten.
“Looks like our little thief isn’t ready to be good for us, huh, Stevie?” Bucky commented, tossing a cavalier grin at his enforcer, who grunted in agreement, the sound hotter than it had any right to be. “But that’s alright, we’ve got all night, don’t we?”
“All night,” Steve repeated in confirmation, and you angled your head so you could look up into his face. He was watching you with stormy blue eyes, lust and a possessive kind of promise roiling in the depths of his gaze. “All week, all month—hell, we could keep her forever if we wanted.”
Your breath inexplicably hitched at the word ‘forever’, your heart beating so hard against your ribs that you wondered if Steve could feel it through his suit. From the way his eyes darkened and narrowed on your face, you could tell he was reading your reaction—and he liked what he saw, a hint of a smile flickering around the edge of his mouth.
“The lies you told,” Bucky began, amusement in his tone as he dragged your attention back to him. “First, you lied when you said you weren’t going to tell us anything.” His hand stroked your pussy through your dress and you had to fight not to writhe against him. “And the second lie was when you said you didn’t want to fuck me.”
An affronted scoff burst from your lips, your mind momentarily clearing of the pleasure Bucky had been stoking in your core. “You think real fucking high of yourself, boss,” you sneered, ignoring the fact that he was telling the truth, and you did, in fact, want to fuck him—and his enforcer.
You’d hoped your comment might push Bucky to breaking, but he only grinned, sharing the expression with Steve before ducking down so his face was close to yours.
“Oh, so you aren’t soaking wet for us, doll?” Bucky mocked, his fingers teasing along the seam of your sex. You were so embarrassingly wet, you wondered if he could feel it even through the fabric of your dress and panties. “If I pulled your dress up and pushed your panties to the side, you wouldn’t be dripping wet for us, huh?”
You couldn’t answer, couldn’t protest because you’d only be lying, and you didn’t need Bucky spanking you again. You weren’t sure you could hold in your moan if he did. So you simply rolled your eyes and refused to give him the satisfaction of answering truthfully. Pouting, you stared petulantly at Steve’s chest.
“That’s what I thought,” Bucky rumbled, a smile in his voice as he grabbed your face, refusing to let you ignore him. Your stomach flipped at the sight of his small grin, and you glared harder, which only made the mob boss chuckle under his breath. “Just wait and see, doll, we’ll make you our good girl yet.”
It was difficult to speak with the way Bucky’s fingers were digging into your cheeks, but you rolled your eyes and managed a testy, “Doubtful,” that he completely ignored.
“Get rid of her dress, Stevie,” Bucky ordered, a smirk on his face as he glanced at his most trusted enforcer. When he looked back at you, there was an eager kind of hunger in his eyes that had your belly bottoming out with anticipation.
It was a good thing the mob boss had such a tight hold on you because without it, you would’ve stumbled when Steve stepped back. Cold air rushed against your front, and you couldn’t hold back a shiver at the loss of his warmth, your nipples pebbling against the lace of your undergarments.
Steve’s eyes lingered on your chest, his expression too calm and stoic to be leering, which somehow only made you hotter. You had to stop yourself from squirming in Bucky’s arms, belatedly remembering you were meant to be planning your escape.
Your mind was lethargic as you tried to assess your surroundings and look for a way out. You were too distracted by the sight of Steve lowering his big body down onto one knee, an image flashing in your mind of Steve tossing one of your thighs over his shoulder and burying his face between your legs. Your hips twitched toward his head, and you could’ve sworn a smirk flickered at the edge of his mouth.
But then Steve was gathering the skirt of your dress in his big hands. He tore through it easily, like he was ripping a piece of tissue paper instead of rending the fabric of a designer dress.
“This cost me three month’s rent!” you screeched before you could stop yourself, not realizing just how revealing those words were.
Steve paused, his eyes finding Bucky’s over your shoulder. The men had a silent conversation that would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t so focused on appraising the damage done to your dress and wondering if there was any way to fix it.
It had been an extravagant purchase, even after your last score, but you’d looked at it as an investment, something you could wear for multiple jobs. But it was ruined. You knew just by looking at it that there was no salvaging the tear right up the center of the skirt. It was such a shame because the dress was beautiful and, more importantly, you’d looked exquisite in it.
You were very near to tears when Bucky’s hand shifted, his palm pressing beneath your chin, fingers digging lightly into your cheek to turn your head to look at him. You tried to blink the tears from your eyes, but you weren’t quick enough and you were sure he saw them. Embarrassment blazed hot in your face.
“I’ll get you another one, doll,” Bucky said softly, his tone gentler than you thought possible from the mob boss. “I’ll pay for it.”
An uncomfortable feeling snuck between your ribs, burying deep in your heart and it was such a foreign emotion that it took you a moment to recognize it as gratitude. No one, let alone the men you stole from, had ever made such a generous offer before, and you didn’t know what to do with it.
Rather than do something stupid, like thank the mafia boss, you set your jaw so your lower lip wouldn’t wobble and nodded your head in acceptance.
Bucky stared at you for a short moment longer, an almost affectionate smile playing on his lips, before gesturing for Steve to continue. The sound of rending fabric wasn’t nearly so painful when you knew the dress would be replaced, and you simply watched as the enforcer continued his rough removal of the garment.
In no time at all, Steve was yanking the tattered shreds of your gown away from your body and leaving them in a pile of fabric on the floor of the storage room. Squaring your shoulders and raising your chin proudly, you feigned a practiced poise as you stood before the handsome men in nothing more than a matching set of lacy lingerie and heels.
“Pretty,” Steve mumbled as he stood, one of his hands skating up your ribs, the rough callouses on his fingers teasing your soft skin. His other hand traced the edge of your panties where they sat snugly on your hip, his blue eyes warm and molten as he stared at your body, making your breath stall in your lungs.
For a brief moment, Steve explored the curves of your body—the dip of your waist, the weight of your breasts, the roundness of your hips and ass—before he seemed to remember himself. With an audible swallow, the muscle in his jaw popping, he forced his hands to his sides, meeting your gaze with hard eyes.
“For a thief, anyway.”
Steve’s scornful words felt like a thorn pricking your heart, and it took every bit of your self-control not to show it on your face. You weren’t sure how successful you were when something flickered in his eyes, something that looked a bit like regret.
Behind you, Bucky gave a soft chuckle, like he was amused by you and Steve. But you didn’t have the capacity to think about why you’d responded to Steve’s dismissive comment the way you did, not when Bucky was ducking his head so his mouth teased the shell of your ear.
“You’ve been torturing my enforcer for weeks, doll,” Bucky murmured, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Whaddya say we put him out of his misery?”
It was on the tip of your tongue to point out that you’d offered to put Steve out of his misery before Bucky had made himself known—and the enforcer had refused your advances. How tortured could he possibly be if he’d turned you down?
But you didn’t say any of that, you just let Bucky guide you backward, watching Steve trail after the two of you, his eyes on your body, like he was entranced by the sight of so much of your skin on display for him.
Bucky’s hands were on your hips, leading you deeper into the room and away from the door. Glancing over your shoulder, you spotted a wall of books, all of them looking old and priceless. When Bucky bumped into an antique sofa, he sank down into the sumptuous seat, pulling you into his lap.
Your ass pressed flush against the hard bulge of Bucky’s cock in his pants, and you shot him an unamused look over your shoulder, but he wasn’t paying attention to you. Truthfully, you weren’t even sure why you weren’t fighting back, only that you’d abandoned trying to form an escape plan. You were curious where things were headed with Bucky and Steve—and hopeful that you be able to have some fun before you fulfilled your mission.
Focusing back on the men, you watched as Bucky gestured for Steve to come forward, until the enforcer was standing right in front of you, practically blocking out the rest of the room and its treasures. But Steve was a treasure unto himself.
The thick length of his cock jutted against the zipper of his slacks, twitching when your tongue darted out to moisten your lips. You glanced up at Steve, your eyes dragging languidly over his narrow waist and broad shoulders until you met his eyes.
His face was fixed into a glower, but deep in his gaze, you saw the hunger that had been there earlier, when you’d thought he was about to kiss you. The longer you looked, the easier it was to see the naked yearning in Steve’s pretty blue eyes, and it made you want to nuzzle your cheek against his bulge before paying homage to his gloriousness.
“Go on, doll,” Bucky’s voice, soft and entreating in your ear, compelled you as he leaned forward, urging your face into Steve’s lap until your nose brushed the ridge of the enforcer’s cock through his pants. The hard length gave a responding twitch that made the corner of your mouth curve in a slight smile. “Stevie’s been hard for you since he met you, so why don’t you be a good girl and suck his cock—show us what that mouth can do besides lying.”
A shiver of desire raced down your spine at the rough velvet of Bucky’s voice, and you tipped your head back, your eyes finding Steve as he stared down at you with his own lust written plainly across his handsome face. You wanted to suck his cock so bad, but you hesitated.
So far, Bucky had been the one pushing you and Steve together, and although the enforcer looked like he wanted you to suck him off, he hadn’t really given you any indication that he was consenting to it. So you waited, your mouth a hairsbreadth away from his hard length, looking up at him with a question in your gaze.
Something in Steve’s expression cracked, and his fingers brushed softly against your cheek, tracing your jaw with one finger while he stroked his thumb along your lower lip. You let your mouth fall open and Steve pushed the tip of his thumb between your lips. You gave him a teasing suckle, the edge of your mouth flickering in a smirk when his eyes darkened, his pupils blowing wide with lust.
“Yeah, sweetheart, let me see what that mouth can do,” Steve rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, as he pulled his hand away from your face.
As you watched, he shed the jacket of his suit, tossing it onto the back of the sofa, and began rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down. You were fascinated by the way the muscles of his forearms shifted beneath his golden tanned skin, and you watched in rapt attention until Steve’s hand settled on the crown of your head, pushing your face back into his lap.
“Show me how a little thief like you would’ve made it worth my while to betray my boss,” Steve teased roughly, using his grip on your head to drag your parted lips along the length of his cock through the soft fabric of his pants. “Be a good slut and suck my cock—and if you’re any good, maybe I’ll ask Buck to go easy on you.”
At those words, you narrowed your eyes, shooting a glare up at Steve in an effort to show him how unmoved you were by his offer. But then you took a deep breath and all you could smell was Steve. Instantly, you forgot your annoyance. You forgot that the men were playing with you hoping to extract information—you even forgot your entire damn reason for being in that mansion in the first place.
The masculine musk of Steve’s smell invaded your senses, filling your head with cotton candy clouds of lust that pushed out all thoughts other than the man and the cock in front of you. Instinctively, you swayed closer to Steve, pressing your lips against his bulge in a hot, open-mouthed kiss, reveling in the way his dick twitched in response.
You settled your hands on Steve’s thick thighs, your fingers lightly groping the muscles you could feel beneath his slacks, while you pressed kisses along the length of his cock. Although you could feel him getting harder beneath your ministrations, when you tipped your head back, the enforcer’s expression was hard and unyielding as he stared down at you.
The only indication Steve was at all affected by what you were doing was the blaze of possessive heat in his darkened blue eyes, and the rigid set of his jaw. You could tell that Steve was enjoying your mouth, but you wanted him to come undone, to let loose of that control he held onto with an iron grip.
But before you could set your mind to your task, Bucky reminded you of his presence, his hands grabbing your hips and yanking you deeper into his lap, until the softness of your pussy was pressed against the hard ridge of his cock. You let out a lustful moan, sinking into the sensation while you suckled on the tip of Steve’s thick length, feeling him throb against your lips.
For long moments, you indulged in being pinned between the two men, your mouth worshipping Steve’s cock through his pants while Bucky’s hands explored your mostly naked body. His palms swept down your ribs, groping your hips and guiding you to rock gently in his lap before his hands moved back up your body to cup the swell of your tits.
Bucky’s mouth kissed along your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin and his tongue soothing over every spot he bit while he learned the curves of your body. His fingers dipped beneath the lace of your bra, teasing over your nipples and playing with them until they were hardened peaks and you were whining helplessly in the mafia boss’s lap.
When Steve was hard and throbbing enough that his precum had left a little wet spot on his pants, he let out an impatient growl, thrusting his hips into your face and shoving the shaft of his cock into your mouth. All you could smell was him, your drool soaking the front of his slacks while you moaned against his bulge.
“Enough teasing, doll,” Bucky rumbled, nipping at the spot on your neck just beneath your ear, the one that turned you liquid in his arms. “Take him out and suck his cock like the good girl we know you are.”
You were so far gone in your lust that you didn’t protest. Your fingers fumbled eagerly at the button and fly of Steve’s pants, undoing them in just a few, breathless seconds. When you shoved his pants down his thighs, along with his navy blue boxer briefs, his thick cock bounced free and nearly hit you in the face.
All you could do was giggle in excitement, your job and the reason for why you couldn’t get close to the two men completely forgotten. All that mattered was getting what you wanted, which in that moment, was a taste of the hot enforcer in front of you.
Taking him in one hand, you dragged your tongue up the underside of Steve’s cock, indulging in the filthy decadence of him straight from the hot, hard source. Your tongue flicked at his tip, lapping up the dribble of precum that had gathered there, and you moaned at the taste of him, so clean and musky and perfect.
When you opened hazy eyes and looked up at Steve, he looked like a man on the verge of breaking, his eyes so full of greedy lust and his jaw clenched so tight, the muscle in his cheek was popping wildly. It made you want to give him a little push and see if the tension that had his muscles pulling so taut would snap.
“How’m I doing?” you murmured huskily before pressing a wet, suckling kiss to the tip of Steve’s cock, swirling your tongue around the crown and watching as his eyes darkened even further. “Do you like the feeling of my hot little mouth on your big cock, sir?”
You didn’t think it was possible, but Steve’s jaw clenched tighter, his eyes filled with so much unchecked desire and possessiveness that they looked like a churning, stormy sea. You parted your lips, sucking Steve’s cock into your mouth, and watched him get even closer to losing it.
Not to be forgotten, Bucky’s hands groped your tits, pushing your bra down until the swells of your breasts popped free. He touched you like he already owned you, his fingers plucking teasingly at your nipples, making you moan around Steve’s shaft.
“Answer our girl, Stevie,” Bucky growled, and you could see him shooting a hard look at his enforcer out of the corner of your eye. “Tell our little thief how good she looks sucking your cock—tell her how good she feels.”
“Fuck,” Steve groaned on a deep exhale. His hands settled on your head, guiding you up and down his cock, pushing his hard length deeper into your mouth with every thrust. “She looks so fucking gorgeous sucking my cock, and she feels like heaven—I could fuck her slutty mouth every goddamned day and never get sick of it.”
Warm pride and something else, something you were too frightened to try to name, bloomed in your chest and you eagerly sucked on Steve’s cock, wringing another groan from the big man. He responded by shoving your head closer to his lap, until the tip of his dick was bullying the back of your throat, making you gag in surprise.
“I wanna fuck our little thief’s mouth like the slutty cocksleeve that she is, wanna see her throat bulge from my cock,” Steve rambled, sounding half-feral, half-possessed as the filthy words tumbled off his tongue. “I wanna cum all over our girl’s face and mark her as mine—mark her as ours. Our fuck toy, our perfect set of holes.”
You couldn’t help it, your eyes rolled back in your head and you let out a loud moan at Steve’s words, at the way he’d finally lost control and was fucking your mouth like you were nothing more than his toy to use. It was all you could do to brace your hands on his muscular thighs and try not to gag while the enforcer worked his cock deeper and deeper into your throat.
“That’s fucking right, use our girl, Stevie,” Bucky crowed, cheering his friend on while he kept groping and playing with your tits. One of his hands slid down your body, cupping your pussy through your panties, and pressing his fingers into the wet fabric at the seam of your sex. “She’s our good girl, isn’t that right, doll?”
Pleasure and sensation made your mind go blank, until you were nothing more than a creature of lust, focused entirely on giving Steve the satisfaction he sought in your mouth and getting yours from Bucky’s fingers. You rocked your hips, humping Bucky’s hand while you sucked eagerly on Steve’s cock, feeling him beginning to throb in your mouth as your pussy pulsed and fluttered, both of you getting close.
You were right on the precipice of coming, and could feel that Steve was as well, when Bucky pulled his hand from between your thighs, pushing them wide across his lap and tugging your head off his enforcer’s cock. For a moment, you sat stunned in Bucky’s lap, panting and wondering what the hell had just happened.
The frenzied beating of your heart slowed and you focused on the sight in front of you, Steve’s big hand wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing the hard length so tight, his knuckles were turning white. The flushed tip of his dick was so red and angry, you tried to sit forward and lick it better, but Bucky’s arm banded around your waist, holding you pinned to his lap.
“Tell us what we want to know, pretty doll,” Bucky murmured silkily in your ear, his hands soothing over your body, though they didn’t touch you anywhere you wanted them—your tits or between your thighs. “What are you here to steal? Who are you working for?”
It finally hit you what was happening, how Bucky had let you get close to your release only to yank it away at the last second. Your body throbbed with unslaked pleasure and a sob bubbled up in your chest. You had to bite your lip hard to keep it from spilling free.
It just wasn’t fair.
You’d been such a good girl for them, you’d done everything they asked, but you couldn’t give them this. You couldn’t tell them about the mess you were in, you couldn’t trust them—no matter how much a part of you wanted to. It was there, like a niggling thorn stuck between your ribs, the desire to trust them with the truth, but you ignored it.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you shook your head in refusal of Bucky’s questions, fear and anxiety swirling uneasily in your stomach. It wasn’t until Steve cupped your face with his free hand, his thumb stroking over your cheek, that you realized a few tears had escaped without you noticing.
“You’re even prettier when you cry, sweetheart,” Steve said softly, his voice so sweet it took you a moment to understand his words. When you did, you tried to pull away, but Steve’s hand gripped your face tightly, his blue eyes burning with a possessiveness that nearly stole your breath. “Answer Buck’s questions and we’ll fuck you so good, baby, we’ll make you cry so prettily on both our cocks.”
A shiver of want raced down your spine and you trembled in Bucky’s lap, your eyes falling miserably away from Steve’s face as emotions swirled turbulently in your chest and stomach. “I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you curled in on yourself, making your body as small as possible.
All the while, your mind raced as you tried to think of a way out of your predicament. Your employer wouldn’t suffer failure, and if you didn’t return to him with the diamond he’d commanded you steal, it could have deadly consequences. But you were so thoroughly trapped by Bucky and Steve, and even if you were able to get away from them, they’d destroyed your dress, which made escaping the mansion without being seen even more difficult.
Behind you, Bucky huffed out a sound like a bitten off sigh and wrapped his arms around your body, holding you in a tight hug while he gently nuzzled his cheek against yours. The rough stubble of his scruff soothed some of your anxiety away, enough that you could focus back on the moment, back on the two men who were staring at you with something like concern in their eyes.
“Are you afraid of us—afraid we’ll be upset with you,” Bucky began, his voice rumbling in his chest and teasing down your spine where he was pressed flush against your back. “Or the person who hired you?”
Your heart gave a pathetic lurch in your chest at the gentleness in Bucky’s voice, and in the watchful look in Steve’s eye as he crouched down in front of you, so his face was level with yours. The enforcer’s hand cupped your cheek almost tenderly, and his eyes stared deep into your own, like he was imploring you to answer.
“If I tell you, he’ll kill me,” you whispered, your eyes avoiding Steve’s face as you hurried on to explain the mess you were in that had led you to infiltrating the mob boss’s party in an attempt to steal from him. “And not just me—he has my father.”
Both Bucky and Steve let out harsh breaths, and when you glanced up at the man in front of you, you found him looking at his boss over your shoulder. The two of them were having a wordless conversation that you couldn’t even begin to decipher, so you simply waited for them to be done.
“We can protect you,” Bucky murmured a moment later, his arms settling more securely around your body until he held you in the tightest hug you’d ever felt. It felt so good, so safe, you nearly sobbed. “Steve and I will make sure nothing happens to you or your father. Right, Stevie?”
“Right,” Steve confirmed, his expression and tone so resolute, you had no choice but to believe him. The calm, stoic enforcer was back, but his eyes were still stormy, still simmering with emotion—all of it for you. “We’ll keep you safe, but you need to tell us what’s going on.”
Steve looked so earnest, so ready to step in and save the day, that it overwhelmed you. It was too much to hope that he was being honest, that he really could save you from your predicament. You had to close your eyes to think. But even then, you still felt Bucky’s steady, strong presence wrapped around your body, holding you while you trembled with indecision.
In the life of a thief, it was imperative that you only rely on the right people. In your life, you’d learned the hard way that it was better if you didn’t rely on anyone at all. Your father, the man who was supposed to protect you above all others, had instead offered you up as the solution to his problems. He’d been in debt to your employer and had promised your skills to repay those debts.
It didn’t seem to matter to your father that you’d be killed along with him if you were unsuccessful, and unfortunately for you, you weren’t as unfeeling. For all his poor decisions, he was still your dad and you didn’t want to see him killed.
For a brief, blistering moment, you wished the night had gone to plan and you’d been able to sneak in, steal the diamond and get back to your employer to free your father from him. But that’s not how things had worked out, and now your only option was to trust the men you’d planned to steal from. They were your only hope.
“Tony Stark hired me to steal the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë,” you murmured, your eyes still closed so you didn’t have to see Bucky or Steve’s reactions to your confession. “If I don’t bring it to him tonight, he’ll kill my father and then me.”
The men were quiet for a moment, long enough that you finally gathered the courage to open your eyes, finding them both staring at you, their expressions filled with a tender kind of sympathy. Before you could scoff at their pity, Steve broke the silence, his voice ragged with emotion.
“We won’t let that happen, sweetheart,” he vowed, catching your eye and staring deep into your soul. It was hard to believe him, but he sounded so genuine, how could you not?
“Make the call,” Bucky ordered from behind you, talking to his enforcer while his arms tightened around your body. His hold was the same reassurance Steve had given you, and you relaxed slightly into it.
But before Steve followed his boss’s command, he shocked the hell out of you by leaning forward, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss. Sparks danced inside your head at the soft press of the enforcer’s mouth, and you sucked in a gasp that allowed Steve to lick between your lips. He kissed you gently, teasingly, an unspoken promise on his tongue.
When Steve finally pulled away, you were too dazed by the kiss to pay much attention to him standing up and pacing away from the sofa where you and Bucky sat, pulling a cellphone from his pants pocket and pressing it to his ear. He spoke in low tones you couldn’t make out, not that you would’ve been able to understand whatever orders he was issuing when you were still stunned by his kiss.
Bucky leaned back into the sofa, drawing you deeper into his lap and turning you slightly. His eyes roamed freely over your features as he tipped your face toward him so he could look into your eyes. The mob boss chuckled lightly at the surprised expression still on your face, tracing his thumb idly along your plump lower lip.
“Seems you’ve won over my best enforcer, doll,” Bucky murmured, his tone lightly teasing as he gently coaxed you back down to earth. “I guess I have no choice but to keep you now.” Bucky ducked down until his mouth hovered a mere fraction of an inch from yours. “Steve has been telling me it’s past time to find a wife—and I like you far more than I should, little thief.”
With that pronouncement, Bucky closed the gap between your lips, claiming your mouth in a searing kiss. In contrast to Steve’s gentleness, Bucky was demanding, licking into your mouth and stroking his tongue against yours, making your mind melt and your body go suddenly hot with renewed desire.
You turned more on Bucky’s lap, grabbing onto his shoulders so that you could kiss him back. Despite how small you’d made yourself a moment ago, you weren’t some wilting flower who needed to be handled like you were breakable. You were the best damn thief in the world, and you wanted Bucky just as much as he clearly wanted you.
The kiss turned hotter and heavier when you pressed your body into Bucky’s, your tits crushed against his chest and your ass wiggling against his hard bulge. Liquid lust pooled low in you belly, and you gasped in delight when Bucky’s rough hand slid up your thigh.
He’d almost reached your pussy when a polite cough interrupted your moment. Bucky ended the kiss with a groan, and turned his attention to his enforcer, whose blue eyes sharpened on your kiss-swollen lips for a moment before he shook his head and focused back on his boss.
“We’ve located your father,” Steve said, meeting your eyes with his calm gaze. “He’ll be at one of our safe houses within the hour. I’ve also doubled security here and the partygoers are being sent home. You’ll be safe in the mansion while we figure out how to deal with Stark.”
“Good,” Bucky answered before you could thank Steve. Your head was still spinning from both their kisses and it was taking more effort than usual to follow the conversation. “And you called in the underbosses?”
Steve gave a quick nod. “They’re all coming in,” the enforcer confirmed. “They’ll be assembled here by tomorrow afternoon.”
The two men continued to talk about specifics, but you were distracted by the revived desire thrumming through your body. Your gaze traveled lazily down Steve’s body, finding that he’d pulled up his pants and boxer briefs, but hadn’t zipped himself up, so his cock was tenting the navy blue cotton in a particularly enticing manner.
“Then there’s just the matter of dealing with our little thief,” Bucky was saying, and at the mention of you, you tuned back into the conversation, glancing first at the mafia boss and then his enforcer. Both were watching you closely, lust and a feral kind of possessiveness in their eyes, though Bucky wore a charming smirk while Steve’s expression was more like a glower.
“What, me?” you asked as innocently as you could manage—which wasn’t innocent at all, the breathless excitement in your tone making you sound like an eager slut. You tossed your head and sat up primly on Bucky’s lap, giving each man a haughty look before continuing. “You could deal with me by finally making me cum, if you boys are up to the task, of course.”
Steve growled at the obvious challenge in your words while Bucky just chuckled. The mob boss manhandled you on his lap until you were facing away from him again, your legs thrown over his thighs as you perched on his knees. He gently pushed your upper body toward Steve, and you didn’t need any more encouragement than that to tug down the enforcer’s briefs so you could pick up where you’d left off.
In the time it had taken Steve to make his calls, his cock had softened slightly, so you pressed suckling kisses up and down his shaft, delighting in the feel of him hardening against your mouth. Behind you, you felt Bucky working his pants open, and you moaned when you felt his cock spring free, slapping your ass with its thick, heavy length.
“Ready to take both our cocks, little thief?” Bucky murmured, tugging your panties to the side and sliding the tip of his cock along the seam of your pussy. You were already wet for him, but you felt even more desire leak from your hole at the teasing slide of his tip between your folds. “You gonna be a good girl for us, doll?”
“Ye-es,” you moaned brokenly against the crown of Steve’s dick, licking greedily at the precum dripping onto your lips. “Want your cock, boss,” you murmured dreamily, your eyes flicking up to find Steve’s expression twisted into something feral as he watched you. “Want you to fuck me, sir—use my holes, make me your slut, make me cum, please.”
When Bucky chuckled, the sound was strained, and your heart warmed with pride at how much you were affecting the mafia boss. You rolled your hips, pressing your pussy against the tip of Bucky’s dick, making him suck in a sharp breath as your warm, wet hole teased his sensitive cock.
“You heard our girl, Stevie,” Bucky rumbled, his hands grabbing your hips and lifting you up. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his thick length to guide him into your pussy. At the same time, you opened your mouth wide, letting Steve feed his cock into your mouth. “Don’t hold back—fuck her like the filthy slut she is.”
“You got it, boss,” Steve ground out through clenched teeth, his hips stuttering and his cock twitching as you swirled your tongue along the underside of his thick cock. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice roughly tender as he grabbed your head in a firm grip.
Then both men were thrusting deep into your body, Steve’s cock hitting the back of your throat while Bucky bottomed out in your cunt. They groaned loudly, pausing for only a second to revel in the heat and wetness of your holes before they began moving, pounding into you from both ends.
“Take it, fucking take my cock like a good fucktoy, sweetheart,” Steve growled, driving deeper and deeper into your mouth while you tried not to gag, but that only seemed to make him go rougher. “Wanna see you cry while you choke on my cock, little thief. Let me see those pretty tears, crybaby, c’mon.”
Something cracked open inside you, and you let go, giving in to Steve completely. You sobbed around his cock, drool dripping messily from your lips as you choked on his pounding girth. Tears streamed from your eyes and Steve let out an indecently hot moan, his cock throbbing against your tongue while he fucked your mouth harder, bullying deeper into your throat with each thrust.
“You feel so fucking good, pretty girl,” Bucky rumbled from behind you, pressing his clothed chest flush against your back, the heat of him surrounding you as he wrapped you up in his arms. The mob boss rocked his hips against your ass, fucking you hard and deep with his cock while his hands played with your tits. “You’re taking us both so well, like you were made for us—our perfect, precious girl.”
Bucky’s praise had you crying out around Steve’s cock, pleasure swirling through your body until you were overwhelmed with the thrilling sensation. Then one of Bucky’s hands slipped down between your thighs, his fingers strumming your clit in rough strokes that had your thighs shaking in seconds, your pussy fluttering around his dick as you surged closer to the edge of your release.
“You gonna cum on our cocks, pretty doll?” the mob boss murmured entreatingly in your ear, pressing kisses to the heated skin of your neck. “Gonna be a good girl for us and cum all over our cocks while we use your body like our own personal toy, huh?”
“Our good girl,” Steve growled, holding your head and using your mouth like it was a fleshlight. “Ours—all fucking ours.”
It was too much. Their thick cocks, their possessive words, their greedy hands on your body—you were lost to the overwhelming pleasure of it all, and you came harder than you ever had in your entire life. A strangled scream spilled from your lips, every muscle in your body pulling taut as you broke apart into a million stars of ecstasy, pleasure crashing through your body in devastating waves.
Your release spurred on both Bucky and Steve, who fucked you harder, rutting into your holes like men possessed. They followed you over the edge a few moments later, Bucky sinking his teeth into the tender flesh at the base of your neck, where it met your shoulder, and groaning against your skin while he emptied his balls in your cunt.
At the same time, Steve pulled free from your mouth, his fist pumping his cock until his cum erupted. With a loud, feral groan, he coated your face and tits with his cum, ropes of his release falling onto your skin in heated evidence of his possessiveness.
The big enforcer moaned lewdly, his eyes dark as a stormy night while he watched his thick cream cover your tear-stained face. Your lips curved into a blissed out smile as you felt the warmth of Steve’s cum on your skin, waiting patiently while he pumped his shaft and painted your mouth with the last drops of his seed.
When he was spent, Steve cupped your cheek in his big hand, rubbing his sticky cum into your skin while you licked it from your lips, moaning softly at the musky taste of him. You’d never felt so degraded and exalted at the same time, and you thought, distractedly, that you could get used to this.
“Pretty as a picture, baby,” Steve murmured, staring at you like he’d never get tired of the sight of you covered in his cum. Your heart thumped happily in your chest and you grinned sweetly up at him, your pussy pulsing around Bucky’s cock, making him groan lightly.
The mob boss was busy kissing the spot on your shoulder where he’d bitten you, soothing the slight sting with his lips and tongue. Your hips twitched, feeling Bucky’s cum leaking out around his softening cock, and you luxuriated in the filthiness of the moment, being full and coated with both men’s cum.
“So, how about it, little thief, are you going to let us keep you?” Bucky asked in a ragged voice, his arms holding you tight while Steve retrieved a handkerchief from his suit jacket and began to clean your face.
Closing your eyes, you gave a soft sigh and let Steve and Bucky take care of you while you thought about the question.
In the life of a thief, it was important to recognize a precious opportunity when it presented itself—and Bucky’s offer was exactly that.
You’d known from the moment you met Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes that they were different than any other marks you’d stolen from. They were men you could see yourself falling for, which was why you’d been so off your game on this job. They were men you could see yourself spending your life with, if only you agreed to stay with them.
It didn’t take much thinking to realize you’d be a fool to pass up the life and the safety Bucky and Steve were offering. They clearly cared about you, and you cared about them. So you followed your instincts and nodded your head, opening your eyes to meet first Steve’s gaze, then Bucky’s.
“Yes,” you said simply, answering the mafia boss’s question. And then, because you were you, you couldn’t help but add primly, “And I expect my men to take good care of me.”
Bucky huffed a laugh into your neck, and even Steve cracked a smirk, sinking down onto the sofa beside his boss so the two of them could hold you. The mafia boss captured your lips in a kiss, responding to your bratty comment with a promise, before he pulled back and allowed his enforcer to seal your agreement with a kiss of his own.
When the three of you had recovered enough, Bucky helped you to stand and Steve draped his suit jacket around your shoulders. They led you up to the mansion’s master suite, where they continued to have their way with you for the rest of the evening.
It wasn’t until the sun began to peak out over the horizon that you finally fell asleep, entwined in the arms of the mafia boss and his most trusted enforcer. You were safe, content, and fully satisfied with how your night had turned out, even if it hadn’t gone to plan.
After that evening, Bucky and Steve made good on their promise to protect you, moving against Tony Stark and ensuring the leader of the Manhattan mafia knew you belonged to Brooklyn’s crime boss. They also ensured your father was taken care of, and wouldn’t get himself into trouble again.
With your men seeing to your every whim, you were able to retire from being a thief. But you still used your skills for fun sometimes.
Every once in a while, you played the part of their little thief, attempting to steal from Steve and/or Bucky and letting yourself get caught so that they could punish you how they saw fit. Occasionally, Steve would let you convince him to betray his boss, until Bucky caught the two of you and punished you both.
But no matter what, you always ended up entwined with both the mafia boss Bucky Barnes and his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers, happy and loved in their arms. All told, it was a much better existence than the life of a thief.
the life of a thief part 1
thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡♡♡
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink
⭐︎ wordcount: 12.2k
⭐︎ a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you
synopsis:
A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.
← previous fic | main masterlist | next fic ➜
Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.
You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.
Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.
It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.
You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.
With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.
There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.
“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.
He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.
A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”
A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.
There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.
The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.
He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.
Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.
A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.
The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.
Your Bucky.
“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”
A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.
He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”
“Very selfish of you, James.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.
Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.
Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.
“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”
Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.
He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.
He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.
“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”
Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.
“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”
After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.
Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”
You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”
“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”
All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.
“You ladies are unbelievable—”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”
You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.
“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”
Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”
“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”
You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.
Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.
“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”
Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.
Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.
His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.
“You could get us all in trouble.”
“You’re only thinking for yourself.”
But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.
She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.
It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.
“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”
It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.
You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.
“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”
There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.
You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.
“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.
She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”
“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.
Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”
You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”
“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”
You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.
“All finished—”
“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”
You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”
“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”
You truly didn’t know what to say.
You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.
But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.
And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?
“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”
“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”
Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.
Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.
You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.
But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.
You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.
With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.
The Queen’s favorite flower.
You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.
The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.
He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.
“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”
You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.
“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”
Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.
“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.
He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.
“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”
“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”
Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.
He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”
I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.
I want you to stay here with me instead.
“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”
Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.
“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”
He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.
“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”
Drown out everything else.
You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.
“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”
Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.
“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”
Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”
“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.
Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.
He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.
The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.
“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”
“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”
The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”
The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.
“Move along, Sergeant.”
“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.
He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.
Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.
In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.
But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.
With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.
The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.
At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”
Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”
“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.
Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”
Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.
“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.
Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”
You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.
“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”
Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.
“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”
You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.
“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”
“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.
Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”
“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”
John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.
“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”
The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.
“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”
Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.
The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.
“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”
“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.
Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”
You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”
On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.
You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.
With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.
Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.
Bucky was standing right beside her.
And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.
“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.
Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.
“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”
You felt your heart drop.
As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.
“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.
“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”
“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.
“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”
The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”
Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.
“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”
You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.
So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.
Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.
Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”
He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”
“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”
He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.
The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.
“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.
“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.
You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.
The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.
“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”
You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.
“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.
“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”
Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.
You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.
“Do you think he finds me charming?”
Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.
“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”
There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.
Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.
She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.
But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.
So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.
“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”
The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.
The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.
Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.
As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.
While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.
By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.
You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?
Had he forgotten?
Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?
Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?
An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.
You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.
As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.
But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.
“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”
Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.
He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.
“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.
“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.
Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.
“… For how long?”
“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”
Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.
Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.
“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”
You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.
But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.
“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.
You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.
“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”
You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.
It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.
For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.
You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.
“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”
Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.
“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”
You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.
Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.
But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.
“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”
Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”
“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.
“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”
But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.
Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.
He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.
Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”
Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.
“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”
“Hey!”
A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.
He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.
Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.
“James—”
“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.
“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”
“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”
You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.
“James, calm down—”
“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.
“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.
“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky had never spoken to you like that.
Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.
Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.
He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.
“You broke bread with the boy?”
You didn’t dare to speak.
“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.
“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.
Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.
“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”
Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.
“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”
You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”
He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.
“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”
Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”
Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”
“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”
Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.
“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”
He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.
“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.
“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”
He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.
“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”
He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”
Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.
“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”
Bucky was leaving?
You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.
“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.
“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”
Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.
“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”
He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.
“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”
Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.
When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.
He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”
You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.
And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.
He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.
“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”
You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.
He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.
“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”
“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”
Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.
He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”
Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.
Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.
Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.
“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”
“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”
His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.
“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”
Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.
His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.
“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”
You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.
“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.
Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”
You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”
Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”
Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.
“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”
With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.
“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.
“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”
Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.
He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.
With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”
You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.
“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.
To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.
“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”
“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”
Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.
The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.
“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”
“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”
“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”
“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”
Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”
The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.
With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.
Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.
“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”
Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.
“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”
You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.
“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”
You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.
“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”
Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.
The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.
“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”
Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.
“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”
“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.
He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”
Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.
Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”
“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”
“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere.
“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.
Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.
Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.
“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”
You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.
Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.
“So perfect,” he mumbled.
You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.
He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.
“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”
Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.
He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”
He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.
The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.
But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.
“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”
He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.
“Right,” you whimpered.
“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”
The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.
“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”
Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.
“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”
The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.
You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.
“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.
“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.
“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”
“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.
“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”
“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”
“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.
As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.
After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.
He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.
You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.
You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.
Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.
Was this a drill?
The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?
As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.
“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”
“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”
“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”
Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.
You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.
But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.
That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.
A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.
“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.
Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”
“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”
You felt your blood run cold.
Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.
“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”
Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”
The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.
Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.
“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.
“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”
She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.
“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”
Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”
As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.
“Nat!”
You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.
A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.
You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.
Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.
You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.
A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.
“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”
Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.
Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.
It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.
Ah, there he was.
Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.
Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.
He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.
You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.
But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.
And that was all that mattered.
In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.
His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.
His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.
Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.
“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”
“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”
“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”
“Barnes!”
Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.
All he cared about was you.
Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.
“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”
You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.
His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.
“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.
“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”
He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.
“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.
He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.
“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”
“Bucky—”
“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”
“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.
As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.
“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.
Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.
For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.
“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”
He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.
“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”
He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.
“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”
Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.
The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.
Bucky kept his promise—and more.
Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.
thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
.⋆♱ summary: The Court of Oyer and Terminer, comes to Andover, and with it, a sermon sharp enough to make every woman in the meetinghouse feel already condemned. As Magistrate Grimes preaches obedience, restraint, and the wickedness of female desire, the silence inside your marriage turns unbearable. Jack may be willing to protect you from the men hunting witches, but he has yet to answer for the hunger he has left untouched in his own bed.
.⋆♱ a/n 1: This is my first time writing for a character who isn’t Joel or Tommy Miller, so I really hope you like it. This wild little idea was born one afternoon while I was at work, listening to My Moon My Man by Feist, and I would be lying if I said I haven’t enjoyed it immensely.
.⋆♱ a/n 2: A special mention to the sweet and endlessly patient @mcthsman for reading this little baby! ily Fox 🤍
.⋆♱ a/n 3: I can’t wait to read your comments, and if you have any ideas for Jack, Titus, or Pope, my requests are always open for them along with Joel and Tommy Miller <3
.⋆♱ warnings: period typical misogyny, religious oppression, religious guilt, tormented characters, touch starved characters (very), references to hangings/executions, fear of accusation, public shaming of women, sermons about female obedience/submission, sexual repression, internalized shame around female desire, marital tension, unconsummated marriage, emotional distress, pregnancy mentions, grief/parents loss references, a general atmosphere of paranoia, judgment and religiously justified violence, amputee Jack, he has a wooden leg okay, chronic pain/mobility issues, implied age gap.
.⋆♱ wc: 14.775 k
Andover, Massachusetts Bay Colony
Late Summer, 1692
That morning, the sky over Andover looked like old ash.
By the time you reached the meetinghouse, most of the town had already gathered beneath it, drawn together by habit, duty, and the kind of fear no one wished to name while standing beneath God’s eye. Gray clouds hung low over the roofs and fields, pressing the damp summer air close to the ground. It had not rained, not yet, but everything smelled as though it might at any moment: wool, mud, split wood, the thin smoke curling from chimneys before dissolving into the colorless sky. A Sabbath morning like this was supposed to bring some promise that, no matter how frightened people had become, the world could still be made sensible through prayer. But instead, fear had arrived even before the congregation.
It stood in the yard among the men with their hats in their hands and their eyes turned too carefully away from one another. It sat inside the carriages where mothers adjusted caps beneath their daughters chins with fingers that trembled only when they thought no one was watching. It moved through the gathered women in a series of small corrections: a whisper hushed too quickly, a sleeve pulled lower over the wrist, a gaze lowered not from modesty but caution.
Everyone knew what had happened in Salem, even if no one wished to be the first to say the names aloud beneath the shadow of the meetinghouse. Women turned into warnings, their lives gathered into rumors and sermons and the solemn nods of men who spoke of justice with clean hands. There had been men accused too, men condemned too, but terror did not settle evenly upon every soul. It clung differently to women. It followed them into kitchens and birthing rooms, into doorways and pews, into the private chambers where thoughts themselves had begun to feel dangerous.
By then, Andover had begun to feel the fever spreading toward it. The afflictions, the accusations, the examinations; the invisible threads drawn from one town to another until no hearth was entirely safe from suspicion. A woman’s grief could be read as hardness. Her sharp tongue as malice. Her knowledge of herbs as commerce with darkness. Her loneliness as proof. Her beauty as temptation. Her poverty as resentment. Her refusal to confess as pride. Her confession as evidence. There seemed to be no shape a woman could take that could not, in the right mouth, be made monstrous.
Jack walked beside you without speaking. He had said little all morning, though that was not unusual. Silence sat naturally on him, sometimes like thought, sometimes like punishment. His cane struck the packed ground with a steady rhythm, though you knew him well enough to hear the effort inside that steadiness. Damp weather was unkind to the old injury. It dragged at him before he admitted pain, stiffening his jaw, slowing the first steps after he stood. His left leg bore his weight with stubborn reliability, but the other, the damaged one, required calculation. A step chosen too quickly could betray him. A turn made without care could send pain across his face before pride had time to hide it.
You had seen him rise from the table that morning, had noticed the pause he tried to disguise while pushing himself upright, the brief tightening at the corner of his mouth when the dampness caught in the ruined place before his will smoothed it away again. Once, perhaps, concern would have come easily to you. Once, you might have asked if it ached badly today, if he needed another moment, if he wanted your arm before stepping outside. But resentment had learned the layout of your marriage too well by then, and now even softness felt like exposure. It was humiliating to care for a man who could share your roof, your name, your bed in the most literal and least intimate sense, and still treat your body as though it were a door he had sworn never to open.
So you walked beside him with your Bible held against your ribs and your gloves buttoned tight at the wrist, and when his shoulder came close to yours as the crowd pressed inward at the meetinghouse steps, you pretended not to feel the heat of him through the layers between you.
Inside, the meetinghouse was colder than it should have been, cold in the benches, cold in the boards, cold in the severe whitewashed walls and the narrow windows that allowed the gray morning to enter without warming a thing. Bodies shifted into place with the tense obedience of people eager to be seen doing nothing wrong. Men went one way, women another, though husbands and wives still found nearness where custom allowed.
The pew was hard beneath you. Jack lowered himself carefully, his jaw tightening for only the smallest moment as his injured leg bent, and when his cane came to rest between his knees, both hands folded over its handle, you noticed the whiteness of his knuckles before you noticed the men near the pulpit.
They did not belong to Andover.
There were three of them standing with Reverend Danes near the front, their coats dark and plain, their faces arranged with the grave severity men wore when they wished righteousness to be mistaken for virtue. One was older and broad through the chest, one younger with a thin, restless mouth, and the one between them held the room without yet speaking. He was tall and narrow, with a trimmed beard, deep set eyes, and the sort of stillness that did not soothe. His gaze traveled over the congregation slowly like he had entered a barn and begun assessing which animals might be useful, which might be lame, which might need slaughtering for the good of the rest.
Then a whisper moved behind you.
“The Court.”
Jack heard it too. You felt, rather than saw, the change in him. His shoulders did not move, his face did not turn, but something in the air around him hardened. You looked at his hands again, still over the cane, still except for the faint press of one thumb against the other.
The Court of Oyer and Terminer had become a phrase with a gallows built inside it. It had gathered in Salem to hear and determine, to examine and condemn, to turn afflicted cries and neighborly malice into judgment. It did not need to enter a room loudly. Their reputation entered first. It came ahead of the men who served it, trailing names, warrants, confessions, spectral accusations, and the dreadful knowledge that innocence had become a poor defense against certainty.
Reverend Danes took the pulpit at last, and your first thought was that he looked older than he had the Sunday before. Age had always been on him, of course, in the white of his hair and the slight bend of his back, but this was different. Strain had drawn new lines beside his mouth. His eyes rested briefly on the women’s side of the congregation and then moved away.
“Beloved brethren,” he began, his voice carrying solemnly across the room, tired but firm, “we gather in a season of grievous trial, wherein the Lord, in His inscrutable wisdom, has permitted the works of darkness to be brought into the light.”
The congregation held still. No one coughed. No child dared fidget for long.
“We are joined this Sabbath by Magistrate Nathaniel Grimes, who has lately come from Salem and bears witness to the necessary labors undertaken there for the preservation of godly order in this province.”
Necessary labors.
You felt the phrase go through the room like a blade hidden in cloth.
Reverend Danes did not look proud to say it. If anything, the words seemed to leave a taste in his mouth. For half a heartbeat, you thought he might add something of his own, some caution, some plea, some human word against the twisted acts beginning to move through the towns. But the moment passed, his hand tightened on the edge of the pulpit before he stepped aside and Magistrate Nathaniel Grimes took his place.
He did not open the Bible immediately, and that alone unsettled you. A minister began with scripture, a shepherd began with the Word but Grimes began with the congregation, with a slow survey of faces, pews, bowed heads, and restless hands. When his gaze passed over you, your stomach tightened before you could stop it. Like you were a danger already half proven by existing.
“My good people of Andover,” he said, his voice smooth, controlled, cold enough to feel clean. “You dwell in a town blessed by labor, by covenant, by the outward signs of obedience. Your fields are ordered. Your houses stand. Your children are brought to worship. Your women are clothed in modesty, their heads covered beneath God and man.”
He paused, and his eyes moved slowly over the women’s benches.
“But let no man mistake appearance for purity.”
The room seemed to inhale.
Jack did not move beside you.
“There is no hedge so high that Satan cannot peer over it. No door so stout that corruption cannot pass beneath it like smoke. No hearth so swept that the serpent cannot coil in its warmth. We have seen this in Salem. We have seen this in households that called themselves godly. We have seen it in women who prayed aloud while nursing rebellion in secret.”
Your hands tightened in your lap, and Jack’s eyes cut downward, briefly, toward your fingers before you forced them still.
Grimes rested both hands on the pulpit. “Let us not be ashamed to speak plainly. Shame has already served the Devil well enough. In Salem, darkness has not been imagined. It has been uncovered. We have seen children afflicted, men tormented, goodwives bewitched, cattle sickened, bodies pinched by invisible hands, and souls imperiled by those who gave themselves over to the Enemy.”
He spoke with no tremor and that was the horror of him. He did not sound inflamed by panic. He sounded pleased by order, proud of the shape terror took when men like him were allowed to give it language.
“And if some among you think the rope severe,” he continued, softer now, “then I ask you: what severity is too great when Hell has entered a Christian settlement? Shall the shepherd pity the wolf because its fur is soft? Shall a father spare the viper because it curls beside the cradle? No. Mercy to corruption is cruelty to the innocent.”
Mercy.
You thought of the women hanged in Salem and felt your throat tighten.
A woman two rows ahead bowed her head lower. Another pressed her mouth hard enough that her lips disappeared into a bloodless line. You wondered how many of them were thinking of someone they knew. How many were thinking of themselves.
Grimes lifted one long finger. “The Devil, in these latter days, has found a rich mine among the daughters of Eve.”
Something inside you went cold.
Jack’s breath changed beside you, barely, but enough for you to notice.
“The first woman listened,” Grimes said. “The first woman doubted. The first woman reached beyond the boundary God had set for her and took. And through her taking came sin, death, corruption, and the fall of man. Shall we then marvel that Satan still seeks his instruments among those descended from her weakness? Shall we be surprised when the wife whispers where she should obey, when the daughter questions where she should submit, when the widow presumes authority because no man stands near enough to correct her?”
You stared at the pulpit until the wood blurred.
“Woman is not evil by nature,” he continued, “no more than dry straw is flame by nature. Yet place a spark within it and see how swiftly it may consume a house. This is why God, in His wisdom, did not leave woman ungoverned. He placed her beneath father, beneath husband, beneath the godly order of male authority, that her weakness might be protected from itself.”
Protected.
The word almost made you laugh.
Jack leaned a fraction closer, his voice no more than breath. “Do not.”
You did not look at him. “I have said nothing.”
“No, but you are about to.”
The fact that he knew it only sharpened your anger.
You kept your eyes forward. “Then perhaps you should correct me.”
His head turned slightly, and you felt the weight of his stare on your cheek before he murmured, “Do not say that.”
It pleased you, bitterly, that he hated the sound of it.
At the pulpit, Grimes’s voice deepened. “Daughters, obey your fathers. A girl who learns defiance beneath her father’s roof carries rebellion into her husband’s bed. Sisters, heed your brothers. The son, though younger in years, bears the mark of Adam and must not be made small beneath a woman’s pride. Mothers, presume not that having borne sons grants you dominion over them. To bear a man is not to rule him.”
A rustle passed through the room, then died quickly, frightened by its own existence.
You thought of all the mothers there, hands scarred from labor, bodies worn by birth and burial, being told the sons they had bled into the world stood above them by right of being male. You thought of a woman crying out in labor and a man later telling her she had no authority over the life that had split her open. Something hot and poisonous moved through you at that realization.
“And wives,” Grimes said.
The word struck the room differently because every married woman—including you—seemed to become more visible and more trapped at once.
“Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. Not in public only. Not when submission suits comfort. Not while neighbors watch and then with rebellion once the door is shut. A wife’s obedience is not a Sabbath garment to be worn and then laid aside. It is her holy estate. Her protection. Her salvation.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, and you saw it from the corner of your eye.
You knew the language of his restraint better than you knew the language of his affection, because restraint was all he had given you.
“Where a wife raises her voice,” Grimes said, “her husband must lower it for her. Where she questions, he must instruct. Where she strays, he must guide. Where she tempts, he must master both himself and her, lest indulgence in the home become an open gate to Hell.”
You felt Jack’s eyes on you again.
The sermon was no longer merely vile. It was intimate. It had entered the places polite speech pretended not to know. It had stepped into the chamber, into the bed, into the locked room of every marriage in that meetinghouse and lit a candle there for public inspection.
Hawke finally opened the Bible, and the sound of the pages turning was obscenely loud.
“A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband,” he read, “but she that maketh ashamed is as rottenness in his bones.”
You looked down at your hands.
Were you rot, then?
The thought came unbidden, humiliating in its swiftness. Not because you believed Grimes. God, no. You hated him. You hated every cold, clean word that came out of his mouth. But shame did not always require belief. Sometimes shame only needed an old wound to enter through, and your marriage had many.
And now this man stood before the town speaking of women’s desires as if they were doors to damnation, and some horrible part of you wondered whether Jack had believed it long before Grimes ever said it aloud.
“Is that what you think?” you whispered.
Jack did not turn his head, but the stillness in him sharpened. “No.”
“No,” you said, barely moving your lips. “Of course, you do not.”
His fingers flexed once on the head of his cane. “This is not the place.”
A bitter smile touched your mouth. “There is never a place with you.”
“Not here,” he said, and this time there was urgency beneath the restraint. “Not with them watchin’ us.”
Jack was right, and that made you angrier because danger had a way of making cowards of even righteous fury, and you were not foolish enough to think a woman could say anything she liked in such a room and walk out unchanged by it.
Still, something in you wanted to make them hear.
You wanted to stand and ask Grimes whether all the women hanged in Salem had died because they were wicked, or because men had found a holy language for fear. You wanted to ask if Eve’s sin had been reaching, or if Adam’s had been blaming her afterward. You wanted to ask how many women must be made small before men felt large enough to call it order.
But you said none of it, and your silence felt like swallowing broken glass.
Grimes closed the Bible again but kept one palm resting atop it, claiming its authority without needing to read further. “Men of Andover, understand me well. The Devil does not always enter through hatred. Sometimes he enters through softness. Through indulgence. Through a husband too fond of a wife’s smile to correct her spirit. Through a father too amused by a daughter’s wit to break her pride while it is yet young. Through a brother who laughs at a sister’s defiance and so teaches her that manhood may be mocked without consequence.”
Jack’s mouth tightened.
You looked at him then, unable to stop yourself. “You hear that?”
He stared forward. “I hear.”
“Perhaps you should have broken my pride when it was still young.”
His eyes cut to you at last, and there was real anger in them now. Not at your defiance, you realized, but at the words themselves. At the idea of them. At you placing them between his hands as though they belonged there.
“Enough,” he whispered.
You should have stopped but you did not.
“Would that have made me easier to tolerate?”
His face changed.
Something in the question struck him harder than you expected. The anger did not leave, but it shifted around a deeper hurt you had not meant to touch. For a moment he looked not like a husband withholding judgment, but like a man trying to hold closed a door that had begun to split beneath pressure from the other side.
“You are not difficult,” he said. “You aren't.”
The answer came too quickly and too certain to be nothing.
It unsettled you enough that you looked away first.
At the pulpit, Grimes began to speak of the body. You knew it before he named it. You felt the room prepare itself, felt the men lean inward without moving, felt women lower their eyes in dread or obedience or both. Even the children seemed to sense that some subject had arrived for which they were expected to be innocent and silent.
“The marriage bed,” Hawke said, “is lawful.”
Your skin prickled beneath your sleeves.
“Let no one say I preach against what Scripture permits. The Lord made man and woman. He commanded fruitfulness. He joined the husband and wife so that the household might increase and the covenant endure.”
His voice softened, and somehow that softness was worse than shouting.
“But lawful things may be corrupted by disorder. Wine gladdens the heart, yet drunkenness damns. Food sustains the body, yet gluttony shames it. So too the marriage bed, though lawful, may become a theater of rebellion if proper order is not maintained.”
Your breath stopped somewhere high in your chest.
Jack went still beside you in a way you felt through the narrow space between your bodies.
“A husband must not feed the false fantasy that his wife may govern desire,” Grimes said. “He must not praise boldness where modesty is required, nor encourage appetite where meekness should dwell. Woman was made from man, for man, and under man.”
The silence was absolute.
No one coughed now. No bench creaked. You heard only Grimes’s voice and your own heartbeat.
“Beneath him,” he said.
The word entered you like a violation.
“Receiving and never taking.”
Jack’s hand tightened around the cane so suddenly the wood gave a faint creak beneath his grip.
“Yielding. Never commanding. Covered. Never exalted. For when a wife seeks mastery in the bed, she rehearses rebellion in the soul.”
Heat rose up your throat so fast you thought you might be sick. You looked straight ahead and saw the shape of your own shame, dragged into the light by a stranger and named wicked before God and town.
Because God help you, you wanted.
You wanted with a force that frightened you in the quiet hours. You wanted your husband in ways no sermon had prepared you to survive. You wanted his hands on you not by accident but with purpose. You wanted his mouth, his weight, his breath breaking against your skin. You wanted to hear restraint leave him. You wanted to be looked at by Jack as if his patience had finally failed.
And beneath that want, more shameful still, lived an anger so intimate it felt almost obscene. You did not merely want him to take. Sometimes, in the secret and unsayable privacy of your mind, you wanted to take from him. To choose. To move. To watch him lose that terrible control he wore like armor. To make him feel even a fraction of the ache he had left you carrying alone.
Your gloved hands trembled once before you pressed them flat against your lap.
Jack saw and he leaned a fraction closer, voice strained almost beyond recognition. “Look at me.”
But you did not.
“Please,” he whispered.
And that word nearly undid you.
Please.
Jack, who could order his pain into silence. Jack, who rarely asked for anything he could deny himself. Jack, whose tenderness reached you only in fragments and never where you needed it most.
You turned your head just enough to look at him.
His eyes were fixed on you, dark with something too tangled to name in the middle of a sermon. And beneath them, there and gone so quickly you might have missed it if you were not starving for proof, a heat that made your breath catch.
“What?” you whispered.
Jack searched your face. “Do not listen to him.”
You stared at him because the words were right but they were too late for a starved soul like yours.
“Why not?”
His brow furrowed. “Because he is wrong.”
“Is he?”
Something like disbelief crossed his face. “Yes.”
You leaned closer, your voice a thread. “Then why does my own husband make me feel as though he is not?”
Jack flinched.
Not visibly to anyone else, perhaps. But to you, who had learned him through deprivation, it was as obvious as blood on linen.
At the front, Grimes continued, proud of the dread he had cultivated. “A man who fears firmness with his wife does not practice mercy. He practices cowardice. If her tongue is unruly, correct it. If her gaze is too bold, lower it. If her desires swell beyond their proper bounds, teach her the shape God intended her to keep.”
A laugh rose in your throat, small, breathless, and ugly with pain.
Jack’s eyes flashed. “Do not.”
You looked forward again. “There it is, the shape I am intended to keep.”
“You know I do not believe that.”
“Do I?”
His jaw worked.
“You do not speak,” you whispered. “You do not touch. You do not explain. You leave me to make meaning from absence and then act wounded by the meaning I find.”
The words struck too deep. You knew it the moment they left you.
Jack looked away first, but not before you saw what they had done. For one terrible second, guilt flickered through you.
Then Grimes said, “Let none pity the witches who have swung for their covenant with Hell. Pity instead the godly households they sought to corrupt. Pity the men made weak by womanly cunning. Pity the children afflicted by female malice. Pity the province, which must now cleanse itself because pride was permitted too long to wear a woman’s face.”
The gallows rose in your mind with such clarity you could almost smell the rope. You imagined the women standing beneath it, skirts damp with morning, caps tied beneath chins, hands bound or shaking or still. You wondered whether any of them had been angry at the end. Whether they had been afraid. Whether one had looked out at the crowd and seen not justice, but neighbors. Men who had borrowed tools from her husband. Women who had taken broth from her hands. Children she had watched grow.
You wondered if any of them had wanted too much, had spoken too plainly or had refused to lower their eyes.
Your own eyes burned, but you would not cry there. Not in front of Grimes. Not in front of the women who might mistake tears for weakness or the men who might mistake them for guilt. Not in front of Jack, whose nearness had become a cruelty no one else could see.
The congregation bowed its head as one body and you bowed yours because refusing would have been noticed.
But your eyes remained open.
The wood grain of the pew blurred beneath your gaze. Beside you, Jack lowered his head too. His hand remained on the cane. His other rested on his thigh, broad and still, the knuckles roughened from work, the nails clean but cut short. A husband’s hand. A man’s hand. A hand that had steadied you over ice, lifted heavy things from your arms, set a cup beside you when you coughed through a cold.
A hand that had never once reached for you in bed.
Hawke prayed over the congregation in a voice that asked God to make women obedient and men brave enough to force obedience upon them. He prayed for the afflicted girls. He prayed for the judges. He prayed for the souls already cut down and called their deaths a warning, not a tragedy. He prayed that no household in Andover would shield sin out of sentiment.
Jack’s hand moved.
Only slightly.
His fingers shifted against his thigh, then stilled. For one wild moment, you thought he might touch you there, in that terrible room, under that terrible prayer but he did not.
His fingers curled into his palm as the prayer ended.
“Amen,” the congregation said.
You did not.
Jack noticed. You knew because he closed his eyes for half a second before opening them again, as if he had taken the silence into himself like another pain.
The final psalm began. Voices rose unevenly at first, then gathered strength because fear often sang louder than faith. You stood when everyone stood. Jack rose beside you with effort so controlled it might have fooled anyone else. His cane took his weight; his damaged leg followed a heartbeat later. Pain crossed his face and disappeared. Instinct moved you before anger could stop it, your hand lifting toward his sleeve because your body remembered caring for him before your pride remembered why it should not.
But you caught yourself just before touching him.
And Jack saw.
The two of you stood there, close enough that the almost touch seemed louder than the psalm around you. His gaze dropped to your hand. Yours did too. Slowly, you lowered it. His throat moved, and neither of you sang.
Around you, Andover lifted its voice to God while the court men watched from the front. Grimes did not sing. He stood with his hands folded and his eyes on the congregation, inspecting the effect of his own poison.
When the psalm ended, there was no immediate release. The service dissolved not into relief but into careful movement. Benches creaked. Children were gathered close. Men reached for hats. Women adjusted shawls and expressions. No one wanted to be first out the door. No one wanted to linger too long either. Such was fear: it made every ordinary motion suspicious.
Jack leaned toward you. “We need to leave.”
You looked at him. “Do we?”
His face was tight. “Yes.”
“Before I become troublesome?”
A flash of pain crossed his eyes before anger did. “Before men like him decide you are.”
“Men like him,” you repeated softly.
His mouth tightened. “Do not twist this.”
“I am only trying to understand which men I should fear.”
He stared at you for a second too long, and then said, very quietly, “Not me, never me.”
You stepped into the narrow aisle with the other women, Jack close behind you. The press of bodies forced you forward slowly. A neighbor nodded to you with a face too pale to be friendly. Another woman looked at your mouth, perhaps wondering whether you had whispered too much. Or perhaps that was only fear making you imagine witnesses everywhere.
Behind you, Jack’s cane struck the floor.
Wood on wood.
Slow, uneven but controlled.
You could hear pain in the rhythm now and you wondered if Grimes heard weakness. You wondered if men like him saw Jack’s ruined leg and thought less of him. You wondered whether Jack did. Whether every refusal, every withheld touch, every night he turned his body away from yours had less to do with your wickedness than his own private shame.
Then you hated yourself for still trying to excuse him.
Near the doors, the crowd slowed. Grimes stood with the rest of the court, receiving the grave nods of men who seemed eager to appear aligned with righteousness. Reverend Danes remained somewhat apart, his eyes troubled, his mouth set. When his gaze met yours briefly, something like an apology passed through it.
That almost broke you more than Grimes’s cruelty.
An apology meant someone knew harm had been done and lacked either the power or the courage to prevent it.
Jack moved closer behind you as the court men’s attention shifted toward the departing congregation. Near enough that his presence changed the air at your back.
“Keep your eyes down,” he murmured.
Your whole body went rigid.
Slowly, you turned your head. “What did you say?”
His expression changed the moment he realized how it had sounded. “I did not mean—”
“What a pity,” you whispered. “For a moment, you sounded exactly as instructed.”
Jack’s face closed.
You saw the hurt and the anger. You saw him swallow both because you were still in public and he would not give anyone the satisfaction of watching your marriage bleed in the aisle.
“Please,” he said, so low only you could hear. “Not here.”
Again.
Not here.
The phrase that held your whole life in place.
Not here. Not now. Not like this. Not safe. Not proper. Not possible.
You stepped closer until anyone watching might have thought you were merely making room for a passing family. Your shoulder nearly brushed his chest. Your voice, when it came, was calm enough to frighten even you.
“Is that why you do not touch me?”
Jack went still.
The meetinghouse continued around you, bodies moving, voices murmuring, footsteps passing over old boards. But your world narrowed to his face.
He looked as though the question had reached into him and closed around something vital.
You know that you should have stopped but instead, you gave him the rest of it.
“Because my desire is wicked?”
For a moment, Jack did not breathe.
Then his eyes moved over your face, searching, stricken, furious at something you could not name. His lips parted as if the answer might finally come, as if a year of silence might split open there in the aisle with Magistrate Grimes still near enough to hear a woman condemned by truth if not witchcraft.
But Jack said nothing.
Nothing that mattered.
Only your name, rough and barely audible, spoken like a plea he had no right to make.And that was enough to wound you.
Outside, the air did not feel like freedom.
It should have.
After the close heat of the meetinghouse, after the press of bodies and wool and breath held too long, after Magistrate Grimes’s voice had crawled over skin and scripture alike until even prayer seemed to have been handled by unclean hands, the open yard should have offered relief. Instead, the summer air struck you warm and damp, heavy with mud, grass, horse sweat, and the sour sweet smell of too many frightened people released at once into daylight. The clouds still hung low over Andover, gray and swollen, promising rain without granting it, and the world beyond the meetinghouse seemed no larger than the room you had left.
Grimes’s sermon followed you through the doorway. It clung to your throat, to the back of your neck, to the place where anger and shame had wound themselves so tightly together you could no longer tell which one was choking you.
People spilled slowly into the churchyard, but no one truly scattered. They gathered in uneasy clusters beneath the dim Sabbath sky. Men stood with hats in hand, speaking as though every word had been weighed before being allowed past their teeth. Women moved closer to husbands, fathers, brothers, not always because they wished to, you thought, but because everyone had just been reminded what a woman alone could become in the right story. Girls were called back sharply when they wandered too far. Mothers fussed with caps and collars that did not need fixing. A widow near the fence kept her eyes lowered so completely that she nearly walked into another woman’s shoulder.
Jack stood beside you, silent.
That was almost funny, though not in any way that might have softened you. There was something so bitterly fitting about it that you nearly laughed. Of course he had the audacity to be silent now. After a sermon about men ruling women’s voices and women being punished for wanting too much, your sweet husband had chosen exactly the one thing he did best: standing near you with a storm locked somewhere behind his ribs and giving you nothing but weather.
You did not look at him. You looked instead toward the meetinghouse steps, where Magistrate Grimes and the other men from the Court emerged beneath the gaze of half the town. Grimes looked satisfied in a quiet, bloodless way, not triumphant exactly, because men like him did not need triumph. They carried certainty the way other men carried muskets. It was enough that people stepped aside for him.
Reverend Danes stood stiffly at Grimes’s side, nodding when expected. The younger court man, the one with the thin mouth, looked over the assembled townspeople as if searching already for movement where stillness had been ordered.
Jack shifted beside you.
This time, you looked.
He was watching them too. His face had gone hard in a way that made him seem older. One hand rested around the head of his cane, the other close to his side, fingers loose but ready. With a clarity that irritated you, you realized he had placed himself half a step between you and them without thinking, his body making a shield of itself before his mouth could form a word.
Protective, then.
Always protective.
But never tender where you needed him.
“Beloved friends of Andover,” Grimes called, lifting his voice enough to command the yard.
The murmurs thinned at once.
You hated how quickly silence obeyed him.
Grimes stepped down from the meetinghouse stairs with measured calm. “We shall remain among you for several days. The work of cleansing is not brief, nor should any godly soul desire it hurried. Where sin has burrowed, it must be drawn out by root.”
A shiver moved through the gathered crowd, though the air was too warm for it.
“Those troubled in conscience,” he continued, “would do well to come forward. Confession is a mercy still offered. Names withheld may yet weigh heavily before God. Names spoken may aid in the preservation of many.”
There it was.
Confession.
A holy word twisted into a blade.
Beside you, Jack’s jaw tightened. “Bastards,” he muttered, barely loud enough for you to hear.
It startled you enough that you turned your head.
He did not look at you. His eyes stayed on Grimes, cold and unblinking.
The word should not have warmed you but it did anyway, for one foolish second.
Jack saw it too, then. The shape beneath the sermon. The hunger under the piety. Men inviting frightened souls to save themselves by feeding another body to the gallows.
Grimes continued speaking, voice grave and clean. “Let no one here imagine silence to be innocence. Silence may be fellowship with darkness. Silence may be fear of exposure. Silence may be the Devil’s hand over the mouth of the witness.”
You almost laughed again.
Silence.
Even that belonged to them now.
Jack’s hand tightened around his cane as if he would have liked very much to use it for something other than walking.
“There you are.”
Your sister’s voice reached you before she did, and for one instant the familiar sound nearly broke the careful, furious line you had drawn around yourself.
Jane came toward you from the side of the meetinghouse with one hand braced beneath the swell of her stomach, her other tucked into the crook of Robby’s arm. Pregnancy had softened her face and sharpened her temper, a combination you had come to admire more with each month, but what struck you first was not her usual briskness. It was the way she looked at you. Not amused. Not exasperated. Not ready, as she often was, to gather everyone’s foolishness into one hand and sort it by severity.
She was worried.
Her gaze moved over your face, then to Jack’s, then to the narrow space between you where no touch had happened and too much had.
Robby noticed it too. He was not a subtle man in most things, but he was not stupid, and whatever he had been about to say died behind his teeth when he took in Jack’s expression. His hand covered Jane’s where it rested in his arm, not restraining her, only reminding her that he was there.
For a moment, none of you spoke.
The silence was brief, but it was not empty.
Jane’s eyes returned to yours. “Are you unwell?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Jack looked at you then, just once.
Jane saw that as well.
Her mouth tightened. “You look pale.”
“It was a sermon, Jane. Not a plague.”
“It was not only a sermon.”
Robby exhaled softly and looked toward Hawke. “No. It was more of a public invitation to ruin one’s neighbors with biblical seasoning.”
Jane turned her head just enough to give him a warning look.
“What?” he said, quieter. “I am trying to be accurate.”
Despite everything, the corner of your mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Jack did not smile. His eyes were on the men from the Court again, and the set of his shoulders told you that every part of him had gone alert in a way that had nothing to do with normal anger.
“They mean to stay then?” Jane asked.
“For several days,” Jack said.
His voice was controlled, but there was something beneath it that made Jane look at him more closely.
Robby’s humor faded. “Of course they do. Would be a shame to frighten a town senseless and then leave before supper.”
Jack did not answer. He watched as two men from the congregation approached Grimes with bowed heads. One wrung his hat in his hands. Another kept glancing over his shoulder as though hoping not to be seen while ensuring he was seen enough.
Your stomach turned.
“Confession,” you said softly.
Jane’s hand tightened on Robby’s arm. “No, accusation.”
No one corrected her.
For a moment, the four of you stood together while Andover shifted around you. You could feel Jack beside you, could almost feel the thought forming in him before he spoke. That was another cruelty of marriage, perhaps. You could learn a person too well even when they kept themselves from you.
He turned to you. “I think it best you stay with Jane while we are gone.”
You looked at him.
There it was. The command dressed as reason.
“I beg your pardon?”
Jack’s eyes flicked briefly toward Robby and Jane, then back to you. “Robby and I leave soon. We will be gone for three days, maybe four if the weather turns.”
“I know.”
“It is best you not remain alone at the house.”
“I have remained alone at the house before.”
“Not with them in town.”
His gaze moved past you toward Grimes, who was now speaking to one of the deacons with a hand laid solemnly over his heart. The sight made Jack’s mouth harden.
You folded your arms. “I fail to see how their being in town alters the walls of our house.”
“It alters what men may decide to do inside them.”
Jane went still.
Robby’s expression sobered at once.
Jack leaned slightly closer, his voice lowered but not softened. “There is real danger now.”
“There has been real danger before.”
“Yes,” he said. “But it has now walked into Andover and announced it will be taking appointments.”
Robby looked away, pressing his lips together.
“You think I cannot manage myself for three days?”
“I think those men came here lookin’ for a woman to hang.”
The words dropped hard between you.
Jane inhaled sharply. Robby glanced around to make sure no one had heard. Jack did not take his eyes off you.
“Or burn,” he added, lower and rougher now. “Or ruin. Call it whatever godly name suits them.”
You looked at the court men, then back at him. “Then I suppose there is no issue.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No issue.”
“No.” You smiled faintly, and even you could feel how wrong it sat on your mouth. “You need not concern yourself.”
Jane said your name softly but you ignored it.
Jack’s voice dropped. “And why is that?”
You turned to him fully now, no longer caring that Robby and Jane were there, no longer caring that the yard was full of ears hungry enough to make a meal of anything. “Because I seem to be something of an expert at being invisible to a man’s eyes. Is that not so, Jack?”
Silence fell between you with such force that even the churchyard seemed to recede.
A silence so sudden that even Robby stopped pretending not to understand.
Jack looked as if the words had found the one unguarded place in him and gone straight through. His face did not change at all. It never did with you. But you saw the impact all the same, the smallest slackening around his eyes, the faint movement in his throat, the hand on his cane closing once before he stilled it by force.
Jane’s expression flickered with pain.
Not surprise.
Just pain.
And somehow that was worse, because it meant she had known there was a wound. Perhaps not its shape, perhaps not its depth, but she had sensed enough to fear looking directly at it.
Robby, who had been moments away from some dry remark, wisely swallowed it whole.
Jack opened his mouth.
Before anything could come out, Robby stepped in with the careful urgency of a man trying to keep several kinds of disaster from occurring in a churchyard full of zealots.
“I think,” he said, loudly enough to be useful and quietly enough not to attract attention, “that Jack is right.”
You turned your stare on him.
Robby lifted both hands. “Not about—well, not about whatever this is.” He glanced between you and Jack and immediately looked as though he wished he had chosen death instead. “Actually, I am not touching whatever this is with both hands and a shovel. I mean about you staying with Jane.”
Jane recovered herself with visible effort. “Yes. Of course you will stay with me.”
“I have not agreed to that.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just make decisions for me.” Jane's brows rose, and for a moment she looked almost like herself again. "I’m your older sister. Managing your life was the first thing I ever perfected."
“By a mere two years.”
“And a crucial two years they were.”
Robby scoffed softly. “I swear those two years grow more mythical by the day.”
Jane didn't look at him. “Well, they’ve earned it.”
The exchange was soft enough not to draw attention, familiar enough to ease the air by a thread, but Jane’s hand reached for yours as she spoke, and when her fingers closed around your glove, there was no humor in the pressure.
“Come stay with me,” she said, quieter now. “Please. If not for yourself, then for me. Robby will be gone. And this one”—she glanced down at her stomach—“has apparently decided that rest is a personal insult for him. I would like the company.”
It was unfair.
Effective, but unfair.
You looked at her, then at Robby, then finally back at Jack. He was waiting. There was no victory in him at all. Only tension and a fear he did not know how to make gentle.
“Fine,” you said.
Jane squeezed your hand once, and the relief that passed over her face was quickly hidden, but not quickly enough.
Robby exhaled. “Good. That is one crisis resolved without anyone being denounced.”
Jack looked at him.
Robby cleared his throat. “A low bar, admittedly, but I am taking my victories where I find them.”
The walk to Jane and Robby’s house did not take long, though it felt longer with so much left unsaid moving alongside you. The men led the horses, Jack’s cane striking the road at a measured pace while Robby adjusted his stride without making it obvious. Jane walked with you slightly behind them, one hand at the small of her back, her eyes occasionally flicking toward your face when she thought you would not notice.
The road was damp in patches from the rain of the night before, though the air was warm enough to lift the smell of mud and crushed grass with every step. Insects hummed in the hedges. A dog barked somewhere beyond the bend. The world had the indecency to continue as though no stranger had just stood before God and made women into kindling.
“You need not watch me as though I am about to bolt,” you murmured.
Jane kept her eyes ahead. “I am deciding whether you are more likely to bolt or bite.”
“I can do both.”
“Yes. That is precisely my concern.”
Ahead of you, Robby said without turning, “For the record, biting is easier to explain than bolting.”
Jack’s mouth twitched faintly.
You saw it.
Jane’s house sat just beyond the road bend, low and sturdy beneath the maples, with smoke rising thinly from the chimney despite the summer heat because the morning bread had needed baking. Two chickens made a determined nuisance of themselves near the steps, scratching at damp earth as if they too had grievances against the province.
At the door, Robby turned first to Jane.
The change in him was immediate and shameless. All his humor softened into something intimate. He set one hand gently against her stomach, then bent and kissed her quickly on the mouth.
It still struck you like a slap.
Jane smiled up at him. “Do not get yourself killed.”
“I had no plans to.”
“You rarely plan your foolishness.”
“That wounds me.”
“It should.”
Robby kissed her forehead. “No lifting. No hauling water. No deciding the bed should be moved because the room feels too warm from the east.”
Jane looked offended. “That was one time.”
His face softened so much you had to look away. “No efforts,” he said.
“I am growing a person, Robby. Everything is effort.”
“I am aware.” His hand moved once over the curve of her stomach, reverent and worried in a way that made your chest hurt. “That is why I am asking you not to add furniture to the matter.”
Then Robby turned to you. “And you. Watch her.”
Jane huffed. “I do not need watching.”
“You absolutely do.” Robby looked back at you. “Do not let her carry anything heavier than bread.”
“What if the bread is very heavy?” you asked.
Robby considered. “Then eat half first.”
Against your will, you smiled.
Jack saw that too.
For a second, something in his expression loosened. Not happiness, not even relief, but the sight of your smile seemed to reach him before he could stop it. Then he looked away, jaw tightening as if he had been caught wanting something.
Robby stepped back toward the horses, and then there was nothing left but your own goodbye.
You faced Jack near the gate.
Jane and Robby, to their credit, pretended not to watch.
Badly, but with effort.
Jack stood before you with his hat in one hand and his cane in the other. The gray summer light made the lines around his mouth look deeper. He seemed tired suddenly, more tired than he had in the meetinghouse, and you wondered whether the sermon had lodged in him too.
“Tend yourself,” he said.
You looked at him. “Is that all?”
His mouth tightened. “And be careful.”
“I am always careful.”
His gaze sharpened. “No, you are not.”
A spark of anger lit in you again. “Because I have a tongue?”
“Because you have no fear of using it when fear might serve you better.”
Behind him, Robby dropped his chin toward his chest, already sensing trouble.
Jack continued, quieter, “Watch what you say these next few days.”
You smiled.
But it was not kind.
“And you,” you said, “watch what you do not.”
Jack stared at you.
Robby made a strangled noise and turned it into a cough so violently that Jane had to press a hand over her mouth.
Jack did not look amused. But something flickered at the edge of his expression, something wounded and reluctant and nearly human.
“That supposed to mean something?” he asked.
“You are an intelligent man. I trust you to puzzle it out.”
Robby muttered, “Christ alive,” under his breath.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “When we return, I will come straight for you.”
“Will you?”
His face hardened. “Yes.”
“Then I suppose I will see you when the hunting has proved successful.”
He gave you a look. “That is a cold farewell.”
“You have made a study of coldness. I assumed you preferred it.”
This time Robby did not even pretend not to wince.
Jack took the hit in silence. For a moment, you thought he would leave it there. That he would turn away with all of it still locked behind his teeth, as always. But then he stepped closer, just enough that the others fell out of focus.
His voice lowered. “You think I do not know when you mean to wound me?”
You swallowed.
He had never asked that before.
The answer should have been easy. Yes, of course you were trying to wound him. You had been trying since the sermon, since the aisle, since the moment he failed again to say what you needed him to say. But standing this close, with his eyes on yours and something raw beneath the restraint, the truth twisted.
“I think,” you said softly, “that I have grown tired of being the only one bleeding.”
Jack’s breath caught.
It was slight. Almost nothing.
But it broke something in you anyway.
Jane called your name gently from the doorway.
Gently, as if she had heard enough to know neither of you could survive much more of this where others might see.
The spell snapped.
Jack stepped back first.
He put his hat on and nodded once, as if the movement could replace all words. “Stay inside after dark.”
You lifted your chin. “Yes, husband.”
His mouth tightened at the title.
Robby mounted his horse, then glanced down at Jack with open mischief now that the immediate danger had shifted from catastrophic to merely painful. “Ready?”
Jack did not answer him.
He looked at you one last time.
You almost said, Be safe.
But the words pressed at your teeth, soft, stupid and honest.
But you did not offer them gently.
Instead, as Jack turned toward his horse, you folded your arms and said, “Do take care in the woods.”
He paused.
You smiled sweetly. “God forbid some hunting dog mistake your leg for a fallen branch.”
Robby bent over his saddle with a sound that was definitely not a cough.
Jane gasped your name, scandalized despite herself, one hand flying to her mouth.
Jack turned back slowly.
For one glorious, dangerous second, he looked utterly betrayed.
Then his eyes narrowed. “That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble one day.”
You held his gaze. “One can hope.”
The words landed before you fully understood what you had said.
But Jack did immediately.
You saw it in the way his expression changed, humor darkening into something else for one brief, breathless instant. Something neither of you could touch there, in the yard, before your sister and her husband, with the Court men still somewhere behind you poisoning the town.
Then he looked away.
“Robby,” he said, voice rough. “Let’s go.”
Robby, still fighting for his life not to laugh, gathered the reins. “As you say.”
Jack mounted with difficulty he tried to hide and failed only because you knew where to look. His bad leg dragged a fraction too long. His jaw set hard. Your anger wavered, traitorous and tender, but you held yourself still.
He settled in the saddle and looked down at you.
The silence stretched.
Then, softly enough that only you could hear, he said, “Please.”
You did not know what he was asking.
Be careful?
Forgive me?
Do not hate me?
Do not make me leave like this?
Maybe all of it.
Maybe none.
You looked up at him and gave him the only mercy you had left.
“I will stay with Jane, do not worry”
His eyes closed for half a second. When they opened, he nodded once.
Then the horses moved, carrying the men down the road toward the woods and the gray morning beyond. Robby lifted a hand in farewell. Jack did not. He looked back only once, and because you were still angry, still hurt, still ashamed of how badly you wanted him to, you made yourself stand perfectly still until the road bent and took him from sight.
Only then did Jane come to stand beside you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The road lay empty before you, damp and pale beneath the thick summer sky.
Jane did not make a joke at first.
That was how you knew she was truly worried.
Instead, she slipped her arm through yours carefully, as though touching you too quickly might make you pull away. “Come inside.”
You stared down the road. “I am fine.”
“No,” she said softly. “You are not.”
The simple truth of it almost undid you.
You turned your head, ready to argue, but Jane was not looking at the road anymore. She was looking at your face the way she had in the churchyard, as if the exchange between you and Jack had left marks she could read even without knowing their names.
“What happened between you?” she asked.
Your throat tightened.
You looked away. “Nothing.”
Jane’s hand tightened gently around your arm.
“That,” she said, “is what frightens me.”
You had no answer.
Behind you, her house waited warm and shaded beneath the maples.
Still, you let Jane lead you inside.
Because Jack had asked.
Because Jane had insisted.
Because the Court had come to Andover looking for women to blame.
And because, though you hated him for it, some stubborn, foolish part of you still wanted your husband to come back and find you alive.
Jane shut the door behind you, not quickly, but firmly enough that the latch fell into place with a small wooden sound you felt somewhere beneath your ribs. You hated that your body noticed it. Hated that, after Grimes’s sermon, even a door could become something more complicated. Safety and confinement had begun to resemble one another too closely. A husband’s concern had begun to sound like instruction. A sister’s house, warm and familiar and filled with every proof of love, had become another place you had been brought because men had decided the world outside was too dangerous for a woman left alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Jane remained by the door with one hand resting beneath the curve of her belly, her face turned toward you but not yet demanding anything. That was what unsettled you first: not that she asked questions, but that she did not. Jane, who had an opinion on every foolish thing under heaven; Jane, who could scold a kettle for boiling too slowly; Jane, who had once argued with Father for an entire afternoon about whether girls should be taught to mend harness straps if they were expected to wait for men to come home and fix everything anyway. That Jane stood very still, watching you the way one watched an animal that had come in from the woods with an arrow in its side.
Not frightened of you.
Frightened for you.
You turned your face away because you could not bear it.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, the road held the last faint sound of horses departing, though perhaps that was only memory. Jack and Robby would be moving toward the north woods by now, or toward the edge of them at least, with their muskets and provisions and that grave male purpose men acquired whenever hunger, weather, or danger gave them something practical to do. Jack would be riding stiffly, pretending his leg had not pained him at the mounting block. Robby would notice and say nothing, which was perhaps the closest thing men like them had to tenderness with one another.
You hated that you were thinking of him already.
Jane crossed the room slowly. Pregnancy had made her movements more deliberate, but not less purposeful. She paused near the table, touched the back of a chair as if considering whether to sit, then changed her mind and came closer instead.
“You are shaking,” she said.
You looked down.
You were.
Only a little. Enough that the fingers of your gloves trembled where they rested against your Bible. You tightened them at once, as if restraint could still be made invisible if applied quickly enough.
“I am not.”
Jane did not correct you immediately. That was worse.
After a moment, she said, “I saw what happened by the gate.”
Your throat tightened.
“Nothing happened.”
“No,” Jane said quietly. “A great deal happened. You simply did not raise your voice while it did.”
You stared at the window, at the warped summer light trembling through the glass. The house seemed too warm suddenly, too full of air that had nowhere to go. A fly struck once against the pane, then again, trapped by its own belief in brightness.
Jane came to stand beside you, though she did not touch you yet. “I am not asking so I may accuse you.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because you looked at your husband as though he had put you in chains.” Her voice softened on the last word, not out of delicacy, but because she knew exactly how dangerous it was. “And he looked at you as though he had placed them there himself.”
That did it.
The room moved strangely around you, not spinning, not darkening, only narrowing around the impossible accuracy of what she had said. You turned toward her at last. “You saw too much.”
“I am your sister.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
Jane’s face was pale in the warm light, her eyes dark with the sort of worry she would usually have disguised beneath irritation.
Her gaze dropped to your cloak, still fastened at your throat, then to your gloves. “Let me take that from you.”
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
“I am not helpless.”
“I know that too.”
The answer was so gentle that it irritated you more than command would have. You lifted your hands to the knot and tugged at it, but your fingers were clumsy inside the gloves and the ties resisted you with humiliating persistence.
Jane watched for one moment, then reached slowly. “May I?”
That nearly broke you more than if she had simply taken over.
You gave a short nod.
She loosened the knot with careful fingers and drew the cloak from your shoulders. The air touched the back of your neck, warm and damp. Jane hung the cloak near the door, where Robby’s hat usually rested on a peg, then turned back to you. Her expression changed when she saw your face fully, and whatever small composure you had left began to fray.
“You were angry with him,” she said.
“I am still angry with him.”
“Yes.” Jane folded her hands over the upper curve of her stomach, thinking. “But in the yard it was not only anger.”
You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “I am glad my marriage has become an object of study.”
“That is unfair.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” She held your gaze. “But I will allow it once because you have had a vile morning.”
The familiar edge of her might have comforted you if it had not been softened by concern. Somehow that made it sharper. You crossed toward the table simply to have somewhere to go, and only then did you properly see the room around you.
Jane’s home was not large, but it had been arranged by love into usefulness. A cradle stood near the bed alcove, ready. A basket of mending waited open on the table, a wooden cup beside it. There were crumbs on the bench, an old ribbon beneath a chair, a new doll made from cloth and corn husk lying face down near the wall as if overcome by the heat.
Life everywhere.
Need everywhere.
Proof that a household could be loud, hungry, crowded, and still somehow full of tenderness.
Your own house was quieter.
So quiet some nights you could hear the shape of what was missing.
Jane followed your gaze, and something in her face tightened as if she understood more than you had meant to show. “Sit down.”
You looked at her.
She sighed, one hand going to her back. “Please. Before you fall down out of pure stubbornness and make me explain to Robby’s mother why I let my little sister faint in the middle of my kitchen.”
“I am not going to faint.”
“You look as if you might either faint or commit a sin loud enough to bring Magistrate Grimes through the door. I would prefer neither before dinner.”
There it was, the first true flicker of Jane’s humor, weary and edged, but not empty. It landed because it came with fear beneath it.
Despite yourself, your mouth almost moved.
You sat.
The chair creaked softly beneath you. Jane looked relieved for half a heartbeat, then turned toward the hearth. The fire had burned low after breakfast, more embers than flame, just enough to keep the kettle warm and the room close. She took a small pot from the shelf, poured in milk from a covered jug, added a spoonful of honey, and set it near the heat.
You watched her in silence.
Milk with honey.
The sight reached farther back than you wanted it to. It reached your father’s kitchen, his hands too large for delicate cups, his sleeves rolled to the forearms, his voice gruff with exhaustion and tenderness as he told two motherless girls that sweet milk could cure most night terrors if one believed in it hard enough.
Your mother had died bringing you into the world.
No one had ever said that to you cruelly, not in your house. Your father would not have allowed it. Jane never had either. But facts did not need cruelty to leave marks. You had grown up in the shadow of a woman you had never known and had somehow been asked to grieve and replace her both. Jane had been old enough to remember a scent, a song, the pressure of a hand smoothing hair away from her brow. You had nothing but absence and the knowledge that your first breath had been taken in the same room as your mother’s last.
Your father had raised you both with hands too rough for ribbons and a heart too stubborn to break where you could see. Jane had learned softness by inventing it. You had learned defiance because someone had to fill the space where a mother’s gentleness might have been.
Now Jane stirred honey into milk, and the tenderness of it nearly made you cry before either of you had said anything that mattered.
“I do not want milk,” you said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you making it?”
“Because Father used to make it when one of us looked like the world had ended, and I cannot think of anything better right now.”
You looked down at the table.
Jane did not look at you while she stirred. That was a mercy. “Also because I am very pregnant and very close to becoming disagreeable. If I am to ask questions you do not want to answer, I would like to have honey in my mouth first.”
A weak breath left you. Not quite a laugh, but not nothing.
Jane poured the milk into two cups and carried them over. She set one before you, then lowered herself into the chair opposite with a quiet sound of effort she clearly wished neither of you had heard.
“You should not be standing so much,” you said at once.
Her eyes softened. “There you are.”
You frowned. “What?”
“My sister. She disappears under her own mind for an hour and returns the moment there is someone else to fuss over.”
You looked away. “I am not fussing.”
“You are. Now drink.”
You wrapped your hands around the cup. It was warm through the wood, grounding in a way you resented because it worked. Steam rose faintly, carrying honey sweetness up to your face.
Jane held her own cup but did not drink. She looked at you instead, not prying now, not teasing, only waiting until you could no longer pretend the silence belonged to the room.
At last, she said, “What did he do?”
You closed your eyes.
Not what happened.
Not what did you say.
What did he do?
It was the question of someone who had seen you bleeding and did not immediately assume you had stabbed yourself.
When you opened your eyes again, Jane’s face had blurred slightly. You blinked it clear. “Do not make him a villain.”
“I have not.”
“You are beginning in the wrong place if you ask that.”
“Then tell me the right place.”
“There is no right place.”
Jane’s mouth tightened with worry, not impatience. “There must be somewhere to begin.”
You stared into the milk, watching the thin skin beginning to gather across its surface. “He did nothing.”
Jane said nothing.
You hated that she understood the answer before you had explained it.
“That is the problem,” you added, quieter.
The air between you changed.
Outside, a cart rattled distantly along the road, then faded. Somewhere in the house, one of the shutters gave a small complaint against the humid breeze. Jane did not move except to set her cup down carefully, as if sudden gestures might frighten the truth back inside you.
“What do you mean?”
You wanted to answer plainly. You wanted to make your humiliation sound sharp enough to defend itself. Instead, your throat tightened, and when you spoke, your voice came out smaller than you could bear.
“He does not want me.”
Jane went very still.
You looked down at once. “Not as a husband should want his wife. Not as Robby wants you. Not even as men look at women they should not want. Jack is kind. He is decent. He sees that there is food and wood, that the roof holds, that I have what I require. He remembers things. He notices when the hinge sticks before I mention it. He brings in water when his leg is hurting and pretends it is not. But he does not—”
You stopped, pressing your lips together hard enough to hurt.
Jane’s eyes had widened slightly, but she did not interrupt.
That mercy undid you more than questions would have.
You forced yourself onward. “We have never consummated the marriage.”
The sentence came out barely above a whisper.
Jane’s face changed.
Not the way another woman might have looked, with curiosity dressed up as concern, already arranging the confession into something to be repeated elsewhere. Jane looked as if a piece of the morning had finally slid into place and revealed the shape of a wound she had been trying not to imagine.
“Oh,” she said softly.
The gentleness of it burned.
You looked away, shame rising so violently that for a moment you were back inside the meetinghouse with Grimes’s voice naming women’s desire rebellion. Your hands tightened around the cup until heat bit into your palms.
“A year,” you said. “Nearly a year. He has never taken me as his wife. He does not kiss me, not truly. He does not touch me except when courtesy requires it. He sleeps beside me as though I am something fragile, or shameful, or dead. I do not know which would be kinder.”
Jane said your name.
You shook your head because if she pitied you openly, you would break, and you were already too close. “I have tried to understand. Truly. I have told myself he grieves. I have told myself his leg pains him. I have told myself he is older and perhaps desire changes, or perhaps I expect too much, or perhaps I misunderstood what marriage was meant to be. And then I sit through a sermon like that and hear a man speak as though wanting is the mark of wickedness, and I think—God help me—I think perhaps Jack sees me the same way. Perhaps he knows. Perhaps he can feel it on me and it disgusts him.”
“No.”
Jane’s voice cut through yours so sharply you flinched.
She stood too quickly, one hand catching the table for balance, and came around to you. The heat and her condition made the movement awkward, but nothing in her face allowed room for delay. She lowered herself beside your chair with effort, not quite kneeling because she could not manage it easily, but close enough that her hands could take yours.
“No,” she said again, quieter now, but no less firm. “Do not put Grimes’s filth in Jack’s mouth. Be angry with him. You have cause. But do not let that man from the Court give language to your pain.”
The first tear fell before you could stop it.
Then another.
You looked down, furious with them. “Please do not.”
“I will,” Jane said, and her voice trembled now. “I will, because if you are thinking such things of yourself, then someone must stand in the way of them. You may call Jack a fool until the roof collapses. You may call him cruel, and perhaps you will be right. But you will not sit in my house and speak of your own heart and needs as if it were something unclean because they are not.”
The sob came up so suddenly you had no time to make it quiet.
Jane gathered you in as best she could, one arm around your shoulders, her belly between you making the embrace imperfect and therefore somehow more devastating. You folded into her anyway, gripping the back of her sleeve, your other hand pressed uselessly over your mouth. She smelled of lavender, flour, warm skin, and smoke. Like childhood. Like the side of the bed she used to let you crawl into after storms when Father was too exhausted to wake.
“There is nothing wrong with wanting your husband,” she murmured into your hair. “Nothing.”
You shook your head against her. “Then why does he make me feel as though there is?”
Jane was quiet for half a breath.
“I do not know,” she said at last, and the honesty hurt more than comfort would have. “But I do not believe it is because he finds you disgusting.”
You laughed wetly, bitterly, pulling back just enough to see her. “What else am I to think?”
“That he is a man.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” Jane admitted, wiping your cheek with her thumb. “But it is often the beginning of one.”
A broken sound escaped you despite yourself.
Jane’s mouth softened. “There you are.”
“Do not try to make me laugh.”
“I am not trying. Men are simply ridiculous even when they are breaking our hearts.”
Jane struggled back into the chair beside yours, and you immediately reached to steady her. She accepted your hand without comment, then sat with her shoulder pressed against yours. For a while, neither of you spoke. The milk cooled slowly on the table.
Then the question came to you before you could stop it because it had been living in you all morning, perhaps longer than you wanted to admit.
“Jane?”
“Yes.”
You looked down at your hands. “You and Robby…”
She waited.
Your face heated so fiercely you nearly lost your nerve. You thought of your sister’s kiss at the doorway, simple and quick and devastating because nothing in it had looked like shame or fear.
“Do you still lie together?” you asked, the words barely holding their shape. “Even now? With the baby?”
Jane’s silence changed.
You rushed on at once, ashamed and unable to bear the space after the question. “I am sorry. I should not have asked. It is improper.”
“No.” Jane’s hand found yours beneath the table. “You may ask me anything.”
You could not look at her. “I should not want to know.”
“That is different from having no right to ask.”
Her answer came slowly, not because she was embarrassed, but because she understood the weight of what she was about to place in your hands.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “We do. Not as often now, and not always easily, because I am tired and ungainly and he worries too much. But yes.”
The words broke you open in a new place.
You had expected the answer, perhaps. Feared it. Needed it. Still, hearing it made the hollow inside your own marriage seem suddenly vast. Jane and Robby had debts, chores, a baby pressing between them from the inside, and still they found each other. Still he reached for her. Still she was wanted not as an obligation before God, not as a duty performed for offspring, but as a woman. A wife. A body beloved enough to be sought even when life had made seeking inconvenient.
You covered your mouth.
Jane’s face crumpled. “Oh, love.”
“I am glad for you,” you said quickly, voice breaking around every word. “I am. I love you. I love Robby. I am glad he is good to you.”
“I know.”
“No, I need you to know that. I am not angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I would never begrudge you that.”
“I know.”
“But then what is wrong with me?” The question tore out before pride could stop it. “What is so wrong with me that my own husband cannot bear the thought of touching me?”
Jane drew you in again, and this time you truly broke.
You cried the way you had not cried since Father died, with your whole body, shoulders shaking, breath catching, a sound trapped in your throat that you could not swallow down. Jane held you as firmly as she could, one hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades the way she had when you were little and inconsolable over things adults thought too small to matter.
“This is not because there is something wrong with you,” she said. “Listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can.”
“No, you cannot.”
“I can because I have eyes.”
You let out a strangled, miserable laugh against her shoulder. “That is your proof?”
“It is a start.”
You pulled back, wiping your face with the heel of your hand. “You are only saying this to comfort me.”
“I am saying it because it is true.”
“Jane.”
“No. You will listen to me now.” She turned in her chair as much as her body allowed, facing you fully. “You are beautiful. Do not look at me like that. You are beautiful, yes, but more than that, you are alive in a way most people are too frightened to be. You think. You argue. You laugh at the wrong moments. You look at the world as though you have every intention of holding it accountable for its sins. Men like Grimes fear women like you because you make obedience look like a choice rather than nature.”
Your lips trembled.
Jane’s voice softened. “And Jack sees it.”
You looked away at once. “Do not.”
“He does.”
“You need not invent things to make me feel better.”
“I am not inventing them.”
“He does not look at me.”
Jane’s expression went flat in a way that resembled Father so strongly it almost startled you. “He looks at you constantly.”
The statement was so absurd against the evidence of your own loneliness that anger stirred again, weak but present. “No, he does not.”
“Yes, he does. He simply stops when you look back.”
That landed strangely.
You frowned.
Jane saw the opening and, being Jane, stepped right into it. “At supper last winter, when Robby spilled cider all over the table and you laughed so hard you nearly choked, Jack looked at you as though someone had handed him the sun and he did not know whether he was allowed to keep it.”
Your throat went tight.
“And at the market, when Trinity Santos tried to shame you for speaking too plainly about the price of flour, he looked ready to commit murder with the sack in his hands.”
You sniffed. “He did seem rather cross.”
“He looked deranged.”
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped.
Jane nodded once, as if the sound proved her point. “There. And today, in the churchyard, when you told him he had made you invisible? That did not strike a man indifferent to his wife. That struck a man who knew he had sinned against her and had no prayer ready.”
The words went too deep.
You pulled your hand free gently and wrapped your arms around yourself. “If he wanted me, he would touch me.”
Jane was quiet for a moment.
Then, carefully, she said, “I may be speaking more than I should.”
You glanced at her.
She was looking down at her cup now, thumb rubbing along its edge. “Robby told me something after Father died.”
Your chest tightened. Even now, grief had a way of entering the room fully grown.
“What?”
Jane hesitated.
“Jane.”
She sighed. “When the suitors began coming.”
A bitter taste filled your mouth. “Vultures.”
“Yes.”
They had come so quickly after the funeral that you had barely had time to wash the black from beneath your eyes. Men who had known your father, traded with him, prayed beside him, borrowed tools from him, all suddenly appearing with solemn faces and practical intentions. You were alone now, they said. Of age. Without a father’s protection. Marriage was wise. Marriage was necessary. Marriage was safety, spoken always by men who sounded as though safety and ownership were merely different names for the same mercy.
Jack had been among them.
Not at first.
But soon.
You had told yourself his offer was different because Jack was different. Because he had known your family. Because he did not look at you the way the others did, with calculation thinly veiled as concern. Because when he asked, he seemed almost pained by the mere fact of asking.
Now you did not know what to believe.
Jane’s voice pulled you back. “Robby said Jack was not himself during those weeks.”
You swallowed. “In what way?”
Jane looked at you. “Robby said he was restless. Sharp. Half mad whenever another man’s name was mentioned in connection with you.”
Your heart beat once, hard.
You forced yourself to scoff. “Why would he be?”
Jane held your gaze.
The silence answered before she did.
“Because he was jealous.”
You stared at her.
The word seemed too strange to belong in the room.
Jealous.
Jack?
Jealous over you?
“No,” you said.
“Yes.”
“No. That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“He married me because Father died and someone had to.”
Jane’s face tightened with immediate frustration. “You cannot truly believe that.”
“What else was it?”
“Love, perhaps.”
The word hurt so badly you almost stood.
“Do not,” you said.
Jane leaned closer. “He is in love with you.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know what a man looks like when he loves a woman and hates himself for wanting her.”
You went still.
Jane seemed to regret the sharpness of it, but she did not take it back.
Outside, wind brushed against the shutters. Somewhere in the house, wood settled with a small creak.
Your voice, when it came, was thin. “Why would he hate himself?”
Jane’s expression softened, and this time pity entered it. “He is older. He was married before. He has buried a wife. He is hurt in ways he cannot hide, though God knows he tries. And you…” She touched your cheek lightly. “You were Father’s youngest. Wild and grieving and suddenly surrounded by men who all wanted to decide your future before you had even understood your loss.”
You looked down.
“Perhaps Jack thought he was saving you,” Jane said. “Perhaps he thought he was taking something too.”
Your breath caught.
There was an ache in that possibility you were not ready to touch.
Jane continued, gentler now. “I am not saying he has done right by you. Do not mistake me. If he has made you feel unwanted in your own marriage, then he has hurt you deeply, whether he meant to or not. But I do not believe he withholds himself because he repudiates you.”
You closed your eyes.
Repudiates.
Such a formal word for such a private devastation.
“He looks at you,” Jane said. “I swear it.”
You opened your eyes, tears clinging to your lashes. “Do not swear lightly.”
“I am not.”
“You are saying this because you love me.”
“I am saying this because I love you, and because it is true.”
You shook your head, though not as firmly now. “You cannot know what is in him.”
“No,” Jane said. “But I can see what comes out of him when he thinks no one is watching.”
You gave her a broken, skeptical look.
She took both your hands in hers. “I swear it by the life of this child.”
You froze.
Jane had never used her baby as a vow. Not once. Not even in jest.
“Jane.”
“I swear,” she repeated, voice steady, one hand leaving yours to rest over her stomach, “by this baby, by my own life, and by Father’s memory if you need the heavier ghost in the room, that Jack looks at you like a man in love. Not like a man disgusted. Not like a man trapped. Like a man starving beside a feast he believes he has no right to touch.”
The words went through you so cleanly you could not speak.
Starving.
You thought of Jack in the meetinghouse. His pale face. His hand tightening on the cane when Grimes said receiving, never taking. The roughness in his whisper when he told you not to listen. The way he had gone still when you asked if your desire was wicked. Not disgusted. Stricken.
Had you misread him?
Or had he made himself impossible to read and left you bleeding in the dark?
Anger returned then, but altered. Not gone. Never gone. Simply tangled now with something like terror.
“If that is true,” you said, voice barely there, “then he has been crueler than I thought.”
Jane did not argue.
That, too, was mercy.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Perhaps he has.”
A new tear slid down your cheek.
Jane lifted her hand and wiped it away with her thumb, just as she had when you were small. “Speak to him when he returns.”
You let out a shaky breath. “He does not speak.”
“Then make him.”
You gave a wet, weak laugh. “You say that as though Jack can be made to do anything.”
“He married you, did he not?”
You looked at her.
Jane’s mouth curved faintly. “Something made him.”
You looked down, and despite everything, something fragile moved in your chest. Hope, perhaps. You distrusted it immediately.
“I am afraid, Jane.” you admitted.
Jane squeezed your hands. “Of what?”
“That he will have an answer.” Your throat tightened. “That he will tell me there is nothing wrong with me, and still not want me. That he will be kind. I think I could bear cruelty better than kindness now.”
Jane’s eyes filled. “Oh, my sweet girl.”
The phrase nearly destroyed you.
No one had called you that since Father.
Jane leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “Then do not ask for kindness. Ask for truth.”
You closed your eyes.
Truth.
The word sounded simple only to people who had never had to survive it.
Jane sat back, brushing the damp from your cheeks with the corner of her apron. “And until he returns, you stay here. You drink milk with honey. You help me do absolutely nothing strenuous, because Robby has forbidden it and I must occasionally allow him the illusion that I obey. You sleep in the spare room. You do not listen to men like Grimes. You do not decide there is wickedness in wanting to be loved. And if you must be angry with Jack, be angry clearly. Not with hunting dog remarks and his wooden leg.”
You sniffed. “That was funny.”
“It was very funny,” Jane admitted. “But cruel.”
“Robby laughed.”
“Robby is a weak man in the face of comedy.”
A small laugh escaped you again, gentler this time, and Jane smiled as if the sound had been worth the whole afternoon.
You picked up your cup at last and drank.
The milk had cooled, but the honey still sat warm on your tongue.
For a moment, you were not in a town being watched by men who had turned fear into law. You were not a wife untouched. You were not a woman ashamed of the hunger living under her skin. You were only a younger sister sitting beside an older one, motherless girls grown into women, still passing sweetness between them because their father had once taught them that warmth could be made in a pot and shared when words failed.
Jane rested her head lightly against yours.
You let her.
Outside, Andover held its breath beneath the shadow of the Court.
Somewhere beyond the road, Jack rode toward the woods with your words lodged between his ribs.
Inside, you held the cup with both hands and tried, for the first time that day, to believe your sister.
Not that Jack had not hurt you.
He had.
Not that silence could be forgiven because love was hidden beneath it.
It could not.
Only this:
Perhaps your wanting had not made you wicked.
Perhaps your body was not a thing to be ashamed of.
Perhaps the ache in you was not proof of sin, but proof that something had been denied too long.
And perhaps, when Jack returned, you would finally make him answer for the hunger he had left starving in both of you.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, jealousy, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, even more coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, threats of baby trapping, degrading, praising, size difference kink, breeding kink, humiliation kink, rough and possessive sex, exhibitionism, bucky is a little mean here, and he still has a cringy username
⭐︎ word count: 7.7k
⭐︎ a/n: nearly a year later, here we go again. this is part two of my p*rnstar bucky. read part one in order to understand this part. thank you for all the love and support you've shown me in the first part. i didn't plan to write a pt2, but with pt1 hitting 10k along with 7k followers, i had to do it for ya'll. i hope you enjoy!
synopsis:
One video isn’t nearly enough for Bucky. He wants more of you—wants to make you his star, his girl. But it isn’t just him who’s hooked. His viewers can’t stop talking about the voice in the video he’s been jerking off to. Now everyone’s desperate to know who the mystery woman is… the only thing is, it's been ten months since you two last spoke.
← previous fic | main masterlist
Ten months.
It had been ten long, grueling months since Bucky last got a taste of you.
After taking your virginity, he paid for your groceries—as promised, because he believed himself to be a gentleman—and messaged you a few days later, inviting you to film another video with him.
You were his loyal fan.
You were there for every single one of his videos.
Hell, your own username was dedicated to him.
So when you left him on read for ten months without leaving a single trace behind, he grew furious. He tried making excuses for you—perhaps you were too busy? Or maybe you went on vacation? He tried circling back to your social media, which was how he had first found you, but you had privated all your accounts and deactivated your TikTok.
Naturally, pessimistic thoughts began to fill his mind.
Was he too rough when he took you? Did he freak you out by finding you at the grocery store? Worse, had he scared you away for good?
Bucky knew where you lived. It would’ve been easy to just show up at your front door and demand answers—but he couldn’t do that. Not with the threat of a restraining order looming in the back of his mind.
Ten months. He couldn’t believe he had let you stray away from him for that long.
There was so much you could’ve done during that time. You could’ve moved, had sex with other men, or even found a relationship.
You went from being his loyal fan to a ghost.
Bucky knelt on his mattress, holding up a clear silicone toy that looked tiny compared to his hands. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm and spread it carefully along his half-hard cock, making sure none of it dripped onto the sheets.
His camcorder was propped against a pillow, angled perfectly to capture him from the waist down. With his bare abs and thighs fully in frame, he settled back on his heels, gripped the toy firmly, and guided it toward his cock.
A rough groan escaped him as he teased the sensitive tip against the entrance. The lubricant made every movement slick and audible, the wet sounds filling the otherwise quiet room.
“Fuck. Been waiting for this all day.”
His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly worked the toy against his shaft. He continued at an unhurried pace, his grip tightening as he lost himself in the sensation.
“Good girl,” he muttered without thinking.
The words slipped out on instinct, a praise that always led back to you. As the room filled with the sounds of his grunts and movements, his thoughts drifted to the memory of you. They always did. He pictured your soft lips wrapped around his dick, the way he had your face pressed into the pillow as he took you from behind—the moments that had replayed endlessly in his mind over the past months.
At some point, imagination alone had stopped being enough.
Whenever he wanted to relive it, he would pull up the private video he recorded of the two of you, letting it play in the background while he lost himself in the pleasure of his toy.
“God,” he groaned, your name slipping from his lips in a breathless rasp.
He made a mental note to cut the part where he whispered your name like a prayer before uploading the video to the site.
“Shit—fuck. I miss that tight little pussy.”
With a loud groan and both hands holding the toy tight, he drove his hips deep into the toy until it made an unmistakable tearing sound. Too lost in the haze of his own desire, he didn’t even realize he tore through yet another toy to the memory of you.
Seed filled the silicone, marking every cloudy surface with his thick cum.
Once he caught his breath, he let the toy fall from his grip and pushed it aside.
From there, the rest of the evening followed the same familiar routine.
He would take a shower, get dressed, make himself something for dinner, then spend the rest of the evening at his computer. He would spend his time editing the footage, preparing it for upload to the same porn site he had been posting on for years.
Except this time, there was no excitement after hitting the ‘post’ button, because you wouldn’t even be there to watch them.
After the video went live, he waited for the likes and comments to start pouring in, holding onto the faint hope that your username might appear among them.
As usual, it never did.
Surprisingly, though, that wasn’t what disappointed him this time.
Every time he jerked off with the intention to post a new video—your video was always in the background. It got to the point where people started to leave comments asking who the mysterious girl was. Who those sultry, seductive moans belonged to.
He would even get comments asking if he’d be willing to record another video of the two of you together and post it online.
Every time he read those comments, he would scoff, laughing to himself.
I would like to know the same thing.
After posting his latest video, his comment section had been flooding with the same demands for weeks.
wankingandspanking: hell yeah man! love the new video. but who’s the babe in the video you’re watching??
StraightJorkinIt: U breaking ur toy was so hot, but what’s even hotter is the girl moaning in the back. xx
Bwasexual: The toys are getting a little old, don’t you think?? Bring a real woman in. especially the one in the vid you’re jerking to ;)
Each comment was a direct insult to Bucky’s pride.
He was one of the platform’s top creators—yet now, his community was entirely consumed by you.
He had spent the last ten months trying to get you out of his head, trying to just use your video as a quick jerk off aid and move on. But how could he when his own fans wouldn’t let him forget?
How could he, when he couldn’t even cum to anything else anymore? His memory was flooded of the way his cock had disappeared in and out of your tight pussy while he had you bent over from behind. By the recollection of your cute, virgin mouth stuffed full of cock—his cock—for the first time ever.
How could he possibly forget how sweet your tight little body was, like it was made for him?
Bucky’s frustration was peaking. At the very least, he was making money off of this.
Just as he was about to shut down his computer and call it a night, a new notification popped up.
He clicked it, and what he saw made the air in his lungs vanish completely.
Pleasure_Ring: Love the video!
Bucky blinked.
Was he seeing this right?
He rubbed his eyes, but lo and behold, your comment was still there. He double—and triple—checked the username, ensuring every single letter matched and that it wasn’t some random copycat trying to impersonate you.
But no, it was you.
When he clicked your profile, the interface loaded your old message thread. He saw the green indicator showing you were currently online, sitting right above his last unanswered message asking you to film with him again.
He couldn’t believe it.
You were real. You were still here, ten months later, watching him.
Bucky didn’t realize he was holding his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to spam you with messages—to demand where the hell you’ve been, to beg for your phone number so he would never lose track of you again.
No, he couldn’t risk ruining this moment. He had to stay rational and seize this chance before you slipped through his fingers again.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I saw the comment you left.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Where have you been?
A minute passed. Then another. He propped both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands, his foot tapping impatiently as he waited.
Three minutes went by. Your little icon was still green—you were still online.
Then, his heart leaped.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: Why? Did you miss me?
Bucky’s brow twitched. Your messages from ten months ago had been sweet, alluring, and almost innocent. If you had been texting him consistently, he might’ve read this as a flirtatious little comment to make his dick hard.
But right now, he just felt pissed off.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Quit playing around. Of course I missed you. Where did you go?
There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t risk scaring you away just yet. His heart raced as he watched the screen.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Your bubble kept appearing and disappearing. You would type, then silence. You would type again, then nothing.
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He was just about ready to send another message himself, until one finally popped up under your name.
Pleasure_Ring: I think it’s best that we talk in person.
Pleasure_Ring: Can we exchange numbers?
And of course, Bucky gave you his number without a second thought.
You sat alone at the coffee shop Bucky had agreed to meet you at, fiddling with your mug and glancing anxiously out the window.
The meetup was set for noon, and the closer the clock ticked to the hour, the more your mind began to spiral.
It had been ten months since he last saw you. Ten months since he had you bent over your own bed, your face pressed into the pillows, ravaging you like an animal.
You were growing anxious. What if he had lost interest? What if he took one good look at you and realized you were nothing like the woman he had been infatuated with all this time?
The bell above the door chimed. You glanced up, and your breath caught in your throat.
Bucky was right there. He looked just as handsome as the day you met him. His presence seemed to take up the entire space of the coffee shop, just as it had when he first approached you at the grocery store.
His eyes swept across the room. The moment they landed on yours, your thighs instinctively clenched together. He was wearing that same cold, stern expression he had when he first told you to strip for him.
Naturally, it did things to you.
He marched over to your table, dragged the chair back, and dropped into the seat directly across from you. He didn’t bother with a polite smile, and his gaze didn’t warm up at all.
Was he angry? Was this a nuisance to him—taking time out of his busy day just to see a girl he slept with ten months ago?
“Bucky,” you breathed, forcing a polite smile. “How are you—”
“Where have you been?”
You blinked. You were about to stammer out a quick excuse, but he breezed on past.
“Ten months without a single word from you.” He leaned closer across the table. “Where have you been?”
Despite his harsh tone, he was anxiously bracing himself for your answer. He expected you to say you had lost interest, or that you found a boyfriend to practice your new... sexual experiences on. You hadn’t even given an explanation yet, and he was already fuming with jealousy.
You looked down at your coffee mug, avoiding his gaze. Looking him directly in the eye right now was simply too much to handle.
“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” you mumbled. “Ever since… that night, I’ve been… uh—how do I even say this?” You chuckled awkwardly, scratching lightly at your cheek. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little ashamed of myself.”
Bucky watched your shoulders slump as your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.
“Ashamed?”
“Ever since we slept together, I’ve felt insecure about not being able to... keep up with you.” You winced. “I mean, you’re obviously experienced—I had a great time, and everything—but it made me realize that, at my age, when everyone else seems to be out there having fun and figuring things out, I’m nowhere near as experienced as they are.”
Your voice dropped lower as you glanced around the room.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation suited for a small, intimate coffee shop.
Bucky frowned, crossing his arms. Your explanation wasn’t giving him the reassurance he had hoped for.
“So you were embarrassed about sleeping with me?”
Your eyes widened.
“No! It’s not like that.” You shook your head. “I had an incredible time with you. You gave me an experience I’ll never forget. I mean...” You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspicuous whisper. “You were the one who took my virginity, after all.”
That, at least, managed to draw the hint of a smile from him.
“It’s just...” you hesitated. “I’m ready to start dating, and in the current dating scene, sex matters, you know?”
There it was.
The sentence Bucky had been dreading.
While he had spent the last ten months thinking about you—worrying about you, searching for some way to reconnect, replaying the video you’d filmed together and jerking off to it, moaning your name—you had spent those same months looking forward to a future with someone else.
“So...” You hesitated. “After reading all those comments on your videos, the ones talking about how good I sound, and remembering the offer you made ten months ago to film another one...” Your gaze dropped briefly. “If that offer still stands, maybe you could teach me?”
“Teach you?” Bucky repeated, the words leaving him almost like a scoff.
Just as innocent as the day he first met you, you nodded shyly.
“Teach me how to be better at sex.”
An awkward silence took the space between the two of you.
You were preparing yourself for rejection. For Bucky to push back his chair, walk away, and decide this conversation had been a mistake. After this, you wouldn’t be surprised if he even blocked your number and your profile, cutting off the last connection between you.
Instead, he studied you for a very long moment.
“You know,” he said slowly, his gaze finding yours, “the comments have been asking us to film a video together, right?”
The look he gave you was difficult to read—careful, calculating, and almost suspicious.
“I know,” you said bashfully.
“If you want me to teach you,” he said, leaning forward as his voice dropped soft and intimate, “then we’re going to do the same thing we did before, but I want this done at my house instead. I’ll record.”
He paused, studying your reaction.
“And this time, I’m posting it online.”
You sat there frozen.
It wasn’t exactly the compromise you expected, but you couldn’t say you were entirely surprised. After disappearing from his life for months, after leaving things unresolved between you, part of you knew he would want something in return.
Bucky leaned in closer, his hand finding yours on the table. His fingers curled around yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.
“You’ve read the comments,” he said. “You might be insecure about your experience, but my viewers love you. They’re curious. They want to know who the woman behind that voice is.”
Heat rushed to your face. The confidence in his words only made your pulse quicken, and the slow sweep of his thumb across your knuckles wasn’t helping at all.
“I’ll teach you everything you want to know,” he continued. “I’ll take care of you. You know I will.”
For a moment, his confidence faltered and his eyes looked pleading, revealing something almost hopeful beneath it.
“What do you say, doll?”
Your heart had been pounding ever since Bucky sat down across from you at the coffee shop. It hadn’t slowed once—not during the conversation, not during the drive over, and certainly not now as you stood behind him while he unlocked his apartment door.
Bucky stepped aside, holding the door open for you. After a moment's hesitation, you stepped inside.
The studio apartment was dimly lit. The blinds were drawn, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp to light the room. In one corner sat a computer setup—his workstation where he recorded and edited his videos.
Your breath caught at what was displaying on the monitor.
Your chat history.
His studio was the definition of a man cave. What caught your attention, however, were the sex toys scattered throughout the apartment without a hint of shame.
Some of the toys were immediately recognizable from his videos. Having been a longtime viewer, you had seen them often enough to identify them at a glance.
Bucky tossed his keys onto a nearby surface and motioned for you to follow him toward the bed. As you approached, your gaze landed on something unfamiliar at his bedside table.
“What’s this?” You pointed to a toy shaped like the lower half of a woman’s body. Unlike the others, you didn’t remember ever seeing this one in any of his videos.
Bucky glanced at it. “Oh, that?” He came to stand beside you. “Custom made. I use it off-camera.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive. “Had it modeled after you.”
You were suddenly grateful for the low lighting, because that meant he couldn’t see the stunned expression that immediately crossed your face.
Modeled after you?
Your eyes drifted back to the toy, taking in the details—the shape of the hips, the skin tone, it was an unmistakable similarity. What shook you up, though, was the tear in the toy around her upper abdomen, a sign that Bucky’s cock tore right through the silicone.
The sounds of his belt buckle being undone drew your attention back to him.
“Had it set to the maximum tightness,” he explained gruffly, setting the belt down on his chair and reaching for the familiar camcorder he used before. “Still not nearly as tight as you felt—but it made do during those ten months you were gone.”
A moment later, he lifted the camera and pointed it in your direction, the red light flickering to let you know it was on.
“Go ahead,” he prompted, watching you. “Undress.”
You bit your lip as you stood in front of him, feeling far more self-conscious than you expected.
For some reason, the atmosphere felt infinitely more tense than it had the first time you undressed for him.
Bucky seemed to notice your hesitation immediately. He lowered the camera slightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don't know about this, Bucky.” You fiddled with your fingers, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on your bare feet against the floor. “What if I'm not good at this?”
A slow, patient sigh escaped him.
Without a word, he set the camera on the bedside table. It remained angled in a way that still captured your body, but his attention had shifted entirely to you. His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, letting his fingers tickle your lower belly.
“Are you feeling shy, doll?” he murmured softly.
The question was quiet enough so that the camera wouldn’t pick it up. It wasn’t meant for an audience. It was just for you.
“Look at me,” he commanded gently. “You’ve got a perfect, tight body. There are a lot of people that would kill to be in my position, and you’re scared to show it off?”
He lifted your shirt up until it exposed the lace of your bra. His large hand cupped over your breast, giving it a squeeze that made you gasp softly.
Bucky grinned. “Ah, there she is.”
While his left hand fondled your tits, his other hand crept up to your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. His eyes wandered down to your lips—exposed, plump, and vulnerable.
“When you get a boyfriend—you’ll have to learn how to kiss,” Bucky murmured. “Do you know how?”
The question felt almost condescending. He should already know the answer. You were still inexperienced, still clueless, but despite it all, you couldn’t help the ache that began to form between your legs from the way he talked to you.
Your voice came out soft and trembling, but to Bucky, it sounded like music to his ears.
“… Teach me?”
A low growl vibrated from his lips as he closed the distance in one, smooth motion. His lips collided with yours—hungry and consuming—letting his tongue delve past your lips and into the wet warmth of your mouth.
He held your face tight, forcing you to take every inch of his tongue and every surface of his lips. It was hot, messy, and wet. During every second of his ravishing, his hands continued to explore your body, groping you through your bottoms. He held you so close, you could already feel him throbbing against your leg.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling away slightly to catch his breath. “Still taste so good. So sweet, just for me.”
He stepped away, breathing just as hard as his dick felt.
With the warm lamp glowing next to him, it outlined the sheer size of his dick throbbing in his pants. You watched it pulse, a little wet spot forming near the tip, before his large hand came down with deep, circular rubs to soothe the ache.
“Bucky…” You gasped softly.
His other hand snatched the camera off the bedside table, nearly knocking down the picture frames. With a shaky hand, he lifted the camera up to you again.
“Strip.” He commanded, rougher this time. “Strip. Now.”
Your heart raced. His patience was fraying, and without upsetting him further, you began to undress. You abandoned your top, your pants, all until you were left standing in nothing but your panties and bra.
Bucky groaned at the sight, his palm working faster over his clothed erection.
“God, look at that,” he zoomed in on the wet spot collecting at the front of your panties. “You’re fucking soaking for me, doll. And all I did was kiss you.”
Shame flooded your face. As you unhooked your bra and worked for your panties next, Bucky’s voice pulled you to a stop.
“No,” his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Keep those on. I want to see the mess you’ll make after having my dick in your mouth.”
With his grip tightening around your wrist, he ushered you to the ground until your knees made contact with the floor. He tugged his pants down with force, and his cock sprang out heavy—slapping you in the cheek and making you wince.
He was big and hard. Seeing him up close like this, with his hand around his shaft and his tip rubbing against your cheek, you weren’t sure how you took him the first time.
“Do you remember the first time you sucked my cock? When you tried fitting it all in on your first try?” he rasped a chuckle, slapping his cock against your face and smearing his pre-cum over your wet lips. “Your mouth was so small—you could hardly fit anything past the tip.”
You flicked your tongue out, giving his cock a shy kitten lick just to tease him.
“Oh, fuck,” he shuddered. “You slut. You want it in your mouth again? Wanna try again for me?”
He pointed the camera closer to your face, his other hand tangling in the back of your hair, nodding you closer to his shaft.
“Come on. Open up. Show me what you remember.”
You licked the pre-cum that was beading at the tip. It tasted just like it did the first time—salty and thick. Bucky groaned, his hand tightening in your hair, pushing you forward for more.
You opened your mouth, letting your lips wrap around the swollen head. His cock was warm and hot, already twitching in your mouth and he wasn’t even halfway. Encouraged by the camera and his breathy grunts, you sunk your head deeper.
Bucky felt like he could cum right there. Your mouth was still so tight and inexperienced. He was half tempted to pin you against the side of the bed and face fuck you until his balls were dry—but he forced himself to hold back.
“God. Is this—fuck—the best you can do, really?”
He brought his camera down, the lens pointing right where his tip disappeared in and out of your plump lips, making sure to pick up every wet squelch that left your mouth.
“You can do better than that,” he hissed, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. “I know it hurts, baby. Just remember what I said the first time. Stretch those lips, relax your jaw, breathe in and out of your nose.”
You fluttered your lashes as you looked up at him. Your eyes were sheen with tears that threatened to spill out from the ache of your mouth being stretched open. He rocked his hips forward, making you gag and choke.
“Oh, christ,” he grunted, his cock twitching as your throat tightened around him. “You guys listening to that? She’s gagging for me.”
He was talking to his potential viewers. Your eyes widened with embarrassment as an instinctive moan left your lips and vibrated around his cock.
“Mph!”
“Fuck, she’s sloppy—drooling all over my floor, but her mouth is so tight. Could cum just from this,” he started drawing his hips back and forth, forcing himself deeper.
He angled the camera closer to your face, capturing your pleading eyes and stretched mouth.
“Does it taste good, sweetheart?” he asked, despite knowing your inability to answer. “Come on, show that pretty face off for the camera.”
With your mouth stuffed full of his cock, all you could do was nod in desperation.
“Damn, what a good girl. The fans are going to love this,” he let out a shaky laugh.
His hand kept your head still, and without warning, he pushed his hips even deeper into your mouth. He pushed until your jaw ached from the stretch and your nose made contact with the dark, musky curls sitting on his pelvis.
Bucky tossed his head back, letting out a deep, pleasurable moan.
“Ohh, shit.”
You gagged and choked, your hands finding his bare thighs as you attempted to push your head away for a quick breath. His cock was sitting heavy on your tongue, and drool began to shamelessly drip down your chin and onto your thighs.
Despite your mouth being overworked, you were getting wetter by the second.
“Shh… shh. I know, baby. Just stay right there.” Bucky cooed, his blue eyes hazy with lust. “Just let it sit in your mouth. Breathe in and out through your nose. That’s it.”
You did as instructed, keeping your mouth stuffed full of cock like a good girl. But every time you breathed in, all you could smell was him. His musky, masculine scent only made your head spin with desire even more.
Another deep groan tore from his chest before he gripped your hair tight, pulling you away from his cock with a wet pop. Saliva mixed with his pre-cum drew from your lips like a silver string as you coughed for air.
“Fuuck,” he groaned, fucking his hand for a few pumps as he watched you struggle.
Bucky’s cock was angry, pulsing and throbbing with a mind of its own. His cock was sheen with your saliva, and he was dripping out so much pre-cum, he looked just about ready to cum right then and there.
“Goddamnit. Ten months later, and your mouth is still good enough to make me almost fucking cum,” he hissed angrily. He bent down, catching your stray tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry, pretty girl. You wanted me to teach you, didn’t you?”
He spoke so gently in a way that might’ve fooled his viewers, but every word that left his lips felt hauntingly patronizing.
You nodded with a sniffle. “Y—yes…”
Bucky smiled, his eyes softening as he took in your utterly debauched state.
He knew he was being a little mean, but he couldn’t help it. It’s what you deserved after ghosting him for ten months.
“That’s a good girl. My girl.” He nodded to his bed, standing up. “Go.”
Swallowing hard, you pushed yourself up—your mind dizzying and your legs feeling like jello from standing up too fast. You crossed over his crisp, white sheets—the mattress dipping under each crawl.
You didn’t know what position he wanted you in, so you played it safe and laid flat on your back.
Bucky’s expression was completely unreadable. His eyes were dark, his breathing labored, but his cock was still stiff, angry, and unsatisfied.
He adjusted the camera, zooming in on the cute bow on your panties.
“Spread your legs. Show everyone how wet you are after getting a taste of my cock.”
Biting your lip and turning your head from shame, you slowly spread your legs. With your thighs wide and your damp panties on full display, Bucky’s gaze somehow felt even heavier and more tense.
He growled, a deep rumbling sound of satisfaction. He stepped closer, meeting you at the bed. Every dip and creak from his moving weight made your heart race. His camera lens was focused solely on your panties, highlighting the growing wet patch on your crotch.
“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers dragging up and down your underwear, letting the fabric cling against your slick folds just underneath. “So wet. Could smell you from here, baby.”
You felt your body growing weaker by the second.
You wanted to beg him to fuck you—to take you just as he had the first time. But with the camera pointed steady in his hands, you knew he was trying to drag this out for as long as possible.
“Bucky,” you panted, eyes pleading. “I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—”
“Aw, you’re begging?” Bucky huffed a laugh. “Ten months without a single word, and now you’re in my bed, demanding for my cock. That’s real cute, doll.”
Bucky brought the camera up to your face, and instinctively, you shied away from it. Despite your agreement to film, the lens pointing directly at you made you burn with an embarrassment you didn’t feel the first time.
Maybe because, in the back of your mind, you knew he’d be posting this one online—meaning you’ll be watched by thousands of people.
Sensing your hesitation, he lowered the camera with a slight frown, brows furrowing.
“Do you want to stop, doll?”
Stop?
Your heart clenched, eyes widening as you faced him.
“Stop?” you repeated softly, making sure you heard him right.
The softness in his eyes made your body feel warm. Bucky lowered his camera completely and angled it in a way that wouldn’t capture you in this vulnerable state. He was serious. He would stop for you if you changed your mind, despite your initial agreement to this as the compromise.
“If you don’t want me to upload this, I won’t.” He reassured. “I’ll keep this video for myself—just like the first one.”
His hand found your hip, his thumb tracing soft and gentle circles with a tenderness that only encouraged you to give yourself to him completely.
“I promise,” he added.
“No. I… I want to do this,” you searched his eyes, trying to soothe your nerves. “I can do it, Bucky. Please teach me.”
It was hard to ignore the way his cock hung heavy between his legs—twitching at your admission. The corners of his lips tugged up in a satisfied, smug smile.
“That’s my good girl.”
While one hand repositioned the camera back to you again, the other found the waistband of your panties, giving it a gentle tug downwards. With the fabric slipping slipping down your thighs and past your ankles, you hissed at the cool air greeting your wet cunt.
“Christ. You soaked the fabric right through, doll.” He held the garment up, the lamp highlighting every glistening wet spot as he made sure to capture your essence on camera.
He leaned over you with a grunt, setting your panties down on the side table. Your eyes followed his movement, and you sucked in a breath at seeing the toy he modeled right after you—resting there with a loose hole and an obvious tear in the abdomen.
It was haunting, almost like a warning for what you’re about to take.
Bucky nestled himself in the space between your legs, letting his length rest heavy on your stomach. His tip tickled your belly button, grinning proudly at the size comparison of his cock to your body.
“Did you fuck anyone else after me?” he rasped as he rocked his hips back and forth, grounding his cock against your belly.
You shook your head, face blistering from the sensation.
“No, Bucky. There was no one else…”
A satisfied groan tore from his lips. He grabbed himself at the base, guiding the tip toward your entrance.
“Is that so?” he mumbled. “Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”
With a slow forward push of his hips, his tip fought against the tightness of your entrance. He sucked in a breath as he slipped in deeper, and your walls immediately clenched around the intrusion. You were so tight—Bucky had to grit his teeth to keep his composure.
Whimpering, you held onto his shoulders for support as he stretched you from just the tip. “Fu—fuck..”
“Fuck, baby. Still so goddamn tight. Just breathe in and out,” he gasped, his voice thickening in a way that made it sound like he was trying to calm himself down. “In and out while I sink into you deeper. That’s it. Good girl…”
Your back arched off the bed as he filled you. Your legs were stiff around him, your lips whimpering and mewling with every inch he was forcing your tight body to take. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stretched your pussy out with just half his cock.
“Have you been keeping up with my videos?” He asked.
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You were too stuffed—too concentrated on trying to get your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.
“I—I haven’t—” you answered truthfully.
He clicked his tongue in disapproval, pointing the camcorder to where the top half of his cock disappeared in and out of your tight cunt.
“The videos would’ve scared you,” he pushed his cock a little deeper, making you cry out. “Kept breaking my toys. All my damn fleshlights are torn right through. Had to keep ordering new ones, but fuck, they didn’t feel nearly as good as your tight, virgin pussy did.”
The broken sex doll that laid on his bedside table was certainly a testament to that.
Bucky’s hand found balance near the side of your head, his muscles and veins popping from holding his weight while the other hand was too occupied filming every inch of his cock delving deeper in your pussy.
“How does it feel, baby? Still as big as you remembered?”
“Still big, Bucky,” you winced when he angled his pelvis, his cock twitching in time with every clench your pussy gave him. “I’m trying to take it all—to big the good girl that you remembered—”
He tossed his head back with a groan. He tried his best to control himself—he really did. But the longer he stayed inside your warmth, the more his mind started to fray.
“Fuck—so cute. Such a good girl,” he groaned, sheathing himself completely inside until his dark curls were greeted with your wet folds. “Oh my god.”
Bucky stilled inside you, basking in your warmth. Your body felt like a wet, tight hug wrapping around his cock. This was the sensation he sought after the day you left. The very feeling he’d been looking for in the useless sex toys he was constantly ordering.
Now that you were finally here—pinned beneath him and his camera—he was afraid that if he moved, he would cum right there on the spot.
“Bucky?” your voice was soft, breaking into a gentle moan. “Are you okay?”
His eyes fluttered down to look at you, and his breath caught.
Your hair was fanned out so beautifully against his white sheets. Your body was laid bare and perfect for him. You asked the question in such a soft and innocent tone—it did nothing to dull the ache in his balls and did everything to make his heart heavier.
He should be asking you the question, with you lying there stretched out with more than you can take, but alas.
“You’re asking if I’m okay?” he huffed a raspy laugh, shifting his hips to deliver a deep and hard thrust inside you. “No, I’m not okay. I want to fuck you right through the mattress. Want to split you open and make you cry on my cock. But I can’t—I have to control myself and teach you how to take me again.”
The red light of the camcorder flickered in the dark room as he began rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you—capturing every moment of him claiming you a second time.
The bed started to creak, accompanied with his grunts and your soft moans of pleasure.
Bucky’s breathing was heavy, every deep, punishing roll of his hips making your eyes roll back.
The tip of his cock was kissing your cervix so sweetly, you felt your body giving out. He was right—your pussy was acting like a vice, wrapping impossibly tight around his thick shaft, refusing to let him go.
The camera shook in his hand as he aimed it directly at your hips. He had failed to capture the moment he pumped you full of his cum last time, and he was going to make damn sure he got it right tonight.
“Not a single drop going to waste,” he panted, his hips rutting uncontrollably against yours. “Gonna pump you full—God. Should fill up your womb so you’ll never leave me again.”
Your heart started to race as his words danced in your mind. Surely, this was just make-believe dirty talk. A performance he put on for the camera to secure a good payout from his loyal subscribers, right?
But as his body moved even more erratically, the bed groaning under every hard, bruising thrust, you began to fear otherwise.
“Fuck—this little slut thought she could use my cock to practice for other men,” he laughed, the sound deep and condescending. “Said she wanted to learn how to take dick for her future boyfriend. What a fucking joke.”
Your face burned with humiliation. You couldn’t believe Bucky was airing out your private confessions to his viewers like this.
“Oh my god! Bucky, please don’t say that—”
But your protests were useless. Your pussy was already spasming, clenching around him in a tight, weeping mess at every degrading taunt that left his lips.
“Ah, fuck. My sweet girl is milking me so hard—she doesn’t want to let go.” He chuckled, watching the wet friction of your hips through the camera screen. “You want to cum for me?”
You nodded, letting out a pathetic whimper.
Bucky leaned over you, shoving the camera close to your face. “Come on, baby. You’re on camera. I need you to speak up so everyone else can hear you.”
Pleasure was coursing through your body in ways that a simple vibrator could never match. Ten months without Bucky—and without touching anyone else—had left you chasing a high you couldn’t replicate. It was never like this.
You nodded frantically, losing all control over your own autonomy as tears of pleasure blurred your vision.
“Yes, Bucky! Please—please, please, I want to cum!”
Your cries were loud enough to peak the camera’s built-in microphone. Your walls clamped down around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as your back arched off the mattress with a loud moan, letting the climax rip straight through your core and down to very tip of your toes.
Bucky groaned, his entire body going stiff as your pussy milked him ruthlessly. Fuck. He missed this. He missed the tightness of your cunt. He couldn’t find this sensation anywhere else.
“Christ. Look at that,” he growled into the camera, his hand shaking as he kept the lens focused on where you squeezed around him. “She’s squeezing me so tight—it nearly hurts. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too.”
His balls slapped against your pussy with every hard thrust. He was chasing his release—his face twisted into a mask of pleasure as he felt his balls tighten and his cock twitch. You were already past your high, but Bucky forced you to ride it out for him.
“Shit, the idea of her having sex with someone else...” he snarled to the camera, his voice breaking as he slammed deep into your pulsing heat. “...of someone else’s cock buried deep in what’s supposed to be mine. I’m gonna fucking lose it.”
You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as he used your body ruthlessly, just like one of his sex toys.
“Fuck, fuck—shit—fuck!”
A litany of curses spilled from his lips as his cock buried all the way to the hilt.
He shuddered violently, pinning your hips flat against the mattress as his orgasm tore through him, flooding every surface of your womb with thick, warm seed. He held himself deep, marking you from the inside out, leaving his cum to fill you completely until it was dripping onto the sheets.
Bucky brought the camera down with a shaky hand, capturing the way your puffy slit was pulsing around his cock, and the way his cum trickled out of you.
“There we go,” he breathed, satisfied. “Captured every second of it, baby.”
Ensuring that you kept your end of the bargain, Bucky uploaded the video to his profile.
Before hitting post, he texted you multiple times to make absolutely sure you were comfortable with your face and username being shown.
When you finally agreed, you never expected the video to blow up overnight. You knew Bucky was a popular content creator, but perhaps the sight of a woman’s body—your body—in the thumbnail stood out against his usual solo content.
Today, you sat at your desk, pulling up his profile out of habit, just like the ritual you used to have ten months ago. Your mouse hovered over the video, and you hesitated before clicking.
Two million views.
A wave of nerves hit you—the thought of being perceived by two million strangers while completely bare and vulnerable was overwhelming. Yet, for some reason, the idea of it excited you more than a girl like you should admit.
You finally clicked the link. The video started with you stripping for him, then dropping to your knees, and just minutes later, you were sprawled out bare on the mattress while he pumped you full of his cum.
You were already soaking through your underwear just watching it, your thighs rubbing together shamelessly from the memory of being filled by Bucky. The way his breathy moans sounded so much more enthusiastic than they ever did in his solo videos filled you with absolute pride.
You made him feel that good.
And apparently, you made his entire comment section feel good, too.
Daddywants2play: hooooooooolyy fuck. she’s so hot. my balls are so heavy just from watching her tits bounce. u lucky dog
Bwasexual: Omg!!! Do you guys need a third?
pegm3please: God so fucking hot. Is she going to upload anytime soon?? Just gave her a follow.
Your brow rose at the last comment.
Gave her a follow?
Instinctively, your mouse hovered to the top right of the screen where the notification bell was displayed.
It showed over 99+ alerts. You were used to seeing two at the absolute maximum—a like from Bucky on one of your comments, and his reply.
Bracing yourself, you clicked it, and a wall of notifications flooded the screen with dozens of different usernames following you. Your follower count had gone from exactly one—Bucky’s account—to well over a thousand in just a single night.
You couldn’t believe it.
People loved watching you.
They loved you enough that, despite you having zero videos posted, no profile picture, and an entirely blank description, they were hitting follow anyway—eagerly expecting to see more. You mentally patted yourself on the back for having the foresight to remove the links to your personal social media accounts beforehand.
A warm flush traced your face. The crazy part was, it wasn’t from embarrassment at all.
It was pure excitement.
Without thinking, you snatched your phone off the desk and dialed a familiar number. It only rang twice before a deep, sleepy voice answered on the other end.
“Hey, doll,” Bucky rasped. “Everything okay?”
“I just saw the video,” you said, the words tumbling out fast. You couldn’t contain your excitement. “I woke up to a little over a thousand followers—and there are so many comments!”
He paused on the line. You could hear the rustle of sheets as he sat up.
“… And are you okay with that? Do you want me to take it down?”
You bit your lip. You couldn’t believe what you were going to say next. “I’m more than okay with it. But… um…”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. He pulled the phone away from his face for a split second to make sure you were still on the line.
“Sweetheart, what is it?”
A breathy sigh left your lips. “I… I want to become a content creator, too. Will you teach me?”
And just like that, the air left Bucky’s lungs completely.
Everything he could possibly want—and more—was finally being served to him on a silver platter.
This meant more videos, more collaborations, and endless opportunities to have you completely to himself.
“Yes,” he swiped at his camcorder and car keys. “I’m coming over. Be ready for me.”
hopping off the bed turn my swag on. happy almost one year anniversary to pornstar bucky and the first bwa collab. once again, thank you to my dear friend @unificsation for the premise. thank you to @barnesonly for the cyber sex bucky edit she made inspired by this fic that i goon to nightly. thank you to @blowingbarnes and @buckybunni for being pornstar bucky's number one fan (i never forgot) thank you to @houseofhyde for giving me the inspiration to write this after sum silly joke. and thank you for all the love and support for part one. i would like to dedicate this oscar to you guys /j
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
break up with your boyfriend, im bored - robby's bf!jack x serial killer!reader
word count: 8.6k
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con (because of somnophilia), femme fatale!reader, age gap, bisexual!jack (happy pride month!), infidelity (robby cheats on jack with whitaker), murder (you kill robby and a lot of other ppl, oop-), daddy kink, jack calls you “baby”/”babydoll”, stalking, surveillance (jack and those damn cameras of his!), mentions of alcohol (you're a bartender and drink a little), unprotected sex, squirting, fingerfucking, choking, spanking, rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, breeding kink, size difference, gun play (look away if you don't want a gun in your mouth!), semi-public sex (you fuck in an empty bar in a booth), slut shaming (he calls you a slut but you like it!), he sedates you to keep you asleep, lowkey jack is batshit crazy in this but what's new? (do i ever write him normal?)
summary: you hate people who don't treat their significant others well, which is why you go out of your way to kill them. so, when a hot older doctor comes into the bar where you work and starts complaining to you about his boyfriend being distant, you decide to convince him to break up with him.
why? because you're bored!
a/n: had an itch to kill robby and get railed by psychotic!jack. that's it. that's the fic!
hope it's a sick read ♡
For the fourth morning in a row, the same guy keeps showing up to the shitty dive bar where you work, which is unfortunately open 24/7. And you've been stuck with the shift that starts at midnight since you moved to this city.
You don't mind it now. Not when you have a hot old man wearing black scrubs to look at before your shift ends.
Though, he has gotten a bit gloomier over the days. Orders the same thing. A cold beer, that he nurses for half an hour before asking for a double shot of whiskey. Like he needs to pretend to debate drinking more than he should at seven in the morning.
But today, he starts with the whiskey.
“Bad night, Doc?” You assumed he was a doctor but you know for certain now since he hasn't taken his badge off yet.
You're a bit too distracted by the sad look in his eyes to catch his name before he tucks his badge into the backpack he always slings in on his shoulder and drops at the bar stool beside him.
“Jack.” He tells you his name because Jack would rather not be reminded that he's a doctor for the time being.
“No need to talk about it, Jack.” You pour him his shots but also hand him a glass of water. “But the bar's all yours if you want to. I'm pretty good at keeping a secret too.”
You wink at him, smiling beautifully.
Jack hasn't had a pretty girl smile at him in a long time. Probably because he's been so wrapped up in attempting to salvage his failing relationship with his longtime partner, Robby, that he hasn't noticed anyone batting their eyelashes at him the way you're doing now.
The bar is empty. That's why Jack comes here. It's a far trek from work, so no one he knows ever goes to this area. He usually drives but the last few days, he's been calling a rideshare so he has the option to get wasted. He hasn't yet.
Today might be the day he does.
Because he caught wind of something he shouldn't have.
And it's killing him.
He has no one he can talk to about it.
Except you…
“Only if you drink with me.” If Jack is going to spill his secrets, he'd rather you not be sober. At least then, he can pretend that maybe you'll forget all about his ramblings.
“Trying to get me in trouble?” You chuckle, then grab a cold glass, filling it with beer. “How about this: you drink your usual beer then you wait until I'm off work in an hour and we can drink at my place nearby. Good idea?”
Jack's stomach churns at that. Because he shouldn't say yes. He's in a committed relationship. He definitely shouldn't go over to your place, especially when it's blatantly obvious that you're an incredibly attractive woman who isn't hiding for a second your interest in him.
But if Robby can "hang out" with someone much younger than him, so can Jack.
It's only fair.
“Alright. But I'm paying for the liquor.”
You shake your head. “I have plenty of booze at home. You're paying for breakfast.”
Jack doesn't like how smooth you talk. So casual. So easy going. So much like he was before insecurity racked his every waking moment.
“Fine.”
“It's a date.” You slide the shot glasses back towards you and then Jack watches as you down them both back to back in front of him. His eyes trail along the whiskey that drips off the sides of your lips.
He wants to lean forward and lick it up.
A thought he shouldn't be having.
Fuck. He's going to do something stupid, isn't he?
Accepting your invitation was stupid enough as is but lusting after you would be the worst decision a taken man like him should consider.
But when he sees the way your tongue swirls around your full lips, Jack can't help but stare.
You've always had this effect on people. It's what makes the kind of lifestyle you live easier than it should be. Because you can always get a job bartending in any city you go to without a resume and you can always convince the owner to pay you under the table. Same goes with your landlord, who is happy to let you pay your rent in all cash without verifying if your identity is real or not.
It isn't. It never is.
Because you would've been caught by now if you weren't as smart as you are.
And you like killing people a little too much to get caught now.
So, when Jack asks you for your name, you give him the same old routine you do with everyone and tell him, “just call me baby.”
“Baby? That can't possibly be your name.”
“It's what you'll call me.” You lean over the counter, giving him a very nice view of your breasts peeking through your low cut sweater. “I like that or babydoll. Especially when I get to call you daddy.”
Tension forms in every muscle in his body.
Because…fuck, he has missed being called that.
Robby never liked it. He was dismissive of Jack's daddy kink, made him feel ashamed for having one so Jack repressed it.
Now here you are, openly feeding into it.
“I should tell you I'm in a relationship.” Jack has to ruin this.
But you don't let him. “Then break up.”
“W-What?” He is so shocked by how blunt your words are that he stammers his own. “E-Excuse me?”
You put your hand on his, drawing a line from his wrist to his knuckles with your finger, swirling the tip around each bone as you tell him in a sultry tone, “come on, daddy. You know you want to, or you wouldn't have said yes to me.”
“W-We've been together for years.” It feels like a poor excuse once Jack says it aloud.
You shrug, not caring at all. “So?”
“He's…” Jack doesn't even know what he was going to say because your hand comes up to cup his face, lifting his chin to look at you.
“He's just your boyfriend.” You brush your thumb over his lip, smiling when his jaw tightens in your grip. “You don't need a boyfriend when you could have me.”
For fun, you step closer, wanting to see how he'll react to your lips being only an inch away from his.
His reaction is on par with a man his age who has been out of the game for a while. “You're at work.”
“If you kissed me, I wouldn't mind getting fired.” You playfully bite your lip, purposefully making it swell so he's more enticed than ever. “Do you want to kiss me?”
Jack should say no. He definitely should say no.
He's in a relationship. A shitty one, where Robby is cheating on him but he made a commitment.
One that he'll need to break if he's going to say yes.
“I—” Jack is rendered speechless when you nuzzle his nose with your own, giggling at how flustered he gets because he thought you were about to kiss him.
“God, you are so fucking cute.” You want to ride him until the next morning. “Can you just break up with him already?”
Why is Jack even considering this?
Maybe because he knows it's rational. He caught Robby cheating on him with that younger resident, Dennis Whitaker. He hasn't confronted Robby about it yet.
Jack knows his relationship is over.
So, why is he clinging onto it when there's a gorgeous girl right in front of him that's practically throwing herself at him?
He should forget about Robby, like he has been trying to do these last few days.
He can do that by fucking you.
He will do exactly that.
“Fuck it.” Jack pulls out his phone and against his best judgment, he shoots Robby a text.
With a video of Robby and Whitaker from Jack's hidden camera in Robby's apartment.
And the only text he sends with it is: It's over between us.
Then, once it's sent, Jack grabs you by the throat and tugs you to him, kissing you.
You were not expecting the sudden aggression. But, it's incredible.
Like Jack is finally able to enjoy himself for once.
You like how tight his grip is, how you're certain if it was any tighter, he'd bruise your neck. You like how he's eager to kiss you, his tongue slipping into your mouth the moment you let him.
You slide your underwear off under your skirt, tucking it behind the counter before you end up getting it wet. You're already raring to go, just from this feverish kiss.
You'll surely have to fuck Jack now.
“Let me lock the door.” You say all breathless against his lips. “Unless you want people to walk in and see you with your hand wrapped around my throat.”
Jack's eyes shift to the door then back at you, trailing down the length of your body to your short skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination.
“Do you care?” He asks, his hand releasing your neck from his hold, and you smirk in response.
“I'd let you fuck me right here if you wanted to.” You're getting fired anyways.
Might as well enjoy the taboo of it while you can.
“Do you have a condom?” Jack should not fuck the first person to give him attention but especially not without protection.
You laugh at that. “Did you fuck your ex with a condom?”
Of course Jack did and he is thankful he did because he has no clue how long Robby has been cheating on him for. He could've gotten something unknowingly.
Maybe he doesn't feel too shitty about breaking up with Robby now…
You snap your fingers in front of Jack's face, breaking him from his thoughts. “I'm going to take that as a yes. I trust you're clean. You are a doctor, after all.”
“Are you?” He has to ask.
“A doctor? Definitely not.” You laugh again, earning a glare from Jack.
“Clean.” He emphasizes the word.
You pull out your phone, showing him the test results along with proof of your IUD that you got from a doctor friend of yours who works at a clinic a few states away. You always test after every sexual encounter.
You'll likely head there again after this because from the look in Jack's eyes when they meet yours, you've got him hook, line and sinker. “Did I pass, Doc?”
“Why do you want this?” That insecurity of his leaks out.
“Hmmm.” You tap the rim of his untouched glass of beer before following the line around it. Once, twice, trailing slow circles around and around, for no real reason.
Jack is mesmerized by how strange your movements are. He's never met anyone like you. Someone who could entrance him with a simple motion.
Your words draw him further into your spell. “Because I know when a man is dying to fuck a nice pussy.”
You pull your finger off the rim then and pick up the glass, hovering it over the drain behind the bar in front of you.
“The question is: are you going to fuck me with a beer in your system or stone cold sober?” You slowly tip the glass, baiting to see if he'll stop you from pouring out his drink.
Jack doesn't. He lets you pour the bubbly amber liquid down the drain, setting the glass aside when you're done.
Then, he snaps at you. “Go to that booth and spread your legs so I can see that nice pussy of yours, babydoll.”
Your lips curve into a wicked smile, “now how did you know I'm not wearing any underwear?”
“Because a slut like you wouldn't.” He snaps again, his tone harsher now. “Go.”
You lick your lips before skipping over to the last booth in the bar. The one furthest from the door. Also the one that is out of the line of sight of the only camera.
So, the doctor is aware of the blind spots.
You wonder where he learned to be so diligent.
Is he ex-military? Must be.
For the sake of cleanliness, you throw a freshly washed tablecloth over the table before you hop onto it. Doing exactly as Jack desires, you spread your legs for him to see that you were not lying to him.
The owner of the bar will have a fun time with that lace pair of yours when they find it later.
But not as much fun of a time as you're about to have because Jack walks over until he's standing right in front of you, staring down at the sight before him.
You have the nicest pussy he has ever seen in his life. He wants to know what you taste like. What you look like when you're cumming.
If you're this gorgeous right now, he knows you'll be breathtaking when you're out of breath from cumming on his tongue.
He nearly drops to his knees when you use your hand to part your folds for him, giving him a clear view of how wet you are as you say in that sultry tone of yours, “is my daddy going to eat my pussy or not?”
Jack holds back because he's done giving someone else the reins. It's been a long time since he got to be the one in charge. He wasted too much of his life trying to please Robby.
Right now, he's going to focus on himself and what he wants.
And what he wants is for you to beg him to touch you.
“Ask nicely.” He instructs and you can't help how giddy you feel hearing his stricter tone.
You want to be a brat but you decide Jack must've suffered enough in his last relationship.
You should make his life easier by submitting to him.
It's what he needs right now.
“Will you please go down on me?” You ask so sweetly that Jack swears his teeth might rot. “Pretty please?”
“Is that what my baby wants?” He leans forward, hands gripped on the corners of the table, fisting the cloth beneath him. “For her daddy to make her cum?”
You nod eagerly. “Yes, please.”
Jack slides into the booth and gestures for you to adjust. “Scoot over here.”
You listen without any hesitation and once your legs are in his reach, Jack yanks you closer to him by your knees. His face hovers so close to your pussy that you can feel every exhale he takes.
He feels parched. He hasn't had anything to drink yet. And the sight of your slick is enticing him too much for him not to give into his need to taste you.
You let out a breathy little sigh of pleasure when you feel his tongue drag along the length of your folds before settling at your clit, giving it a light flick.
“Can I touch your hair?” Your hand aches to feel those soft looking curls he has.
“Say please.” Jack is so fucking hard right now, it's unbelievable.
His cock wants to burst out of his pants when you respond so beautifully, “please, daddy.”
He nods and you gently lace your fingers through his hair, reveling in the feel of it. You play with his curls as he leans back in, his tongue dipping into you this time. You don't hold in your voice, a moan leaving your lips immediately.
It's like heaven to Jack to hear you react to his touch. He never liked how quiet Robby could be in bed. It made him feel inferior, like he wasn't doing a good enough job.
Especially after seeing how vocal Robby could be in that video.
It pisses him off that—
Jack winces when you tug at his hair hard all of a sudden. “What the f—”
“If you're going to eat my pussy, can you focus on me?” You don't like that his mind is elsewhere.
Jack realizes how he's acting. He's doing what he dreaded from Robby. You deserve his undivided attention, like he deserves yours. And you're willing to give him your attention.
So, Jack apologizes, “I'm sorry, babydoll. It won't happen again.”
“It better not.” You pull him towards your pussy. “Now you have to make me cum, to show me you'll keep your word.”
He licks his lips then smiles, his mind locked in this moment with you now. “Don't worry. Your daddy is going to make you cum real good.”
He finally feels confident again, especially when you cry out his name the moment his lips seal around your clit and start sucking on it. He alternates between that and swirling circles around your clit until the tension in your core coils up to the point of no return.
“Please don't stop.” You're gripping his hair tight, keeping him against you as he plays with your clit just right. “Please let me cum, please.”
Jack does let you, pushing you right into your orgasm with every flick of his tongue on your clit. Your eyes roll back when the pleasure shoots through you, your body bathing in the heat of it.
It was a great orgasm but Jack knows he can do better. He can make you cum harder than that.
So, he tells you, “get on your knees.”
You bite your lip, looking up at him with the same amount of lust he has for you. Then, you, like the good girl you are, listen, flipping over, getting on your knees for him. You give him a wonderful view of your ass and your dripping wet pussy and he groans, kneading his cock through his pants with his hand. He could fuck you right now. Nothing is stopping him.
Besides this desperate urge to make you cum your brains out.
“Tell me how you like it.” Jack doesn't want to do the guesswork.
And you don't mind being honest. “I like it rough.”
“Yeah?” He smacks your ass all of a sudden, drawing a yelp from your lips. “How rough?”
“Harder than that.” You wouldn't mind wearing his handprint on your ass for the next few days.
“Rub your clit for me and don't you dare cum.” Jack demands as he slides out of the booth.
You do as you're told, playing with your clit as you watch Jack walk behind the bar counter to wash his hands in the sink. You find that oddly endearing. He doesn't want to touch you with dirty hands. You appreciate that.
He might prove to be more fun than you originally thought.
Jack sits back down behind you then slaps your ass again, this time even harder as he scolds you, “you're barely rubbing your clit. Do better.”
“I'm sorry.” You touch yourself the way you usually do, a bit more heavy handed. “But if I keep doing this, I'm going to cum…”
“You cum when I tell you to.” His hand strikes you again. You definitely have an imprint of his hand now…
Your whole body is shaking from the throbbing sensation of your now sensitive flesh and the ache between your legs, which Jack quickly resolves when he thrusts a finger inside of you.
His finger is so thick that you're hardly prepared for him to add another one so quickly, prying your pussy open when he pushes them deeper inside of you.
“You're clenching so tightly around your daddy's fingers.” Jack curls them, trying to gauge where he should touch you. He knows he found the right place when your legs start to buckle. “Is this your weak spot, babydoll?”
He presses his fingertips exactly where you need him to so you beg him, “right there, please touch me right there.”
“Cum as much as you'd like.” He wants to see you wrecked.
You cum so hard when he pounds his fingers right where you need him too. You cum again when he smacks your ass while his fingers are still inside of you.
“More, please.” You haven't felt this good during sex in a while. It seems like you and Jack are quite compatible.
And he is happy to give you what you want as long as you give him what he wants. “Do you want daddy's cock buried in this tight pussy?”
“Yes.” You repeat the word over and over as he continues fucking you mercilessly with his fingers. “Please, I want your cock. I want to cum on your cock.”
“You're going to cum on my fingers first. I want to see you squirt.” He will make you. He's well aware of where he needs to touch you to make it happen.
And he likes your nervous response, “I've never…”
It's his turn to get you all flustered.
“Then you will now.” Jack grips your ass with his free hand for leverage as his fingers start moving quickly side to side, stirring up every inch of your pussy with the pads of his fingers.
You can't seem to stop the orgasm that hits you hard enough for you to see stars in your vision. It crashes through you uncontrollably and you squirt when his fingers pop out of you. He likes the sound of you panting from the intensity of cumming that much.
Jack likes knowing that no one else has made you cum like that before.
You're in a bit of a daze, your head swimming from the rush of pleasure, which is why you don't register him grabbing your hips and pulling you down onto his lap. It isn't until you feel the tip of his cock pushing against your entrance that you wake up from the bliss, startled.
“You can take it.” He eases you down onto his cock. “Lean on me, babydoll.”
You lean your back against his chest as you sink down onto him. You didn't even get a good look at his cock but you can feel how big he is, stirring you up inside like his fingers had.
You breathe out a sigh of relief when he hilts, impressed you managed to take him all the way. You haven't felt this full…ever. He must be the biggest cock you've ever had.
“You took me so well.” He praises you, his hand resting on your lower belly, his fingertips pressing down on where he's resting inside of you. “Do you feel how deep I am?”
You nod, gripping the edge of the table, needing some kind of leverage so you don't collapse from how good he feels buried inside of you. Your eyes stare at the wet spot in the tablecloth, where you came.
Heat rises to your cheeks at the sight.
Did you really cum that hard?
You feel Jack's lips kiss a line from your shoulder to your ear, distracting you from the thoughts swirling your mind. Then, he whispers, so low into your ear, “now imagine how good it'll feel to squirt on your daddy's cock.”
You might not survive that.
You may have initiated this but usually it's more fun to just mess around with someone before killing their ex. You normally don't cum this much, sometimes not even at all. It's mostly supposed to be a memory to touch yourself to afterwards.
But right now, it's looking like Jack is going to be a memory you'll likely never forget.
So you might as well make it unforgettable. “Can I turn around?”
“Why?” He wonders aloud.
“I want to kiss you.” You're honest.
Now Jack is wondering why his heart skips a beat at how cute of an ask that is. He lifts you off of him and helps you straddle his lap while facing him. He guides his cock back inside of you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your chest flush against his, letting him enjoy the sight of your breasts in that low cut sweater of yours.
He wants to rip it off of you. He wants to see you naked.
You can tell what he wants, which is why you lean in and whisper against his lips, “you can have me naked in my bed after this.”
“You want to fuck more than once?” Jack wasn't sure if that was still on the table.
“If you can make me cum like that again, I don't see why not.” You nip at his bottom lip before giving him a kiss. “I like you, Jack.”
Jack reaches up with both hands to cup your face, liking how you relax into his touch. He likes you too. Much, much more than he should.
He barely knows you and yet he wants to see you again and again.
Because you make him feel at ease.
You kiss him so naturally, like your lips were made to be kissed by his. The two of you sit there kissing in that booth, your hips rolling against his, grinding his cock deep inside of you. You ride him just like you wanted to, your lips never wanting to part from his.
You definitely will need to do this again. You're enjoying yourself too much not to fuck him again.
Somewhere along the way, Jack tosses you back down onto the table so he has more space to pound his cock inside of you. He's getting closer to his orgasm, so he needs you to get close to yours. His thumb swipes your clit back and forth as he fucks you, making you rasp out his name beautifully.
“I'm going to cum, Jack.” You can't hold back any longer. “Please cum with me.”
“I want to see you cum on my cock first.” He wants to see you make a mess.
Jack starts fucking you rougher, driving his cock deeper inside of you and you nearly tip over the edge from it. But it isn't until he wraps his hands around your throat and pressing his thumbs down on the center of it that you burst at the seams, cumming so hard when you can't breathe.
You claw at his muscular arms as he continues to choke you through every rough thrust. Jack has always liked it rough, always enjoyed the light look of fear mixed with pleasure. He finds yours to be the most beautiful he's ever seen.
Especially when you're unable to stop cumming beneath him, your eyes so glazed over from the pleasure that he could probably snap your neck and you wouldn't even realize it. You'd be too lost in your head to notice.
So he has to bring you back, loosening his grip on your throat just enough for you to be able to respond to him when he asks you, “do you like getting your pussy fucked like this, babydoll?”
You nod, smiling softly up at him. “Yes, daddy. I love it.”
“Tell me to go harder.” He's going to cum when you do.
“Fuck me harder.” You want it too.
“Good girl.” He leans down, kissing you again as he thrusts wildly inside of you like an animal in heat, no longer holding back his need.
You cum when you feel him pumping every ounce of his release deep inside of you, warmth filling your lower belly. You haven't let anyone cum inside of you this much in a long while.
You're in absolute bliss, which is why you don't hear the door to the bar open.
But Jack does, so he pulls a gun out of the back of his waistband and points it at the person at the door. “Get the fuck out or I'll shoot you.”
The door slams shut immediately after that and you laugh so hard, breaking from your daze a bit. “What the fuck, you had a gun on you? While we were fucking?”
“I grabbed it before I went to wash my hands.” He figured he should be safe than sorry.
The bar isn't in the best neighborhood…
“Just don't shoot me in bed, okay?” You pat his chest, trying to nudge him off of you. But he won't budge. “Jack?”
“You aren't afraid of guns?” He noticed you didn't flinch when he pulled it out.
You're noticing that he's paying a little too much attention to you while his cock is still resting inside of you. Meaning you can't hide the way his question makes your body tense up.
“I grew up shooting them.” You lie because you are not going to explain to him that you took many lessons to learn how to shoot so you could kill people easily.
“Are you a good shot?”
“Are you going to keep your soft cock inside of me or can we have this conversation over breakfast?” You tap at his chest again and thankfully he moves this time.
Jack puts his gun away in his backpack and then comes back to you with some wet wipes he carries in his bag. You take them into the bar's bathroom to freshen up a bit and then go to grab your things, since your shift is over. You leave behind a note saying you quit and that you don't need your last paycheck.
You aren't planning to stay in this city much longer, anyway.
Something that proves difficult because you end up sleeping with Jack every day since then.
Even on the day you kill his ex-boyfriend, Robby.
You had to make sure to do it on a night where Jack was on shift, so that he had an alibi. You saw him the next morning because he has made it a habit to come over to your apartment after work now.
A habit that will end rather abruptly soon.
Because Jack keeps asking you too many questions you can't answer.
Like why you don't have much furniture. Or why you won't tell him your name. Or why you aren't looking for anything serious.
For the first time, you actually feel bad for what you've done. This was supposed to be a one night stand. A little fun, to help him move on.
That's all it was supposed to be.
But then you found the hidden camera Jack installed…
It's fresh, not even a day old. You know that for a fact because you religiously scan your surroundings for any kind of tampering. In case the cops are onto you and you need to bolt.
You realize then that Jack is not normal.
You should've known that from the jump but you ignored the signs since you figured you wouldn't ever see him again.
So, when you leave without a trace, Jack goes crazy.
It's bad enough that no one has heard from Robby in days. Jack went over to check Robby's apartment but he wasn't there. He asked Whitaker if he had heard from Robby but he hadn't either.
Two people in Jack's life have disappeared all of a sudden.
But Jack only seems to care about you.
Because a few days after you cleared out your apartment and left the city, Jack gets a visit from the police that solves what happened to Robby. They ask him where he was the night that you killed Robby and he tells them that he was at work. Then, they tell him that they found Robby's dead body at the bottom of the river.
A clean bullet through the head. Execution style. Like a professional hit.
Since the officers are friends of Jack's, they reveal a little extra detail that they probably shouldn't. That a similar kind of killing happened a year ago just a few cities over.
Same exact gun. Same exact kill shot.
Right between the eyes.
Whoever it was made their victims look at them in the eyes as they killed them.
“What else do you know?” Jack doesn't know if he's asking out of grief or curiosity.
“Apparently, when they interviewed the dead person's ex, they had been convinced by some woman to break up with them a few days prior to the person dying.” The officer shrugs at Jack.
“Did they get a name?”
“Just said to call her “baby”. Isn't that strange?”
Jack maintains a perfect poker face because if he didn't, the officers would know that Robby's murder would for sure be connected to that other murder. But he doesn't say a word about it.
He doesn't know why he protects you.
He just does.
You have no clue how close you were to being caught, or at least put on the radar more than you should be. But you always lay low after a kill.
You have a long cooling off period, an erratic one because you only kill if the universe has you stumble on a miserable person in a shitty relationship. Another saving grace as to why you haven't been caught just yet.
You stay indoors mostly, at the house you own under your real name. You never kill anywhere near where you live. Your neighbors just assume you're off on business all the time.
The only regularity you have is visiting the clinic to see your friend to get tested. You're certain Jack is clean but you had to make sure. You did have a lot of sex with him before you left him.
“By the way, how's the IUD?”
You groan then say, “actually, can you take it out? I don't plan to have sex for a while and I'm sick of the heavy bleeding.”
You got the copper IUD recently and it has been making your periods unbearable. You wouldn't mind a break from it.
So, you get it removed and then spend the rest of the week curled up in bed from the pain.
It's moments like this where you wish you weren't alone.
The life you live can get a little lonely at times but you doubt you'd find anyone who would be okay with what you like to do in your free time.
Though, maybe you should just ask the man that's been hovering over you while you sleep for the past few nights.
Jack is very open to keeping you company.
It took him forever to find you so he definitely isn't going to let you get away from him again.
He had to use every bit of his brainpower to remember the clinic name on your test results sheet. From there, he installed a camera across the street from it so he could catch you when you inevitably visited.
After you did, it didn't take much for him to be able to smooth talk his way into the office by pretending to be a delivery person so he could snoop through the appointment log and find your real name.
Along with your medical file.
And he sees that you currently aren't on any birth control.
Giving him the perfect way to keep you tied to him forever.
You notice the slight tilt in your wall outlet. It's obviously been tampered with. But you can't figure out by who or why…
Because no one should know where you live. The cops definitely shouldn't.
So who…would?
You try not to show that you know there's a hidden camera there. You just go about your day like you normally would. The camera hasn't been there long. Maybe a few hours.
Whoever put it there did it while you were asleep.
You don't know how they managed to get past your cameras.
It would require them to have extensive knowledge of surveillance—oh fuck.
You know exactly who it is.
Because you only know one person who is a veteran with a background in military surveillance.
Though, you can't help but wonder why Jack would go out of his way to find you.
Sure, the sex was great but you literally killed his boyfriend. There's no way he doesn't know by now. He's a smart guy. He has friends in the police since he works with SWAT. He would've figured out it was you who killed Robby.
Could he be here for some kind of revenge plot? But if that was the case, he could've killed you in your sleep.
You doubt Jack is the torturing type. Then again...you do remember the little sadistic streak he had going on. You can still feel how much your ass stung from all of his spanking.
But again, why would he go through the effort of going halfway across the country for you?
What's his endgame?
Is it…you?
You shake away that thought. Again, you doubt you could ever be in a relationship with anyone.
He's here for some reason. He's watching you for some reason.
You won't delude yourself into thinking it's more than some kind of morbid curiosity of his. He hasn't ratted you out to the police yet so there is something he wants.
So, you decide to check to see if it's you he wants. Just to be sure.
You install a hidden camera on a vase of yours and add some flowers to it to bring into your room, placing it perfectly in the corner on a cute little side table.
Then, for fun that night, you touch yourself.
You do it purposefully where Jack can get a nice view of your pussy through his hidden camera and you make sure to cum while moaning his name.
Then, you fall asleep wearing only your favorite nightgown, leaving yourself still dripping wet between your legs.
And sure enough, when you wake up the next morning and head out for the day so you can check your camera footage, Jack was there in your room last night.
With a syringe.
You stare at the video, baffled at the sight of Jack injecting you with a sedative. Then, you watch as he goes down on you for hours before he finally fucks you.
You decide then to put in earbuds so you can listen to the audio.
And it's full of crazed thoughts of his that surely you should not know.
He rants about how you made him crazy for you. He talks about the things he wants to do to you, the things he will do to you.
Like fuck a baby into you in your sleep…
He tells you that it's all your fault he's like this because you seduced him.
So you have to take responsibility for your actions. You have to let him have you. It's only fair.
You've never encountered anyone with this kind of obsession before.
It should scare you.
You should be worried for your life, especially when you hear Jack say that if you don't learn to love him back, he'll kill you like you killed Robby.
But you've always liked to play with fire.
Which is why that night, you do the same thing you did the previous night.
You touch yourself to the memories of Jack.
Then, for the fun of it, you say to yourself as you cum, “I wish my daddy was here to fuck me.”
And you scream when Jack comes out of your closet with a gun in his hand.
“Be quiet, babydoll.” He shuts you up right away when he flips off the safety. “Or I'll shoot you.”
You weren't expecting him to be in your walk-in closet.
How did he get in there without tipping off your camera?
Unless…he knew about it this whole time…
Fuck. Of course Jack did.
He wanted to see what you'd do if he spilled every sick thought out of his head. He expected you to run far away, to be afraid of him.
But you're just as sick as he is, touching yourself to bait him.
Now, he needs to know how far you'll let him go.
“Don't stop because of me.” Jack climbs into bed, hovering over you, his gun pointed right between your eyes. “Keep touching yourself. Let your daddy watch you cum.”
“You only want to watch?” You slide your hand up the length of your body. His eyes follow the ripples you make of the silk you're wearing, the motion so intoxicating. “You could have more than just a look, Jack.”
“Take it off.” He wants to see you bare beneath him.
You obey without hesitation, slipping your nightgown off. Jack scans every inch of you, imagining how you would look with his bite marks all over you. Or with the indent of his pistol pressed into your skin.
He drags the gun down in a straight line, from your forehead to the middle of your breasts, the cold metal causing goosebumps to form on your skin. He pushes the tip of the barrel against the very center of your body, leaving a nice little ring there.
“I own you now.” He says as he slides the gun back up, resting it against your lips. “Your life is in my hands, babydoll.”
But he knows his words are just words.
Because the truth is, you own him.
With that daring smile of yours and that seductive gaze you give him before you part your lips and pull the barrel of his gun into your mouth, tasting the harsh metal on your tongue.
The moment you start sucking the tip of his gun, Jack kicks off his pants. He needs to be inside of you right now.
You moan against the metal when you feel him drag his cock along the length of your slit before pushing so easily inside of you. He groans when he hilts, letting out an almost frustrated huff at how good you feel wrapped around him.
“Did you miss your daddy's cock?” He smiles when you nod. “God, I missed you. Don't ever leave me again, baby.”
He pulls his gun from your mouth so you can tell him, “you can kill me if I ever run from you again.”
Jack smacks your cheek lightly with his gun as a reprimand. “Don't say something like that.”
“Why?” You pout at him, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him in deeper.
“Because I might actually do it if you ever try.” Jack's threat is real and he likes how you clench around his cock in response.
“I'd let you.” You owe him for keeping your secret. “I'm all yours, Jack.”
“You better be.” He's sick and tired of not having someone who is his entirely.
You place your hand on the ring he made on your chest, tracing the dip in your skin as you make your promise, “you own me until this fades away.”
Jack smacks your hand away with his gun so he can press it back against the center of your chest, digging the mark further into your pretty skin. “Then I might as well shoot you so you can wear that scar for life.”
“You could just buy me a ring.” You flash your left hand at him.
You bite back a giggle when his cock throbs inside of you. “You'd marry me?”
“You'd marry me?” You ask back, earning another one of his annoyed glares.
“Stop doing that and answer my question.”
“I'd like a better proposal than you holding a gun to my chest but yes, I'd marry you.” You let out the chuckle you've been holding in and Jack basks in how wonderful it sounds.
He tosses his gun aside so he can grip the sheets by your head, staring down rather fiercely at you, lust raging in his hazel eyes, “I'm going to fuck you until the sun's out.”
You pull him in closer so you can press a soft kiss against his cheek before whispering, “just until the sun's out?”
He scoffs at that. “You don't want to leave this bed, do you?”
“Not while my daddy's home.” You smile brightly.
Jack likes the thought of that. Of moving away from Pittsburgh. Of making this place his home. Of making you his home.
“Is your friend's clinic hiring?” He asks and you laugh so loud at him.
“Can we just fuck already and then browse job listings after?” You're aching to get railed.
“Someone's being needy.” He rolls his hips against you as a tease. “You don't like keeping your daddy's cock warm while we talk?”
“I'd rather be cumming on it.” You grind your hips up to meet his, desperate for some more friction. “Please fuck me.”
“I might fuck a baby into you if I do.” He's not wearing a condom and you aren't protected anymore.
“You didn't seem to give a shit about that last night.” Your lips curve into a devilish smile that matches the one on his face.
“Touché.” He pulls his cock out of you almost all of the way before ramming it back inside, causing your whole body to shake from the feeling. “I'm going to make sure you get pregnant now.”
Jack then makes it his goal for the night to edge you until you're whining and pleading for him to let you cum.
But he keeps waving off your desperation, saying, “you'll have a higher chance of getting pregnant if you cum hard when I do.”
“You're torturing me.” Your body is hot to the touch and you need to cum.
“Payback for you leaving me.” He considers you both even now.
“I promise I won't ever do that again so please let me cum.” You can't wait any longer.
“Fine.” He slips out of you completely, drawing another whine from your lips. “Flip over, baby. I'll breed you like you want me to.”
You quickly get on your knees and you feel his hand push down on your upper back, having you press your chest against the mattress, burying your face into your pillow. You dig your nails into your sheets the moment you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance.
You cum so hard when he slams the entire length of his cock inside of you from behind, your legs quivering from the intensity of it. Your body won't stop shaking because Jack smacks your ass as he fucks you deeper into your mattress, causing tension to coil and burst inside of you.
“Oh fuck—” You muffle your screams into your pillow when you feel his fingers pushing into your pussy along with his cock, filling you up more than you can handle.
“You can take it.” He says with another harsh smack of your ass, which lets him slip his fingers in deeper, curling them as the tip of his cock pushes against your womb. “You're going to cum so much for me, aren't you?”
You nod into your pillow because it would be impossible not to cum from the way he's abusing your pussy like this. You yelp when he slaps your ass even harder.
“I expect a response.” He slows his thrusts until his cock and fingers are just resting inside of you. “Are you going to cum for me?”
“Yes, daddy.” You practically pant out, your mind growing fuzzier by the second.
“Good girl.” He rewards you by fucking you with both his cock and his fingers until you're squirting all over him. “Just like that. Keep cumming, baby.”
“I can't—” You're going to pass out if you keep cumming this hard. “Please, I can't—”
“You can and you will.” He gets rougher now, sending you spiraling, gasping, reeling from every harsh movement.
Jack is pounding into you with so much force that your mattress is shifting beneath you with each thrust. You're seeing stars, your vision going dark, your body bathing in constant waves of pure pleasure that can't seem to end.
Then, you feel Jack's hand against the back of your head, shoving you down into your pillow, cutting off your air. You flail beneath him, trying to stop him, trying to breathe but you can't.
You can only cum. That's all he'll let you do. You're only allowed to take the pleasure he gives you and that's it.
You'll get to breathe when he says so.
“I love my slutty babydoll.” He rams his cock as deep as he can as he pumps hot ropes of cum inside of you. “Taking my cum so well inside her tight pussy. Did that feel good?”
He tugs you up from your pillow by your hair, letting you finally gulp in air before you reply with such delight in your tone, “yes.”
“Want to do it again?” Jack is still hard. He could fuck you until he's soft.
“Please.” You say all breathless and beautiful. “Never stop.”
Jack doesn't give you a break all night, which is fairly reminiscent of all the times you two had sex before. He has too much stamina for a man his age and you have too much determination to let him think he's wrung you out. Even though he definitely has because your pussy is dripping copious amounts of his cum by the time the sun is out.
But when you wake up from your nap, you're completely clean, dressed in a nice pair of cozy sweats.
And there's a morning after pill next to you with a glass of water and some painkillers.
No Jack, though.
“Jack?” You ignore the pills, getting up despite the weakness in your legs.
There's no way he left, right?
You slowly make your way through your house and then notice that the door leading to your basement is open.
Fuck!
Adrenaline spikes through you enough for you to move quickly down the wooden stairs to your cellar, seeing the door to your hidden basement also wide open.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
You sprint in and see…Jack, standing in the middle of your trophy room, where you keep all the personal effects of the people you've killed. They line the walls, spanning at least a decade of murders you've done.
“You did all this?” Jack turns back to look at you, furrowing his brows at how out of breath and panicked you look. “Everything alright, baby?”
“I…” You don't know what to say.
Because surely whatever you and him have is over, right?
He's going to turn you in, right?
Why wouldn't he after seeing how many people you've killed over the years…
Maybe because he's crazy about you. To the point where this doesn't bother him in the slightest.
But he can tell you're worried so he steps up to you, pulling you into his arms for a hug.
“We're okay.” He pats your head gently. “I don't love you any less.”
“Really?” You ask, both about this and about the fact that he just said he loves you.
“If anything, I'm impressed.” He had read through your logbook, where you wrote down the reasoning behind each kill. They were all terrible partners who hurt the people they were supposed to love most.
“Don't say that…” You shouldn't be praised for your compulsion.
“I'm just stating the obvious.” Anyone would be impressed that you managed to get away with this many murders.
As fucked up as that is…
“Jack…” You're unsure if you believe that he actually accepts the fact that you're a serial killer.
But he reassures you. “I won't tell a soul. I'm not going to let them arrest my fiancé.”
You are left absolutely speechless at that which makes him chuckle.
“God, you are so fucking cute.” He cups your face with his hands, pinching your cheek. “Lighten up. I'm not leaving you and you're not leaving me because if you try, I'll kill you before the FBI gets the chance.”
You look up into his eyes then say, “promise?”
“I promise.” He leans down then to seal that promise with a kiss.
Because now you're stuck with him and all his craziness.
And you wouldn't want him any other way...
a/n: freak4freak nation is back, baby! I had a lot of fun with this one (though I always have fun so this one was just super duper fun!) because I just wanted jack to be so touch starved and nuts that ofc he would be okay if you were a serial killer! that man is a lover boy fr ~
summary: the pitt notices the growing tension between you and dr. jack abbot, even after you're moved to the day shift temporarily - spurring forth a secret bet you're both unaware of. jack is there when you get injured at work, and he shows you just how helpful his hands can be.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, porn with a lotta plot (we work for our porn in this household), undefined age gap, hint at power imbalance (they're both consenting adults), sloooow burn, swearing, jealousy, mutual pining, jack is a yearner, so much tension it's dizzying, santos is a menace, lots of dialogue, reader has had knee surgery, reader gets injured, mentions of jack's prosthetic, swat jack, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, baby), detailed explicit smut, reader is desperate (aren't we all for that old man), dirty talk, teasing, praise kink, nipple play, fingering, oral (f!recieving), squirting, jack comes untouched, thigh grinding, unprotected pnv (reader is on birth control), service dom!jack, aftercare, dual pov, no use of y/n, not beta read, partly proofread, smut is not proofread (whatever i wrote is between me and the demon that possessed me)
word count: 16.7k (last 6k is straight up smut)
authors note: part 2 is finally here 😭 i have been going back and forth on this for weeks; i cannot just go full smut so apologies for the additional plot to part 1 (i'm not sorry, i love the pitt shenanigans 🙂↕️). i finally listened to yes, chef - shawn...the man that you are. i live for praise so don't be shy 🫦
song inspo: ooo - amber mark
divider credits: red line divider by @/omi-resources, medical divider by @/sisterlucifergraphics
part one masterlist
Have you ever thought about the things we could do?
Wakin' up next day smellin' like my perfume
I'll turn you on, I know you want those
Late night views, just us two, me on you
Jack Abbot knew what he was doing was wrong.
Well, maybe not wrong per se—but it wasn't typical attending behaviour. He knew for a fact he wouldn't guide Crus to an empty patient room if he caught him with a slight limp, knew he wouldn't touch Ellis' bare leg let alone fucking massage it.
The first time it happened he convinced himself that no, it was typical attending behaviour—he was concerned that your pain would affect your ability to treat patients. And yeah, there was a sliver of understanding as well—he knew how hard it was to ignore the physical ache, how once it reached a point it became an obsessive loop of pain, pain, pain.
Having an excuse to touch you, to get close to you—that was just a bonus, it wasn't the sole reason he was helping you. At least that's what he kept on telling himself, to convince himself that the professional boundaries were still there.
The second time he dragged you into an empty patient room, he was able to admit to himself that it wasn't typical attending behaviour. And while helping to relieve your pain wasn't wrong, the thoughts he had with your leg on his lap definitely were.
The thoughts he carried home with him after every shift with you, they were wrong. But, fuck, did they feel so right. Touching himself remembering how your skin felt under his hands, replaying your small pained whimpers and the look of relief on your face —he knew that was wrong. Moaning your name out as he came over his fist and stomach, he knew that was wrong. But no one would ever know—you would never know.
"So," he started, his fingers pressing into the spots on your calf he knew were the worst. "Any more first date horror stories?"
He didn't know why he was asking. He didn't want to know about you going out with other men. But it was on the long list of things about you that kept him up as he tried to sleep—the incessant thoughts about you spending your time with a man that was undeserving. Endless thoughts about another man's hands tending to your knee, hands that were allowed to drift higher and pull sounds from you he could only dream about hearing.
You placed your hands behind you on the patient bed, leaning back on them. "No, I've learned my lesson. Think I might get started early on that whole single, crazy cat lady thing."
His breathy laugh brushed across your bare shin. "Oh, yeah? How's that going?"
You pretended to think for a second with a hum. "I went to an animal shelter the other day, there was a cute three legged cat that I wanted to adopt."
He felt his chest crack open with something warm at the thought of you with a little amputee cat.
"Why didn't you?" His hazel eyes were tender when they met yours.
"Just…don't know if it's the right time. They're much less work than dogs, but it's still a pet—something that would rely on me." You shrugged, looking up at the ceiling because his eyes were too intense. A small wince left you as he worked on a tight knot.
"You're a very reliable person, I'm sure you could manage just fine. Plus, it's a three legged cat—those guys are adorable." He finished with a half smile.
You looked at him again, a small smile gracing your lips. "It sounds like you really want me to adopt this cat."
Jack was ready to go to every animal shelter in Pittsburgh to find that cat himself, if it guaranteed you wouldn't waste any more time on a man that wasn't him.
He finished off the massage with a soft pat to your shin. "If it means that you won't date any more assholes, then yeah, I want you to adopt the damn cat."
You were aware of the eyes on you and Dr. Abbot since he began helping with your knee. It was obvious when Ellis' and Shen's eyes trailed after you both as Abbot steered you towards South seventeen the second time he noticed your pained wince and limp. And it was especially obvious when Nurse Vivi came into what she thought was an empty room, intending to prep it for a patient from chairs.
"Oh! I'm sorry, doctors." She shot you a peculiar smile, her eyes flicking down to your exposed leg. "You okay?"
Dr. Abbot stood up and approached the door that Vivi was half standing in. "Yep. Just an old injury flare up." He said casually, like he did this for every one of his staff. He gave you a single nod before walking back into the ED.
The few hours until the end of your shift after that incident were full of raised eyebrows from Lena and Bridget—mainly directed at Dr. Abbot—and curious side-eyes from Ellis.
Lena approached you in the staff locker room as you grabbed your bag, Ellis doing the same at her locker next to yours.
"Hey, sweetie," she gave you a warm smile. "You know you can tell me if anything, if anyone, is making you uncomfortable, right?"
You felt heat rush up your neck—you understood what she was insinuating immediately. "Yes, of course!"
She tilted her head to the side, a look of suspicion pulling at her features.
You sighed, "it's nothing, really. I have an old sports injury that's been acting up, and Dr. Abbot has been helping when it slows me down."
Lena nodded slightly with a small smile. "He's a good man."
You didn't need the reminder. It was something that had you spiralling while trying to sleep more often than not lately.
"Let us know when it acts up again, okay? An ex once told me I have the hands of a masseuse." She ended with a wink before exiting, throwing a wave at you two over her shoulder.
The fourth and last time Dr. Abbot sat on a stool in front of you, it felt like you were under a microscope. You caught the double takes nurses did as they walked past the open curtain, and the small smirk on Ellis' lips had you wanting to shrink in on yourself.
You couldn't even enjoy the feel of his hands on your skin.
You couldn't enjoy the way his scrub sleeves were pulled taut around his biceps, the fabric straining against his thick muscles. You couldn't enjoy how every tendon in his arm tensed and moved while he massaged your calf, a sight that normally left you speechless—that left you with an ache you could only satiate with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was his instead.
Then there was the way Dr. Abbot looked at you in those brief moments you were alone—like he was memorising every detail about you. It made you want to crawl out of your skin. He was so goddamn attentive, catching every micro-flash of pain your face betrayed. And despite the sinking feeling that what you were doing was wrong, his hands on your skin felt so right—they left you feeling dizzy and flustered every time.
His voice was always softer, the rough edge of his professional doctor side falling away. He spoke to you almost as if you were a friend, and made it seem like this was something he often did with friends.
It was in that soft voice of his that he opened up about his own pain with his amputated leg—telling you the small things he did to help alleviate the pain, recommending you the cream he used, reminding you to take a small break whenever the chaos quietened enough.
"Can't have my best resident suffering," he mumbled, his eyes flicking to your mouth when one of your pained whimpers slipped free.
You chuckled through the tightness in your chest from his praise. "Don't let Ellis or Crus hear you say that—they might swap to the day shift in retaliation."
He let out a scoff. "Nah, they're too weird for the day shift," he gave you one of his signature winks. "Besides, I think Ellis would end up in a fist fight with Robby if she had to spend a full twelve hour shift with him. God knows how many times I've been close to punching him."
You threw your head back with a loud laugh, your body shaking from the intensity. You gave him a teasing smile after you caught your breath. "Isn't he one of your closest friends?"
Jack couldn't stop the full blown grin on his face, the sound of your laughter filling his body with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.
"And? You telling me you haven't wanted to cause your friends physical harm when they were being dicks?"
Another giggle slipped out of you. "Yeah, you've got me there. Santos has a photo of a bruise I gave her when we went out a few weeks ago." You held up a finger as his eyes shot up to yours, his eyebrows raised in surprise and his mouth parting to no doubt give you shit. "Before you say anything, she totally deserved it."
He shook his head with a small laugh, squinting his eyes at you. "I'm sure she did."
He finished massaging your leg, rolling your scrub pant down over your knee. He flashed you a small smirk before giving your calf a light pinch.
"I always knew you had a fiery side."
Fuck.
At the end of your next shift was when you realised how serious it really was. You were standing in the ambulance bay before morning rounds, catching a breath of fresh air when Dana joined you outside.
"I can already feel this is gonna be a long one," she huffed, pulling out a cigarette and lighter.
She lit the cigarette and took a long drag before looking at you with a glint in her eye. "You nightcrawlers are great at leaving a mess behind."
"Hey, that's not on me. I clean up after my weirdos." You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the exterior wall.
"You ever think about coming back to us, kid?" She flicked the butt of her cigarette, bringing it to her lips for another puff. "Step back into the light, you need the sunshine." She patted your cheek lightly.
You rolled your eyes fondly. "Always the mama bear, Dana. I get plenty of light, seeing as how my shift finishes when the sun comes up."
She let out a soft chuckle. "Touché."
She cleared her throat softly before taking a step closer and laying a hand on your arm. Her voice dropped low, soft. "Nurses, they like to talk. And you have been a hot topic lately, missy."
You tensed immediately, a nervous laugh slipping past your lips. "What—what are you talking about? Has my…work been called into question?"
She rubbed your arm with a squeeze. "No, no, nothing like that. People are just worried, maybe a little intrigued. Is there anything I should know, doll?"
"Is this about Dr. Abbot?"
She gave you a brief nod and you sighed, your head dropping forward. The exhaustion from the twelve hour shift was bordering on unbearable and all you wanted was to crawl into bed.
"I swear, nothing is happening. I would never do that, would never jeopardise my career like that. He just happened to notice my knee injury a few weeks back and has been helping when it hurts. I told Lena all this…" you trailed off, your voice dropping to a mumble.
She finished her cigarette, pressing the butt against the wall before chucking it in the bin next to her. She turned back to you, a look of understanding on her face and a glimmer in her eye.
"Okay, I just wanted to hear it from you." She pulled you into a side hug, squeezing tight. "I'll tell the rumour mill to pipe down, don't want you running off before you become an attending."
You both walked back into the ED, only one of you aware of the conversation that was happening on the hospital's rooftop.
The brisk morning air was biting on the roof, tingling Robby's cheeks as he pushed the door open and let it swing shut with a loud thud behind him.
Jack was leaning against the roof's railing, both arms braced against the cold metal with tension lining his shoulders. He didn't bother turning—there was only one person who knew to find him on the roof at this hour.
"What are you doing, brother?" Came Robby's gruff voice, partially swallowed by the early morning sounds from the city around them.
"Engaging in quiet contemplation. You?"
"Not what I'm talking about." Robby stopped beside his friend, resting his side against the railing with his hands in his pockets.
Jack shot him a side glance, "I have many talents; mind reading isn't one of them."
Robby raised his eyebrows, giving Jack a pointed look. "I'm talking about your resident."
"Crus? I've left him in charge for ten minutes tops, he can't have caused that much damage."
"Don't play dumb. It's not a good look on you."
"You're wrong, everything is a good look on me." Jack shot his friend a half smirk, the tension in his shoulders betraying his nonchalant behaviour.
Robby let out a frustrated scoff, growing tired of Jack's obvious deflecting. He straightened his posture and crossed his arms over his chest, showing his friend that he was serious.
"You know what's not a good look? Dragging your resident into empty patient rooms and massaging her fucking leg." Robby said, a sharp bite to his words.
Jack winced, dropping his head forward slightly. He didn't think word would get to Robby that fast.
"I'm just trying to help her." Jack grumbled, feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "It's not a big deal."
Robby let out a loud incredulous laugh. "Tell her to go see a goddamn physio, Jack!"
Jack sighed and shook his head, growing frustrated at this conversation. Tell you to waste money seeing a physio? When he was more than willing to help, to provide the relief you need?
"I want to help her."
For a second, everything around them froze. The wind came to a halt, the sounds of early morning traffic dissipated. All that was distinguishable was the sincerity in Jack's voice, the conviction behind his words. And that's when Robby knew that this—whatever it was, whatever Jack was feeling—ran deeper than what Lena had insinuated to him and Dana the day before.
Robby shook his head with a small, disbelieving laugh. "You're fucking screwed, my friend."
Jack twisted his wedding ring around his finger, trying to ground himself. He didn't want to accept his feelings for you, didn't want to unlock the door that was clearly labelled 'DANGER' in bright red letters.
"I'm moving her to the day shift."
Jack's reaction was instant.
He pushed off from the railing, crossing his arms over his chest and levelling a cold glare at Robby.
"No. She's my best resident." His tone was sharp, his annoyance bleeding through.
"It's just for a week, while Whitaker is visiting his family." Robby sighed as Jack stood strong, his shoulders moving in a shrug that said 'why should I care'. "You know we need all the help we can get on the day shift—you nightcrawlers can survive without her."
Jack didn't believe that for a second. He needed you on the night shift with him—needed it like he needed air to breathe. The thought struck him deep in his chest, a cold realisation seeping into his bones.
Robby clapped him harshly on the back, throwing an arm over his shoulders as he pivoted them to walk to the rooftop door.
"You could be more grateful—I'm saving your sorry ass from a gruelling trip to HR."
When Robby told you they needed you back on the day shift to cover for Whitaker you were hesitant at first. Not that you had much say in the matter, but the timing of it felt suspicious—Dana had just questioned you about the Abbot situation, and not even thirty minutes later Robby was pulling you aside for a chat about your schedule.
It didn't help that multiple pairs of eyes were not so subtly watching your conversation with your chief attending. You tried your best to not let your surprise show, offering Robby a small smile and a "no problem". One pair of eyes was harder to ignore than the others—eyes that you fantasised about more often than not, eyes that you had to pinch yourself from getting lost in.
Eyes that followed you as you said goodbye to your colleagues, engaging in excited conversation with Mohan and McKay who were ecstatic to have you back on the day shift. Eyes that didn't care that their obvious staring had drawn unwanted attention.
Ellis was finishing up her notes on a patient, tablet in hand as she prepared to pass them off to Santos. She was watching her night shift attending with a small smirk on her face—his forlorn puppy dog expression making her disturbingly pleased. Santos let out a snicker beside Ellis, her own eyes clocking Dr. Abbot's yearning disposition.
Ellis turned to Santos, both sporting matching smirks on their faces with a mischievous gleam in their eyes.
"Want to start a new bet?"
Jack was furious with Robby.
Actually, he was angry with a lot of people lately. He was quicker to snap, his patience wearing thin—on track to lose his title of being the 'fun dad' of the PTMC Emergency Department.
Robby had told him that you were only going to be back on the day shift for one week, just to cover while Whitaker was away. It had been three weeks since Whitaker had returned to the Pitt, and you were still on the day shift.
The night shift had been surviving without you, though barely hanging on by a thread. The main issue they were having? Abbot's perpetual foul mood.
The only time the night shift ever saw a flicker of something warm cross their attending's face was during shift change. It had them all raising their eyebrows, looking at each other knowingly, and digging into their wallets.
"Thirty bucks on Abbot making a move after a paramedic hits on her." Shen murmured to the group gathered at the Hub during shift change, him and Ellis keeping watch in case you or Dr. Abbot appeared. He had witnessed a paramedic hit on you once before, right in front of Abbot. He thought he heard a bone in Abbot's hand fracture from how tightly clenched his fists were.
"Nah," Princess breathed out. "I'm putting twenty on them being together for at least a month."
Perlah hummed next to her. "You thinking they got together after that bad date?"
Dana peered at the group huddled at the counter over the top of her glasses. "Have you seen how he's pining after her? There's no way they're together."
Ellis let out a little whistle, the signal for one of you nearby. The group split off in different directions, Shen slipping a handful of cash into Ellis' hand as they passed each other.
Robby hummed from his spot next to Dana, eyebrows raised as he read over a chart. "You know you shouldn't be entertaining them…"
Dana scoffed, her eyes tracking you as you stepped into Central nine. "You're one to talk—I heard you bet fifty on him confessing after she gets hurt."
"I bet twenty," Dana gave Robby a knowing look, raising her eyebrows at him. "What? I know my friend and I know his white knight complex."
"Yeah," Dana murmured quietly, "that's going to catch up to him one day." She gathered a stack of papers on the counter, stamping them down on the surface to straighten them. Her eyes flicked back up to Robby. "You really think he's going to do somethin' before she becomes an attending?"
Robby sighed, dragging a hand down the side of his face—his beard audibly scratching against his palm. "He stopped wearing his wedding ring a couple weeks ago. I think he's been holding himself back longer than he'd ever care to admit."
The first week you were on the day shift, Jack found himself walking into the ED twenty minutes earlier than he usually did. By the third week, he was standing at the Hub over an hour before shift change. He quickly found out his early arrivals were both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because it was an extra hour he got to see you; to hear you laugh at something Princess said, to admire you as you cared for your patients, to be by your side the second you let out a wince.
A curse because Santos was hell bent on torturing him. He knew she was doing it on purpose—she had a whole twelve hour shift to talk to you, to gossip about your personal lives, yet it seemed that whenever he was near you two all she wanted to talk about was your dating life.
"I know you're still pissed about Mark," Santos started, slinging an arm around your shoulder as you checked the board at the Hub. "But—hear me out—there's a pedes attending at Presby I want to set you up with."
Jack slowed down on the other side of the Hub, pulling up a random chart on a discarded tablet to act busy while his ears strained to hear the rest of your conversation with Santos. A pedes attending? Really?
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "You're joking, right? I am not going out with anyone you suggest ever again."
Santos groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "How many times do I need to apologise? I'm sorry, okay—I promise Ben is the real deal, he won't make you pay for anything."
You shrugged her arm off your shoulder, turning to face her with your arms crossed. "Wow, that's a real high bar you got there, Trin. I feel spoiled," you drawled sarcastically.
She held her hands up in defence. "Fine, don't believe me. You're the one who's going to be sorry you let a catch slip through your fingers."
Her eyes glanced over to the other side of the Hub, catching the way Abbot was standing still with rigid shoulders and a frown pulling at his face. She couldn't stop the small smirk twitching her lips—he was definitely listening.
"Garcia can vouch for him, they did their residency together." She watched, delighted, as your arms loosened, your mouth moving side to side like you were considering it. "And," she dragged out, "he's exactly your type."
You rolled your eyes, but the small bite to your bottom lip gave away your interest. "What, emotionally unavailable?"
You watched as Santos eyes lit up, a slow smirk taking over her face as she subtly nodded towards where Dr. Abbot was standing.
"Old."
A rush of heat crawled up your neck and you elbowed her in the ribs. "Shut up," you hissed with wide eyes.
"You two done gossiping over there?" Dr. Abbot's voice barked out. "I'm sure your patients would love to know they bled out because you were busy planning a date."
You whipped your head to the side, your shocked eyes meeting his cold glare. His hands were gripping the counter's edge, his eyebrows raised as he gave you a pointed look.
You scrambled under his attention. "Sorry, Dr. Abbot, won't happen again." You shot Santos a sharp look before turning on your heels and hurrying towards the North nurses station.
Santos jutted her hip out and crossed her arms over her chest, levelling her superior with a knowing look across the Hub.
"What's the matter? You jealous, Abbot?"
He straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back. Everything about his posture screamed composed—except for the muscle that flexed his jaw.
"Get back to work."
Trinity turned back to the board with a hum, satisfaction thrumming through her veins. She was definitely going to win the bet.
The torture didn't stop there. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, Jack had to hear more about your dating life—this time at the end of a punishing twelve hour shift.
You were walking through the ambulance bay doors with Santos on your right and Mohan on your left. The three of you were fresh-faced in the early morning hours, each of you holding a cup of coffee in your hands. Jack's eyes were drawn to you instantly, catching the way the fluorescent lights brightened your eyes and highlighted the sleepy smile stretching your lips.
He was too busy getting lost in the mere sight of you to notice the sly look Santos threw his way.
"What is it that you like about older guys?" Trinity asked, nudging you with her elbow. Mohan let out a chuckle from your other side, suddenly finding her coffee very fascinating.
You shot Santos a bewildered look, your brows furrowing and mouth parting slightly. Before you could express your confusion, she continued.
"Is it the knee thing?"
"What?" You asked, a puzzled laugh lacing your words. "What are you talking about?"
"Do you bond with them over your upcoming knee replacements?" Santos asked with a cocky grin.
"Oh, shut up," you shove her shoulder lightly. "It's way too early for me to deal with your abuse."
The three of you reached the Hub, exchanging soft smiles and greetings with the night shift nurses. Your eyes flickered to Dr. Abbot briefly, his broad frame hard to ignore. He met your eyes for a second, giving you a small nod before turning to Lena.
"But seriously, I'm curious," Santos said, resting her elbows on the counter and cocking her head to the side. She didn't bother lowering her voice, gaining the attention of your colleagues scattered around the Hub—which, unbeknownst to you, was her full intention.
You narrowed your eyes at the mischievous smile on her face, a sense of dread tightening your throat. That look never meant anything good for you.
"How do you fuck your geriatric boyfriends when you've both got bad knees?"
A chorus of sounds echoed around the Hub.
Mateo snickered loudly behind his hand.
Samira let out a shocked gasp beside you.
Lena muttered, "oh dear."
Robby let out a long exhale, his mouth trembling in effort to not bark out a laugh.
"What the fuck, Trinity!" You exclaimed, slapping her arm harshly. Your response earned a few chuckles to sound out around you, causing the embarrassment you were feeling to clog your throat. Your wide eyes found Dr. Abbot's, his blank expression giving nothing away.
You quickly brushed past your amused coworkers, shoulder checking Santos on your way to the lockers. For a brief second, mortified tears blurred your vision. It was one thing for her to talk about setting you up on dates while working, but to make a joke about your sex life—in front of the unattainable attending she knew you had a crush on—was a step too far.
Jack watched as you bolted through the ED, a mix of emotions storming within him. He was irate with Santos, jealous about whoever these 'boyfriends' were, and concerned about you. He caught the flicker of hurt that crossed your face at Santos' question, the panic in your eyes when you looked at him.
And, he couldn't ignore the desire pooling low in his gut. Because it was something he had thought about—what position would feel best for you, what would guarantee you the most pleasure without hurting your knee. And he knew that if he ever was lucky enough to have you writhing under him, he wouldn't give a fuck about his leg.
Whilst Santos' jabbing was uncouth, it did confirm one important thing for him—you liked older men. Enough to want to fuck them.
That fact had his cock twitching in his scrub pants.
"You hear that, brother?" Robby murmured quietly, standing closer to Jack than he was a second before. "You might have a chance." Robby chuckled and gave Jack a pat on the shoulder before turning to the staff gathered at the Hub.
"Alright," he exclaimed, clapping his hands together once, "day shift, gather round."
The PTMC Emergency Department was a high stress, fast paced environment. You had seen multiple of your fellow coworkers take a tumble, faint from exhaustion, or be injured due to a patient's aggression. Every time it happened, Dana sternly directed them to the staff break room without fail. You had made it to your fourth year of residency without being dragged there once. That's not to say you didn't get injured, you just hid your pain better than others—one of the pros of living with chronic pain for so long (or a con, depending on who you asked). You were just two months away from becoming an attending, and you were determined to keep the record for the least amount of injuries endured during your time at PTMC—even if it was a record that you were the only one keeping track of.
Stupid Ogilvie and his lack of spatial awareness.
You let out a hiss as Dana pressed an ice pack against your knee. You were sitting at the small round table in the break room with your injured leg resting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
"Oh, hush, you big sook," Dana said with a small teasing smile. The faint line between her eyebrows gave away her concern, though.
A small rush of air left your nose—something that might've been a laugh if you weren't preoccupied with the unbearable throbbing in your knee.
Dana brushed a stray hair back from your forehead, fixing you with a pointed stare. "I need to get back out there or else the whole place is going to fall apart." She poked your forehead gently, "you need to stay put, missy. Understood?"
You nodded with a small pout. "Yes, understood. No more life saving today," you grumbled out.
"Good. If you need anything…you're Ogilvie's patient now," she said over her shoulder, throwing you a wink before closing the door behind her.
"I never want to see his face again," you mumbled petulantly to the empty break room.
With nothing else to do but sit, you grabbed the tablet off the table and started to catch up on charting—or what you could catch up on without a hospital computer. Twenty minutes later you were groaning with your head in your hands, your good leg on the ground bouncing impatiently. Ten minutes of doing nothing and you were already bored shitless. You could hear the symphony of a busy ED calling to you through the closed door—voices shouting over one another, an urgent page being called over the speaker system, a child with a healthy set of lungs screaming.
Back in the ED, Jack was ripping off his blood soaked gloves in Trauma two. He had just finished performing a clamshell thoracotomy on his buddy Officer Riveria, who had been shot in the chest from crossfire during an armed bank robbery. Jack walked the short path towards Central, tearing off his SWAT vest and dumping it on a chair in the Hub—barely paying any attention to Dana who scoffed at his appearance.
He could feel his t-shirt clinging to his skin uncomfortably, sweat soaking through to his SWAT uniform leaving visible patches—which he couldn't care less about in that moment. He had been in the ED for half an hour already, and he had yet to hear your voice. It was unsettling.
Even during the most adrenaline inducing, hectic shifts he could still make out your voice above the noise. And last time he looked at the schedule, you were meant to be working the day shift.
"Hello to you, too," Dana mumbled, raising her eyebrows at Abbot's swivelling head.
"Hi," he glanced at her briefly before looking at the board, trying to see if you were assigned to any patients. "Where is she?"
Dana chuckled, shaking her head. Of course he noticed you weren't on the floor. "Who?"
Jack responded with your name quickly, just as McKay stopped next to him at the Hub—letting Dana know a patient was ready for discharge.
"Oh," McKay snorted, "Ogilvie knocked her down with a gurney earlier."
"What?" Jack seethed, levelling a glare at Dana—why wasn't that the first thing she said to him?
"Take it easy, soldier." Dana gave him a sharp look. "She's in the break room, she's fi—"
Jack didn't wait to hear the rest of her sentence, darting through the ED in a rush to get to you. He flung the door open to the break room with force, making you look up at him with startled eyes.
"Dr. Abbot? What are you doing here?"
He ignored your question, making his way to you in two long strides and squatting down next to your injured leg. You watched as his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched tightly, an irritated huff leaving him. Your eyes wandered from his face to his shoulders, your eyebrows scrunching at his camo sleeves—was he wearing fucking SWAT gear?
"What are you wearing—"
"I'm going to fucking kill Robby," he seethed.
"Robby? What did he do?" You asked, your head swirling with more questions.
Dr. Abbot lifted the ice pack off your knee gently, drawing in a sharp breath at your red, swollen joint. His eyes snapped up to yours, a battle of concern and anger warring in the hazel depths.
"This wouldn't have happened if you were with me."
Jack realised his slip a second too late, watching your eyes widen in surprise at his words.
"If you were on the night shift," he mumbled quickly, his eyes darting back down to your injured leg.
A calloused finger pressed softly to the bottom of your knee, just below the swelling. A pained wince left you at the barely there touch.
"Fuck, sweetheart." Abbot whispered, his brows pulling together in worry. "This doesn't look good."
"I'm fine," you breathed out quickly, your heartbeat picking up at him calling you sweetheart again. "It's fine, it was an accident."
"It's not fine," he said sternly. "You're hurt."
"I've dealt with worse."
He let out a deep sigh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He stood back up—his leg twinging briefly in complaint. He took a few steps back, leaning against the kitchenette and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Alright—if you say you're fine, stand up."
You met his raised eyebrows with a deadpan stare—your bruised pride fighting against the desire to submit to him, to let him take care of you.
You sucked in a breath, lifting your injured leg off the chair and placing it on the floor hesitantly. The pull of gravity had your knee aching in an instant, the swollen joint throbbing incessantly. You tried to keep your face blank as you braced both hands on the table, using it to support yourself as you rose to your feet. You put all your weight on your good leg, and Dr. Abbot clocked it immediately—his eyes glued to your legs as you tried to stand nonchalantly.
"Take a step."
That stupid stubbornness flared hot despite the agony you were in, not wanting someone—especially the attending you thought about obsessively—to take care of you. Well, the problem was how badly you wanted him to take care of you, and you refused to let that show—to be the damsel in distress.
You took a small step forward on your injured leg and crumbled in a second, trying to bite back a pained whimper and failing. Abbot was there before you could catch yourself on the table, one strong arm wrapping around your waist and a steady hand supporting your upper back.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," he mumbled low, his body so close to yours that you could feel his voice rumble through you.
Jack stood still, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. Your breath was warm against his neck, your curves soft beneath his hands, and he could feel you leaning into him. It was fucked up—you were injured, biting down your pain to try not be an inconvenience, and he wanted more. He wanted so much more.
Keeping his arm around your waist, he grabbed your bag hanging off the chair and hiked it up his shoulder. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, drawing your attention to the gun on his hip—
What the fuck, since when was that there?
"What's your address?"
Your eyes snapped up to his face, your mind trying to process the sight of him in sweaty SWAT gear with a fucking handgun strapped to his hip. "Huh?"
He didn't look at you, thumb tapping on his phone. "I'm getting you an uber home. Give me your address."
"N-no, thank you, but I—"
He levelled you with a hard look, his eyes unrelenting. "This is not a discussion. Your address, now."
A thrill shot up your spine, his bossiness doing concerning things to your mind and body. You gave in, mumbling out your address—your body still actively aware of his thick arm wrapped around your waist, his warmth radiating through your clothes.
Jack grabbed your arm, slinging it over his shoulder and bringing you closer to his body—your perfume and something uniquely you cutting through the antiseptic and settling in his chest. His body screamed at him to turn his head, to bury his nose in your hair and inhale your scent like it was oxygen. His hand on your waist gripped tighter.
"What are you—" you started, shocked by his sudden closeness. The lines and freckles on his face were even more deadly this close.
"It's either this or I carry you. Your choice."
You slowly limped your way towards the door, consciously leaning as little weight on Dr. Abbot as possible—worrying about the strain you were putting on his prosthetic leg. Pain shot through your knee with every step you took.
"That's not gonna do, sweetheart."
He pulled you closer to him, essentially lifting you with every step. It took the weight off your leg, and had your breath stuttering at his strength.
Heat flushed throughout your body as you neared the Hub, your head dropping to ignore the curious and teasing stares from your coworkers.
"Hey, prince charming!" Dana's voice called over the rush of the ED. "This isn't your dumping ground!" Both your heads turned to see her holding his SWAT vest, shaking it with a pointed look before swinging her arm back and throwing it.
The hand steadying your arm on his shoulder lifted, catching the vest with ease. He handed it to you without a word, your free hand clasping around the slightly damp fabric.
It felt like it took hours to get to the ambulance bay, all the eyes on you two making you feel like an animal on display at the zoo. As you reached the doors, you faintly heard Javadi's voice behind you.
"Why didn't he grab a wheelchair?"
The uber was already waiting and Dr. Abbot helped you in the backseat before rounding the boot and getting in the other side. The door slammed shut, leaving you enclosed in the small space with your devastatingly attractive attending and crush.
"What are you doing?"
He grabbed your bag off his shoulder and the vest from your hand, putting them on the floor in front of him. His fingers clasped around your injured leg gently, lifting it and resting it on his lap.
"Making sure you get home safe."
The twenty minute drive to your apartment was quiet, the soft music droning from the car's speakers the only noise filling the uber. Dr. Abbot's hands rested on your leg the whole time, his thumbs rubbing absentminded patterns on your scrub covered shin.
Your brain stopped functioning approximately two minutes after the car pulled away from PTMC, when the first slow circle of his thumbs started. Instead of feeling the throbbing pain of your knee, you felt a throb grow north of it—slow strokes of fire coursing up your leg and gathering at the apex of your thighs. It was embarrassing, how desperately your body reacted to him and he wasn't even touching your skin.
You stared out the window the whole ride, despite how badly all the cells in your body ached to look at him—to map the lines of his face, to catch the way the sunlight coming through the window highlighted his stubbled jaw and changed the colour of his eyes. God, his eyes. You wanted to get lost in them, to watch them shift from honey amber to sunlit green—you wanted to know what colour they shifted to when dark with hunger, when dilated pupils eclipsed the sunburst irises.
Jack tried to keep his gaze locked on the seat in front of him, distracting himself with counting every individual stitch in the fabric. This was the fifth time he had placed your leg in his lap, but it felt different than the times previous. Maybe it was the protective anger curdling his gut—he had already drafted three carefully worded texts to Robby in his head—or the dangerous pull in his chest telling him that you were right where you belonged, next to him. All he knew was that the aching need to take care of you was now etched into his bones. Sitting next to you in the uber on the way to your place had nothing to do with him worrying about you as your attending—he was just a man needing to look after the woman he cared about deeply.
He couldn't stop his eyes finding the side of your face even if he tried—he was a moth to a radiant flame. He stored more details away in the overflowing file cabinet with your name on it; how the sunlight made your hair glow, how your lashes fluttered as you fought off fatigue, how despite the exhaustion and pain shadowing your face you still looked beautiful—ethereal. He wanted to worship at your altar.
Once the uber parked outside your building, he was quick to lower your leg—hands oh so gentle, again—and grab the bag and vest off the floor. He was out of the car before you could blink, opening your door and helping you out of the car with the strong hands you fantasised about daily. He offered the driver a quick thank you and it struck you deep in the chest—such a simple, kind act that you had watched men fail to do time and time again.
Your arm was back over his broad shoulders, one of his securely wrapped around your waist. It only hit you then how badly your body had missed the warmth of his pressed against you. And then something more frightening—exhilarating—hit you: Dr. Jack Abbot was going to be in your apartment.
Your step faltered, your heartbeat picking up in terror—or anticipation, only god knows.
"Thank you for your help—for the uber—but you should go—"
"No."
"Your shift is in a few hours, you should rest."
He let out a frustrated huff through his nose, turning his head to shoot you a hard look—his fingers on your waist tightening.
"Quit being stubborn and let me help you."
You opened your mouth to protest more, to say he's helped you enough, but the words died on your tongue before they had formed. You were sore and exhausted—that was the excuse you told yourself for letting your attending guide you into the building.
Your place was exactly how you left it—half a dozen medical textbooks littering your coffee table, your laptop still open on the dining table with sticky notes of varying colours covering the surface, a few dirty dishes stacked next to the sink. Your basket of clean underwear sitting on the couch waiting for you to put away. Because, of course the day Dr. Jack Abbot helps you home is your lingerie wash day.
Heat rushed up your neck as he helped you limp towards the couch, dumping his SWAT vest on the coffee table before grabbing the basket and putting it on the floor out of the way. You watched, intrigued, as red dusted along his neck and cheeks, his eyes looking everywhere but you.
His hand lingered on your waist as you sat down, before he cleared his throat and helped you get situated—placing a throw pillow under your injured knee and another behind your back. He started to take off your shoes, and it hit you at a dizzying speed how natural and domestic this all felt.
How nice it felt to have him in your home, taking care of you with no fuss. You can't remember the last time someone treated you with such care—the few times you asked your exes for help with your knee pain they made you feel like a burden.
Having Abbot treat you so gently, so delicately, only made the butterflies storming in your stomach increase tenfold. You were starting to feel sick, overcome with dangerous emotions at the hands of your attending.
You dropped your eyes to your hands fidgeting in your lap. "Thank you again, Dr. Abbot. For—"
"Jack."
You looked up at him to find him already staring down at you. Your hands started to shake.
"What?"
His voice was soft, low. "When it's just you and me, it's Jack."
You heart decided to find a home in your throat. "Oh…well, I appreciate your help," you smiled up at him softly, "Jack."
In that moment, Jack knew he was done for. He had noticed you only ever called him by his doctor title or last name, and now he knew why. His name sounded like it was made to slip from your tongue, like everyone else before you had said it wrong. He had to be careful—if you said his name with that little smile again, he was sure he would drop to his knees before you.
He stepped away from the couch, needing to do something else to distract his brain from the fantasy of you gasping out his name as he tasted you. He grabbed his vest and walked towards the kitchen—the open plan layout allowing him to keep an eye on you still.
You watched as he removed his gun from its holster, checking the safety was on before pulling the clip out, disarming it—the act alone sending a shiver racing up your spine. He didn't need to do that, but you figured he did it for your peace of mind—to ensure you felt safe in your own home. It had no right being that hot.
Your eyes landed on the gun and vest now sitting on your kitchen counter before you ran them over his sweaty uniform again, unconsciously biting your lip.
"So, you moonlight as a…SWAT medic?"
He started to look through your kitchen cabinets, pulling out a water glass. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."
"And all the men's shed's in Pittsburgh were at full capacity?"
He filled the glass with water, the side of his mouth quirking with a smirk. "Didn't meet the age requirement. I'll try again next year."
He brought the glass of water over to you, an amused glint in his eye.
"That where you scout for your dates? The men's shed?"
Your cheeks grew warm. "I am going to kill Santos," you muttered.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket and you pulled it out to see multiple texts from Santos. Speak of the devil.
Trin: (412) 858-5725
Trin: Ben's phone number
Trin: If your knight in sweaty swat gear doesn't make a move
You put your phone away quickly, grabbing the glass from the coffee table and taking a deep gulp to try soothe your nerves.
"Where do you keep your pain meds?"
Jack was still standing next to the couch, looking down at you with his hands in his pockets.
"There's a box under the bathroom sink," you told him. "First door on the left."
Jack returned less than a minute later, carrying your overflowing plastic container of pain medication—an eyebrow raised in surprise.
"Should I be concerned you're going to start a meth lab with these?"
"Medical textbooks are ridiculously expensive."
He chuckled in response, putting the container on the kitchen counter and grabbing a handful of pills for you. You accepted them with a small thank you, watching as he sat on the small armchair diagonal to you.
He nodded towards the textbooks splayed out on your coffee table. "How's the studying going?"
An involuntary sigh slipped out of you. "It's going fine, I guess." His furrowed eyebrows prompted you to elaborate more. "I'm—being on the day shift, I'm struggling to find the time to study." You watched his jaw clench and you quickly backpedalled. "I mean, that's not an excuse—I'm not trying to blame being on the day shift! It's my own poor time management, Samira seems to be doing fine. I just think the night shift suited me more…I miss you—it. I miss the night shift."
Your face was a furnace by the time you finally shut your mouth, refusing to look at Jack and instead glaring at the textbooks on the table like they had caused you grave pain.
"We miss you too."
Jack was struggling to control his breathing, feeling angry at Robby for keeping you off the night shift for the past month. Angry at himself for not pushing harder to keep you with him. It was obvious the day shift was not what was best for your well-being; here you were in front of him injured—by a day shift intern—, exhausted from the long shifts, and barely finding the time to study for your attending boards. He would bet his good leg that the only thing in your pantry was packets of ramen.
He took the lull in conversation to look around your apartment properly, a faint smile curving his lips as he spotted the decorations and trinkets that were very you. Something fond gripped his chest at the photos on your bookshelf. There was one of you and Santos on a night out—tipsy smiles and arms slung over shoulders—another of you and Ellis in your scrubs pulling the finger at the camera, and one on a higher shelf that had his heart tumbling.
It was of the night shift, everyone crammed into a small diner booth after a particularly rough shift. You two were sat next to each other, his head leaning back on the booth seat as he slept and your head turned to him with a soft smile on your face. He remembered the day it was taken—everyone called him grandpa for a week afterwards for falling asleep—but he didn't remember you looking at him like that. Like he hung the moon and the stars.
He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the emotion clogging it. He opened his mouth and said the first thing he thought of. "No cat?"
You lifted your head, looking at him quizzically. "I've never had a cat."
"What about the one we talked about?"
"Oh, that cat." You shrugged, "someone else adopted the little guy before I could."
"That sucks." And because his jealously won out over his logical mind when he was near you, he continued. "Does that mean you're still dating assholes?"
You laughed nervously, crossing your arms over your chest. "Do we have to talk about my sorry excuse of a dating life?"
Jack stayed quiet, not sure how to downplay his interest in your dating life—in you.
You sighed. "No, I'm not dating assholes—I'm not dating anyone at the moment, despite Trin's persistence."
Jack let out a gruff hum, feeling both pleased that you're not wasting your time dating and annoyed at the reminder of Santos' terrible matchmaking. "So I've noticed."
You winced. "Sorry, I'll tell her to stop talking about it at work. Not that she listens to anything I say, but it's unprofessional."
Jack dragged a hand along his scruff, tempted to tell you that it was the jealously souring his gut that bothered him, not the unprofessionalism.
"How's your knee?"
You shifted your injured knee on the pillow, relieved when you only felt a dull ache instead of sharp throbbing. "Stiff, but the meds are kicking in at least."
"Did you get that cream I recommended?"
You started to get up from the couch, lifting your leg and clenching your teeth when the pain came back."Yeah, but I can go get it. You've done more than enough, you should—"
Jack was by the couch in less than a second, putting a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder to keep you seated. "If you tell me to go one more time, I swear to god."
You looked up at him, your breath catching at his broad frame towering over you.
"I don't want you to think I'm a burden." Your voice was smaller than you would've liked, a crack lacing through.
Jack's heart fractured at your words, his walls starting to crash down. "You're not a burden to me. I want to help you."
The sincerity in his voice made yours shake. "Why?"
He took a deep breath. "For reasons I shouldn't say out loud."
Your heart stumbled before picking up, feeling like it was going to beat out of your chest.
"Jack…"
"Don't. Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you have no clue what you do to me."
But, you didn't know what you did to him. This was the first time you were aware he might've shared a fraction of the feelings you had for him.
"Let me take care of you and then I'll go, okay?"
You gulped, now feeling unsure of where you stood with your older attending. You gave him a small nod.
"Okay."
He stepped back, looking both satisfied and torn at your response. "Good."
"The cream, it's in my bedroom—but I'll go get it."
"No, you can't even walk by yourself. Stay there, I'll get it." He raised an eyebrow at the panicked look on your face. "Unless, you don't want me in your bedroom. You hiding dead bodies in there or something?"
That got a small laugh out of you, and he felt his shoulders relax the slightest—some of the tension from his almost confession dissipating.
Jack Abbot in your bedroom was a thought you had way too frequently, but that wasn't what had you stubbornly trying to stop him from getting the pain relief cream. It was because you knew the cream was in your nightstand—the same one your small collection of vibrators were in.
You were an adult. Owning a vibrator or two was normal. Jack was also an adult, you're sure he's seen sex toy's before. So, you sucked in a breath and put your big girl pants on.
"No, it's fine. I just—the cream's in the top drawer of the nightstand on the left."
Jack found your bedroom easily in your small apartment, your perfume and scent hitting him hard as soon as he pushed the door open wider. He stood still for a second, breathing in a deep lungful and feeling himself get even more addicted—if that was possible. He beelined for the nightstand, opening it and finding the cream he had recommended to you what felt like a lifetime ago. His hand faltered, his gaze finding the toys next to the cream—sticking out like a sore thumb. Your hesitation about him coming into your room suddenly made complete sense.
His cock twitched in his pants at the sight of them alone, and his traitorous mind didn't take long to supply him with the fantasy of you using the toys on yourself—laid out on your bed in front of him, listening to his commands as he told you how to fuck yourself.
He adjusted himself in his pants, shaking his head to try rid himself of the thoughts before walking back into your lounge.
You watched as Jack came back with the cream in hand, nerves tightening your throat at the deep red covering his neck and cheeks. He definitely saw the vibrators.
He didn't say a word, just waved the cream at you and sat on the other end of the couch—moving the pillow under your leg aside so he could move closer and rest your leg in his lap. Despite this not being the first time he's helped with your knee, it felt entirely different. Maybe it was his half confession lingering in the air, or the fact that you've been wound tightly for so long. Either way, the first touch of his fingers on your bare skin as he rolled your scrub pant over your knee had your core clenching desperately, embarrassingly.
The late afternoon sun streamed through your sheer curtains softly, painting your apartment in a dreamy haze that softened the edges of your mind. Neither of you spoke, the soft sounds of your breathing filling the room. His touch was featherlight on your knee, gently prodding to assess your pain—his intense gaze never leaving your face.
The first slide of the cream on your inflamed joint offered a small reprieve, a small sigh leaving your lips.
"This okay?"
You nodded, staring down at his hands on your leg—noticing the absence of his wedding ring. They drifted higher, rubbing the cream into the tight thigh muscles above your knee. A gasp slipped from you as his fingers pressed deeper, rolling a knot that had formed due to the tension from your injury.
Your eyes flicked up from watching his hands, finding his glued to your parted lips. They stayed there for a second longer before meeting yours and your breath caught in your throat. You could see where the amber bled into green, the faint blue ring on the edge of his irises. You watched his pupils dilate, his eyes darkening like a storm rolling through a forest.
Your eyes dropped to his lips, the soft light highlighting the stubble framing his face and making the cupids bow on his top lip stand out—looking incredibly enticing and kissable.
You both leaned in slowly, the thread between you pulling tighter. His breath brushed against your lips and the tension you'd been harbouring for months—years, even—snapped. You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in what you wanted to be a tender kiss but was anything but—your desperation bleeding out of you.
He breathed in through his nose sharply, his hands on your thigh tightening before he returned your kiss slowly. One of your hands bunched the fabric of his SWAT top, the other sliding up the back of his neck and finding its place in his silver curls. You pulled him closer, kissing him with more urgency.
A moan rumbled in Jack's throat at the feeling of your hand tugging his hair, and he brought a hand up to cup your jaw—losing himself in the press of your soft lips against yours. His hand on your thigh gripped tight and pulled you closer, briefly forgetting that you were in pain.
He sucked your bottom lip between his, nibbling on the plump flesh and drawing a soft whimper out of you—your hips trying to rock despite the awkward position of you half pulled onto his lap.
The sound had Jack's cock jumping eagerly, still half hard from thinking about you fucking yourself with your toys. His hand on your jaw slipped to grasp the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His tongue ran along your bottom lip and you opened for him without hesitation. The first caress of your tongue's against each other drew matching, low moans from both your chests.
You felt your core grow wetter and you needed more, your hand fisting his top travelling down to slide under his layers of clothes and touching his solid, yet soft, abdomen.
The feeling of your hand touching his skin had reality crashing down on Jack, making him pull away from your lips with visible effort. Your mouth chased after his with a small whine, the hand in his curls trying to yank him back to you.
"We shouldn't," he panted, his breath hot against your lips.
"Please," you whispered, not caring how desperate you sounded.
He dropped his forehead to your collarbone, a shaky moan leaving him at how needy you sounded and the intoxicating scent of you wrapping around him.
"You're injured, I'm your attending, this is—"
You grabbed his hand clutching your thigh, dragging it up until his fingers grazed your scrub covered core. All logic and reasoning faded from his mind as he felt the heat radiating through your clothes. He was shocked for a brief moment, that your aching need for him matched his own for you.
"Touch me, please. Make me feel good."
Jack thought he had died and gone to heaven—those sweet words whispered into his ear sounding even better than he had dreamed.
"Fuck," he breathed into your scrub top, his hand moving and cupping your core. A gasp shot out of you and you ground your hips against his hand.
His head lifted and he peppered light kisses on the side of your neck—his stubble scratching your skin lightly. You pushed his head harder into your neck, desperate for him to take more. He let out a chuckle at your eagerness.
"You always this needy?"
His teeth sinking into your neck stole any response you may have had, a moan leaving your lips instead. His kisses grew in confidence, his mouth leaving trails of spit across your skin as he relished in the sounds he was pulling from you. His hand on your core moved, his palm pressing harder against your clothed clit—your hips rocking faster in response.
You pulled his head from your neck, his dark eyes meeting yours before he lunged for your mouth, his kisses turning punishing—teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance, stubble scratching and burning your skin.
The warmth in your core transformed into a raging fire—you had never been this turned on by a kiss before. You could feel slick oozing from your cunt, your underwear sticking to your core where his hand was moving against you. You were sure you were leaking through your scrubs, and you might've been embarrassed if it weren't for the lust lighting up your body.
Jack pulled back, his hand stilling against you causing you to let out a displeased whine. He looked down at his hand, an expression of awe on his face as he saw his palm with a light sheen of wetness and the dark patch on your pants.
"You're wet." He said, like it was a miracle.
You nodded, both hands gripping his jaw to pull his lips back to yours. He turned his head, still looking at his hand in amazement. It had been a long time since he last touched a woman, but he didn't remember them getting this wet from some kissing and light groping.
Your lips found his neck, lavishing the wrinkled and freckled skin with the same attention he gave you. You bit along his jaw gently, soothing the bites with a wet glide of your tongue. His chest vibrated with a deep groan and you doubled your efforts, sucking on a spot below his ear. The sounds he was making made you even more wet, small whines getting stuck in your throat as your need for him ricocheted.
"Fucking hell, sweetheart." He groaned, his dick starting to leak from your mouth on his neck and the little sounds you let out. "You're gonna make me come in my pants if you keep doing that."
His words stroked the fire in you higher, your nerves singing with pleasure at the fact you were unravelling him just as he was you.
He pulled you away from him and stood up, watching as your hazy eyes blinked up at him unfocused, a small frown pulling your kiss swollen lips down.
He hooked an arm around your back and the other under your thighs, lifting you off the couch.
"Jack, your leg—"
"Is fine. Let me do this."
He ignored the strain on his amputated leg, carrying you the short distance to your bedroom. He laid you down on your bed gently, taking extra care to not jostle your knee.
You sat up on your elbows, biting your lip as he stood at the edge of your bed—not moving, just staring down at you with his mouth slightly agape.
"You have no idea how long I've thought about this. How long I've spent wanting you."
Your chest stuttered at his admission, heat licking up your spine at the raw want in his voice.
He leaned down, placing his hands either side of your head and kissing you slowly, tenderly. Your hands settled in his curls, your lips responding in kind—your chest aching with something far more dangerous than need.
He trailed kisses down your jaw and neck, nuzzling his nose into the junction where your neck met your shoulder and inhaling deeply. An almost pained groan tore from his throat and it made you arch up into him in need.
His hands gripped your hips and lifted you further up the bed, your head resting on your pillow. His thumbs rubbed on the sliver of bare skin your bunched scrub top exposed, his questioning eyes meeting yours. You lifted your arms up before he could ask, and he pulled the fabric over your head—throwing it somewhere behind him.
His eyes dropped to your chest and he licked his lips, his hand slipping behind your back to undo your bra clasp. He pulled your bra straps down your shoulders slowly, like he was unwrapping a delicate present.
"Jack," you breathed out, impatience lacing your tone.
He dropped his head, kissing along the swell of your breasts.
"Didn't know my name could sound so sweet until you said it." He mumbled into your skin.
He finally pulled your bra away, throwing it in the same direction as your top. He sucked in a sharp breath at your exposed breasts, his eyes closing briefly as he gathered himself.
"You're beautiful."
Then he latched onto one of your nipples, sucking lightly and pulling a gasp from you. A large hand cupped your other breast, his thumb rubbing circles around your nipple—the dual simulation making fire sprint down your abdomen to your core. Your hips rocked underneath him, and he chuckled at your desperation—the sound vibrating through your body.
Your hands found the hem of his SWAT top and pulled, wanting to see the thick muscle he hid underneath scrubs. His touch left you for a second as he pulled his top off, exposing the black t-shirt underneath. And you swear you'd never seen a simple t-shirt look so hot before. It was tight around his bulging biceps, his muscular abdomen pressing through the fabric. You only had a second to ogle before he was stripping it off as well, leaving you with a sight you had only dreamed about.
The only word in your head at that moment to describe Jack Abbot was thick. You knew he was big, but seeing it without clothes felt surreal. You ran your hands over his bare chest, marvelling at the muscles jumping beneath your touch. His skin was dusted in freckles, a patch of light hair covering his chest that was soft under your fingers. His shoulders were broad and your jaw ached to cover the sturdy flesh with bites.
You gripped his shoulders and pulled him down, your lips meeting in a desperate kiss that had you both moaning. Your hands travelled down his shoulders to his back, pulling his bare chest down to meet yours. The feeling of his pecks against your breasts had you sucking his bottom lip with need.
You slid a hand down his bulky abdomen, revelling in his body jerking under your hand. You dipped a finger in the waistband of his camo pants, pulling slightly before moving your hand down and cupping his hard cock through the fabric. The feel of him had your core clenching—he was big, bigger than you had ever taken. It sent a thrill coursing through you and you gripped him harder.
"Shit," he hissed, grasping your hand and pulling it away from him. "Not today, sweetheart. It's all about you now, okay?"
He kissed down your chest, lavishing at your breasts again and you let out an impatient whine, pushing his head down to where you needed him most.
"Stop teasing."
You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin. "But you sound so pretty."
He sucked harshly on your nipple, pulling it between his teeth and biting down. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, your knee throbbing from the sudden jolt but you didn't care. He repeated his ministrations on your neglected nipple before—finally— his kisses travelled down your stomach and stopped at the waistband of your scrub pants.
His lips sucked light marks along your lower stomach and hips, his fingers toying with your waistband and dipping under before tracing the marks his mouth left.
"Jack, please." You whined, your need echoing in your quiet room.
"You sound so good begging, baby."
He pulled away, hooking his fingers around your pants and underwear—slowly pulling them down your legs like he had all the time in the world. A groan rumbled out of him at the sight of your slick clinging to your underwear, a line keeping them connected to you until they reached your knees. He doesn't think he's seen anything hotter.
He was careful pulling your pants down over your injured knee, pressing a light kiss to your inflamed skin before your pants were finally off of you. He grabbed a spare pillow near your head, propping it under your knee and adjusting you so you were comfortably spread open with no weight bearing down on your knee. He kept his eyes on your face the whole time, checking for any hint of discomfort.
"You tell me if it starts to hurt, okay?"
You nodded in response.
"Words. I need words, sweetheart."
"Yes, I'll tell you, Jack. Just touch me already, please."
His eyes left your face, travelling down your heaving body and ending at your core. Your need was glistening all over your mound and a moan vibrated through him at the sight. He brought a hand to your core, his fingers lightly trailing down your wet slit making your hips jump off the bed. His other hand pressed flat against your lower stomach, his weight holding your hips down.
"You're fucking soaked. This all for me?"
You nodded quickly, your breaths coming quick—pent up from months of wanting and his merciless teasing.
"Yeah? I get you this wet?"
"Yes, Jack—only you. Been wet since I saw the SWAT uniform." The confession slipped from you, need obliterating your filter.
His face morphed into a shit-eating grin. "That right, pretty girl? I'll make sure to wear it more often."
He pulled away from you and you groaned in annoyance.
"What the fuck, Jack!"
He chuckled at your impatience, a cocky smirk plastered across his face. He sat on the edge of your bed, quickly pulling the leg of his pants up to take off his prosthetic leg and leaning it against your bed. He turned back to you, lowering himself between your legs—the feeling of his breath against your core making your thighs twitch.
"Just getting comfortable. No more teasing, promise."
And then he was licking a long strip up your dripping slit, his dark eyes holding your gaze captive. You threw your head back, a sigh of relief leaving you. One of his hands gripped the thigh of your injured leg, keeping you steady as the other pressed down on your lower stomach again. He licked torturous and slow, his eyes closing as he made out with your lower lips.
"Taste so fucking good, better than I imagined." He moaned into your core, eliciting a gasp from you.
Your hands found his soft curls, gripping tight as he feasted on you. You tried rocking your hips to chase the friction but his strong hand kept you still, making you whine pathetically.
His tongue found your clit, alternating between flicking it and drawing circles around it. Fire built up in your core quickly, gasps of his name and please falling from your lips.
Jack's cock was painfully hard, precum leaking and dampening his pants as he listened to the sweet noises you let out because of him. He knew this was going to be ingrained in his brain forever—you panting beneath him, all desperate and needy, his taste buds overloaded with your delectable nectar. You were better than any drug and he was irrevocably hooked.
His tongue dipped down to your entrance, circling it twice before plunging inside your walls. Your core clenched down at the intrusion and he moaned into your core—delicious vibrations spreading up to your clit.
"Yes," you gasped, hips trying to chase the pleasure his mouth was unleashing. His tongue started to thrust in and out of you and a hand left his hair to grip his hand on your stomach. "Please, feels so good."
Obscene slick sounds filled your room, your core drenched from your arousal and Jack's spit. His tongue went back to your clit, the hand on your thigh moving up and tracing light fingers around your entrance. Jack watched in hunger and fascination as your core clenched in anticipation.
"You want my fingers? Be a good girl and tell me how bad you need them."
Your whole body lit up at him calling you a good girl. You opened your eyes to see him already staring at you, his gaze heavy and hungry.
"Yes—fuck, please—Jack I need them so badly. Want you to fuck me with them, please."
You didn't need to beg for long, one of his fingers dipping into you and curling against your walls. A moan slipped out at you, your walls clamping down on the single digit.
"Fuck, you're tight." He moaned into your clit, sucking it into his mouth harshly. You let out a wanton moan, your hips pushing against his hand holding you down. Another finger slipped inside you and he pushed them deeper, thrusting them against the spongy spot that no other man cared to find. You mewled, embarrassingly needy as a familiar tension built in your core.
"Oh my god, right there," you moaned out and his fingers picked up their speed, curling to stroke against that spot over and over. A third finger joined in and your eyes shot open at the stretch. His mouth doubled down on your clit, sucking harshly and nibbling gently.
"You gonna come for me?"
Incoherent babbling spilled from you—his name, please, and fuck being the only words your brain seemed capable of forming.
Jack was grinding his hips on your bed, feeling like a teenager ready to bust from the first moan that you let slip free. His cock was pulsing in his pants, so close to coming already.
"Yeah, that's a good girl. Come on my fingers."
The hand on your stomach pressed harder and the tension in your core shifted, still familiar but also different—tight and overwhelming. One last sharp suck to your clit had you soaring off the edge, your whole body tensing and head throwing back as pleasure rushed through you like a roaring fire. You came with a loud cry of his name, your ears ringing and white spotting your vision. You felt wetness gushing from your cunt, warm and sticky—amplifying and drawing out your release until it bordered on painful.
Jack groaned against your core as you gripped his fingers tight, sucking them in deeper as you squirted over his face, his hand, your bedsheets. Your fingers in his hair pulled as you panted and heaved beneath him. He pulled his mouth off your clit, moaning out your name as he spilled in his pants—your release making him come untouched. He continued moving his fingers inside you, drawing out your orgasm with his eyes focused on where release was squirting out of you with every thrust of his fingers.
"Good girl. You did so good."
Your fingers in his hair trembled, yanking softly as you tried to squirm away from his touch. "It's too much, Jack." You whined and he finally relented, drawing his fingers out of you with a loud, sinful pop. Your half open eyes met his, watching through a hazy fog as he lifted his soaked fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean—a deep groan tearing through him and you almost moaned at the sight.
He kissed up your body slowly, sucking and biting on a nipple and drawing a yelp out of you—your overstimulated body shaking underneath him.
"That was fucking incredible," he whispered into your neck, sounding starstruck. "You're incredible."
You giggled softly, his stubble tickling your neck. "That was all you." One of your hands brushed along the broad expanse of his shoulders, the other toying with the curls at the top of his neck. "I've never done that before," you admitted in a small and dazed voice.
He continued to nibble on your neck. "What, hook up with your boss or squirt?"
You slapped his shoulder lightly. "Both."
"Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart."
He removed his head from your neck, soft eyes gazing into yours before he leaned in and kissed you sweetly. His arms wrapped around your back, pulling your chest to his as he kissed you deeply—pouring everything he couldn't say yet into the kiss.
He pulled back, his eyes roaming around your face trying to memorialise this moment in his brain. He caught sight of the clock on your nightstand, a frustrated groan vibrating his chest as he saw he had to be at work in just over an hour. He dropped his forehead to yours for a few seconds, before pushing himself off of you with pained effort.
"I gotta go get ready for work. I—uh, need to clean myself up."
You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before looking down, finally spotting the dark wet patch on his camo pants.
"Oh."
He put his prosthetic leg back on, standing and looking back at you still naked on your bed—spread out and glistening in your own release. He quickly walked to your bathroom, grabbing a clean towel from the cupboard and wetting it in the sink. He returned to your room, hit with the overwhelming smell of you—your perfume, your natural scent, your release. It had him debating calling in sick to lay tangled in the sheets with you, making you feel good until you passed out.
He cleaned you up gently, the soft press of the damp towel on your sensitive cunt making you twitch and flinch away.
"Easy, baby. Almost done."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead once he was done, a thumb brushing across your cheek.
"Okay, now I really have to go or Robby will send out a search party."
You bit your lip, your come down leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. "What…what does this mean?"
Jack didn't want to leave you alone, the uncertainty in your eyes making his chest ache. "We'll talk about it properly later, yeah? Just rest now—I'll order you some food."
He grabbed you some pyjamas out of your dresser, leaving them folded next to you on the bed. He left you with instructions on how to look after your knee—despite your insistence that you had been living with the pain for over a decade and you were a doctor as well, you knew how to take care of your injury.
After your front door clicked softly behind him you stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, your mind still not comprehending that you had hooked up with Jack Abbot—and he had made you come harder than you ever have in your life. So much was still left unsaid, but there wasn't a cold ache in your heart like you expected at the uncertainty. You trusted Jack, and you trusted that he wouldn't leave you spiralling for too long.
Just after seven pm your phone lit up with a text from Robby.
Robby: You're back on the night shift once your knee is better. Rest up.
A smile took over your face, a sigh of relief leaving you. You knew Jack was responsible for the shift change, and it had warmth spreading through your body from your chest.
Not even twenty minutes later, your screen flashed with texts from Trinity.
Trin: DID YOU AND ABBOT FUCK
Trin: Don't even try to lie to me
You: We didn't fuck
Trin: Then why is he smiling like he won the lottery
Your lips stretched into a grin.
You: Maybe he did?
Trin: Tell me what happened right now
Trin: I'm gonna be pissed if Robby won the bet
You: What bet, Trinity?
Trin: Shit gotta go! Someone's dying
You: Someone is always dying. Did you guys make a bet about Jack and I?
Trin: SMS ERROR: The phone number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.
Trin: …did you just call him Jack?!?!?!?
You were drafting a profanity filled response to her when a text from Jack came through.
Abbot: Dinner is 10 minutes away. Hope Vietnamese is all good.
Abbot: Ice your knee afterwards.
You didn't see Jack for seven days after that. He text you throughout the week, checking in and assuring you that you would talk but not over the phone—that you deserved more than that. The swelling in your knee eased by day three, and by day six it barely hurt anymore. You were under strict orders to not even think about the hospital, and you only left your apartment to go for walks around your neighbourhood—you didn't even go to the grocery store, there was no need to when Jack arranged groceries to be delivered to your front door.
He called you a couple times after a long shift, just wanting to listen to your voice as he struggled to sleep. He sat on the phone while you studied for your boards, giving his input when you started to ramble and spiral about a topic you thought you didn't understand—to which he reminded you that you were one of the most capable residents he'd seen walk through the PTMC doors. His confidence in you helped with the spiralling, and only made your need for him build to dizzying heights.
Neither of you brought up what happened at yours, both silently agreeing that it was a face to face conversation. It didn't stop you from thinking about it every night though, about him. You didn't ask him to come over before or after his shifts, not wanting to come on too strong despite how badly you wanted to see him again.
It was on day seven of not seeing him that you said fuck it. You were basically climbing the walls by that point, growing restless from doing nothing but sitting and studying and dreaming about all the ways Jack could fuck senseless. You knew it was his first scheduled day off in two weeks and while you should've let him rest, the demon he had unlocked inside of you didn't care.
You made it to mid afternoon before you sent him a text.
You: Hey, you busy?
Jack: No. What's up?
You: Think you could come over so we can have that talk?
Jack: I'll be there in 30.
True to his word, Jack knocked on your door twenty-eight minutes later with a takeout bag in his hand.
"Hey, I got us some sandwiches from the new deli on—"
You didn't give him time to finish, yanking on his sweatshirt's collar and dragging his lips down to yours. A shocked noise sounded in the back of his throat before he responded in earnest, his free hand wrapping around you waist and pulling you into his body. He staggered into your apartment, blindly closing the door behind him as you kissed him with a bruising intensity.
He pulled back to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You moved your mouth to his neck, sucking and nipping his neck as the desperation you'd been feeling for the past week clawed at your chest and core. You slipped your hands under the hem of his sweatshirt, relishing in the heat of his bare skin beneath it.
"Slow down, sweetheart." He chuckled, his hand moving from your waist to grip your jaw and pull you back. You let out a small whine, your brows furrowing in annoyance. "Did you ask me to come 'round for a booty call?"
You huffed. "No—I mean yes, but I wanted to talk too." You stepped back from him, feeling a drop of embarrassment for how you pounced on him. You took the takeout bag from his hand, offering him a soft smile. "Thank you for getting food."
"Of course."
He followed you as you made your way to the kitchen, putting the food on the counter and turning back to him with a sheepish expression.
"Thank you for everything this past week. The groceries, the late night—for you—study sessions. It…means a lot."
He stepped forward, resting his hands on your hips before pulling you into a hug—his strong arms wrapping around your back making you melt into his embrace. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and you nuzzled into his neck with a soft, content hum.
"Anything for you, sweetheart." He mumbled into your hair. Your heart soared in your chest.
He felt the tension from the last week dissipate from his body now that you were back in his arms. He hadn't realised just how stressed he was until that moment.
He pulled back slightly, keeping an arm wrapped around your back as a hand cupped your jaw. He leaned in, kissing you softly before resting his forehead against yours.
"Hi."
You giggled in response. "Hi."
"I haven't stopped thinking about you, about this."
Your hands gripped his curls, pulling him down for another bruising kiss. His hands slid down your back before resting on your ass, giving it a light squeeze and making you sigh into his mouth. You traced your tongue along his lips and he opened willingly, his moan ringing throughout the kitchen as he tasted you again. You pushed your hips flush to his, grinding against the hard length you could feel growing in his pants.
You whimpered into his mouth. "Please, I need you."
He pulled his mouth back from yours an inch, his hands still groping and squeezing your ass. "Thought we were gonna talk?"
"After."
He laughed, the wrinkles on his face deepening. "You're a little minx, you know that?"
"Only for you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" He pressed a kiss to your cheek, another to your jaw, a line down your throat. "I heard you've got a thing for old men."
You sighed, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Thought I did, but I think it's just a thing for you."
He groaned against your throat. "You can't just that, baby."
"Why not?"
Jack's mouth moved to your ear, catching your lobe between his teeth and tugging. "Makes me want to skip the talking." He whispered low into your ear, your body wracking with shivers.
"Jack Abbot, you're a goddamn tease."
He pulled back fully, hazel eyes swirling with desire locking onto yours. "If we do this, it changes everything. I'm not—you're it for me. I'm not letting go of you."
"Fine by me."
He smiled, shaking his head lightly before diving back down to kiss you. He walked you backwards through your apartment, leading you to your bedroom like he had done it a thousand times before.
"How's the knee?" He mumbled against your mouth, pushing you back against your bedroom door once he closed it.
"Better. Swelling's gone, minimal pain."
He pulled back, squinting his eyes at you. "And you wouldn't be lying to me?"
"Never."
His mouth quirked up, an appraising look in his eyes. "Good girl."
A whimper slipped out of you and his eyes lit up.
"You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?"
You nodded, one of your hands gripping his shoulder and the other slipping into his curls. He gave you a peck on the lips before moving down to kiss your neck, mouthing at the spot below your ear that had you unleashing sighs and soft moans. One of his thick thighs slotted between your legs, pressing against your core and making you dizzy.
His hands grasped your hips, dragging you back and forth on his strong thigh. Your hips followed his lead, sparks shooting throughout your body from your clit. You could feel the wetness starting to leak out of you, making the friction even more delicious. Breathy pants and sighs slipped from your lips, your hips rocking faster as your body lit up under his touch. His fingers pressed harder into your hips, grunts tickling the skin of your neck as he got achingly hard from you getting yourself off on his thigh.
"Yeah, like that, pretty girl."
He latched his mouth onto your pulse point, sucking hard and making your head drop with a thud against the door.
"Jack," you breathed out. "Please."
"Tell me what you need."
Your hand on his shoulder trailed down the front of his sweatshirt, landing on his hard bulge and squeezing. His broken moan sounded in the quiet room.
"You. Fuck me, please."
"You need it that bad, huh?"
You nodded eagerly, giving him another squeeze before his hand gripped your wrist and pulled it away.
"Shit—yeah, okay. I'll give you what you need."
He spun you around, walking you towards the bed and pulling your top off. He let out a groan as he saw you were braless, your already hard nipples ready for him to feast on. He pushed you down to sit on the bed, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Your hands grasped the waistband of his pants, trembling with anticipation as you worked the button open and zipper down. His hands found yours, pulling them away from him and you huffed in annoyance.
He moved his hands to the waistband of your leggings and pulling them down slowly. You fought back the frustrated groan working it's way up your throat—you didn't need his slow hands, you wanted him to fuck you dumb.
He ran a finger down your underwear, a damp spot already formed. He pressed down on it, earning a soft moan from you and his cock twitched in his pants. His finger moved faster, more slick soaking your underwear and he became addicted to the sight—addicted to the way your hips moved forward eagerly. He gripped both hands around the fabric and pulled them down your legs, much to your relief.
"No foreplay. Trust me, I'm already wet enough." Your desperate voice sounded out, your hands making their way back to his pants. He let you pull his pants and boxer briefs down to his knees, your wide eyes latching onto his cock as it sprung free against his stomach.
You were right. He was really well hung; thick and long, curving slightly to the left. You felt your mouth watering, wanting nothing more than to choke and drool on his length. Maybe next time.
"Did you pop a viagra before you came over?" You teased, your lips curving into a smirk as your eyes met his.
He squinted at you, giving your thigh a light smack. "Watch it, sweetheart."
Your nerves sang from his smack, and you felt the strong urge to roll over onto all fours and ask him to slap you again—though you knew he would just flip you back over because of your knee.
He toed his shoes off before pulling his pants off all the way, giving you a good look at his stupidly big thighs and his prosthetic leg. Your breath caught at him standing fully naked before you—he was beautiful; his freckles, wrinkles, and scars telling you a story of a long life that you hoped you would continue to be a part of.
"Don't need a little blue pill when I've got you. Just need to think of you and I'm already half hard."
"That was strangely sweet."
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. One of your hands found his cock, using the precum leaking from the tip as lube to slowly drag your hand up and down his length. He groaned into your mouth, his hips jerking forward into your touch.
He pushed at your shoulders, encouraging you to lay back on the bed with your legs dangling off the edge. He grabbed a pillow, slotting it under your hips so they were tilted up.
"I'm gonna take the leg off, okay?"
"Whatever is comfortable for you, I really don't mind."
He took his prosthetic off, the process quick and like second nature. He rested his amputated leg on the bed beside your thigh. "There might be a bit of adjusting, but we just need to communicate. That okay with you?" You nodded your agreement.
He leaned over you, one hand next to your head as the other came up to squeeze your breast and roll your nipple between his fingers. He kissed you passionately, his tongue slipping into your mouth and stubble scratching your skin. You moaned into his mouth, grabbing his cock and tugging it slowly, teasingly.
His kisses grew sloppy as your pace picked up before he pulled back, resting his head on your collarbone.
"You got a condom?" His warm breath elicited goosebumps across your skin.
"I'm on the pill. And clean."
His cock jumped in your hand at your insinuation and he stood back up to get a good look at you. His sweet girl laid out on her bed before him, telling him he could fuck her raw. Yeah, he was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven—or hell, either worked.
"You sure?"
"Please," you breathed out, dark and lidded eyes gazing up at him desperately.
"Fuck, don't know how I got so lucky."
He brought his cock to your soaked core, dragging it back and forth with ease—the tip catching on your clit making you gasp. He repeated the motions until you were writhing under him, pretty mouth falling open and moaning out his name.
"Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me." He rasped out, his control thinning by the second.
"God, I want this so badly. I want you—I have for so long, please." You whined, snapping his restraint.
He grabbed your legs, resting your ankles on his shoulders in the butterfly position. He gripped your hips before he brought his tip to your entrance, captivated by your tight hole clenching at the slight press of him. He pushed in slowly, a guttural moan leaving him as your walls gripped tightly.
"Shit—fuck, you're tight."
You let out a whine, your cunt stretching to accommodate his girth. Your chest heaved with heavy pants, your core lighting up with pleasure and only half his length was in you. Your hands found his forearms, your fingers digging in as he pressed into you more. A wail left you once he was fully in, your walls clenching impossibly tight. You both stayed still for a few seconds, both your staggered breaths filling the room. You squeezed around him and he let out a pained groan.
"That's—you feel so fucking good."
"Move, please." You begged.
He pulled his hips back, leaving just the tip in before he thrust back in harshly.
"Fuck!" You yelled, his cock hitting against your sweet spot perfectly. He picked up the pace, his hips alternating between slow, dragging thrusts and harsh, quick thrusts—his eyes watching your face carefully, learning what made you whimper and your eyes roll back. His grip on your hips tightened, tilting them up as he delivered a harsh thrust that had a cry leaving your lips.
"You like that? Does that feel good?" You nodded mindlessly, pressure building in your core as your room filled with the sounds of your pleasure and skin slapping against skin.
"Don't stop, Jack—oh, god—"
He groaned out as you squeezed even tighter around him, his release nearing embarrassingly fast. Your nails dug into his skin, a hiss leaving him at the burning sensation. He moved a hand from your hip to your core, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your back arched as a loud moan escaped your chest, echoing throughout your room and probably being heard by the neighbours.
He kept his pace on your clit as his thrusts sped up, the effort making his face shine with a sheen of sweat.
"That's a good girl. You close, sweetheart?"
You mewled at his praise, nodding your head and uh-huhing as the fire licked higher. Your stomach clenched as your orgasm built, and you could feel Jack's nearing—his thrusts starting to lose rhythm.
"Come inside me. Please, Jack." Your eyes shining with tears met his as you begged, and he almost blew his load right then.
"Tell me you're mine," he gritted out through clenched teeth.
"I'm yours—only yours," you gasped out.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come. Shit, sweetheart—oh fuck." Jack moaned out, and the sound combined with the dual simulation on your cunt had you coming with a sharp cry—warmth spreading out from your core, your body feeling weightless and mind going fuzzy with pleasure.
You clenched down on his cock as you came, your slick walls keeping him locked deep and he rutted two times before coming—spilling in you with a long groan.
He brought your legs down from his shoulders and collapsed on top of you, peppering your chest with kisses as his cock softened inside you.
"That was…" He started.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding him to your chest. "Pretty good for an old man," you couldn't help but tease him, earning another smack to your hip.
"Smartass."
After showering and eating you found yourself back in bed with Jack, lying next to him with your head on his bicep, one leg slung over his hip and a finger lazily tracing his chest—mapping his freckles like constellations. His free hand was running a path up and down your thigh and hip, goosebumps erupting from his touch.
You turned your head slightly to look at his face. "Did you know there was a bet about us?"
He turned to give you a bewildered look, before realisation slowly dawned on him.
"Well, that explains Robby pestering me with questions all week. Kept asking if I was getting laid, apparently the smile on my face was concerning."
You laughed softly, your heart glowing at the fact he was caught smiling at work because of you. "What did you tell him?"
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
𝕾𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: "Everything that is united by blood shall never be separated." Aspiring to a life without constraints and with power in your hands, nothing would satisfy you better than marrying Titus Danforth, heir to one of the most traditional families within the Satanist circle to which you, by inherent existence, belong. Promising you the world at your feet, with a venomous charm, he conquers you and on the Wedding Day not only devours you, but unites you two in carnal union, in blood and soul.
𝕱𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: that's it. i must say, and be honest, that this type of character really appeals to me; perhaps it's my slight inclination towards religious and, at the same time, profane things. not to mention that shawn hatosy is delightful in this diabolical role, excuse me. i can't conceive of a better character for him than a malicious and somewhat bloodthirsty villain; it's either that or he (one day) plays an ancient vampire lord or a kind of despot in the middle ages who goes to war and comes back covered in blood and… well, you get the idea. overall, it's a very simple, even "small," fanfic, but i enjoyed writing it. very much. and i hope that whoever reads it will enjoy it even more. (if u see this befour, yes, is a repost! :)
𝖂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. SMUT! CANNON-DIVERGENCE UNIVERSE. CANNIBALISM AS A METAPHOR (cliché). ritualistic marriage; mentions of satanic/pagan practices; use of vulgar language; dominant/submissive dynamic; possessive behavior (in bed); use of harsh adjectives (though previously discussed and agreed upon) [slut, whore, bitch] during sex; spit kink; oral sex (both receiving), vaginal sex (unprotected). virginal take. like-ish blood consumption. the reader knows what she wants. titus acting like ittus.
𝖂𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝕮𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6.3k
AO3
likes, reblogs and/or comments always are welcome!
“he kisses me, it feels like cannibalism / stone-cold, i take what he's givin' / is the DJ makin' moves for a livin'? / wish he'd chat me up, he got permission, oh.”
Everything that is united by blood shall never be separated.
There is a greater force, a perverse bond that coils one into the other, making this union inseparable… And before Satan, everything that is united in His name can never be corrupted without causing a catastrophe, for the origin of disorder begins in the cradle of primordial sin: the desire for power. Power to know the mysteries of the world, power in the desire for another's flesh, the power to be invincible and dominate the world—and behold her there, dressed in a shining blackness, a veil over her face like Death itself, the diagonal cut in the palm of her hand throbbing, dried blood running between her fingers, as she listened to the Lawyer weave word by word of that infernal marriage.
Before you, the man who would soon be the power in your life: Titus Danforth, heir to a lineage of so many other Tituses, Ursulas, and Chesters Danforth in this world you walk upon—powerful, arrogant, spoiled, malicious, and greedy, who once made a pact of blood and power with the Devil, selling their souls and the souls of their descendants for the pleasure that all the money in the world could provide them—standing with his hands dirty with blood, smiling slyly, proud of himself, rubbing his index finger and thumb on the black ring he wore. The wedding ring that symbolically united you two, stained with your own blood. Titus was an attractive man, perversely attractive, even with his age nearing fifty, he maintained an athletic body for his favorite sports; hair that curled at the ends, gray like a ball of wool, and deeply dangerous eyes because they sparkled with charm and perversion, dark as his blood, his soul, his cursed flesh that would soon belong to you.
And yet you were there, to be consumed by all that cruel animosity that surrounded him. By everything that consumed him from within, that veiled rage and the wounded ego of not being the favorite son. You coveted his surname, you desired to unite with him—even against the wishes of his twin sister—you embraced this strange feeling of wanting and power that seized you when he made you the proposal. He needed to marry one of the Council's heiresses, preferably one who was intelligent and cunning, who wouldn't give him many headaches and, above all, who would accept the position as a sort of consort to evil in this world, which would be his once he possessed all the sovereignty to command everything. And everyone.
Delusions of power, you thought as you couldn't sleep on the night Titus proposed marriage to you, with no ceremony at all, dragging you into an empty hallway in your house, pushing you against the wall, trapping you like prey with no escape, his voice sounding hoarsely predatory, his breath a mix of red wine with the caramelized and smoky musk of the cigar he had shared with your father in the Armory minutes earlier. You heard his voice resonate within you for days:
“I know you're different from all those stupid bastards you unfortunately call family. I've known you long enough to know exactly what your place is and who you belong to, and I'm sure you know the same as I do… I'll be brief —” he had placed his face against yours, eye to eye, tooth to tooth, your breathing was heavy and you felt a flaming restlessness rising through your body, even as you tried to avoid expressing anything; Titus smiled full of himself, holding your face firmly: “—I need to marry if I want to be the next Danforth to lead everything. I need an heir to consolidate my holy lineage, and you will be the perfect wife. We marry, we consummate the marriage, you give me an heir, and you will forever have my loyalty. And the world at your feet…”, he whispered, stealing your words as he sealed your lips. It was your first kiss with him, simple, sneaky, like an unexpected strike from a venomous serpent, staining the red of your blood with the dense gloom of his venom, possessing you with that desire for more. As he parted his lips, Titus smiled almost too gently at you, hissing: “When you come to answer me, kiss me as your reply. I want your words to be in me, should you become my wife.” He turned his back and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.
And you burned with that desire for everything.
You were tired of your family, of the arrogant tone they used with you, of the way they suspected you would ultimately follow the Machiavellian footsteps they themselves had taken… Consumed by this pain that was already within you, hidden and curled up like a child afraid of the world, only to be found by the adult who finally takes them out of that darkness, you decided that your history, and your surname, would be different. Patiently, you waited for the opportunity you would have with the older man, sneaking close to him at one of his family's events held in the enormous luxury hotel, calling him out into the forest, entering the cold among the trees, the crackling of dry leaves and the air of mist and secrets that the place offered. He was beautiful, as always. He exuded an intense perfume that numbed your sense of smell—alcohol, musk, vanilla, and something spicy, almost bloody—a black turtleneck sweater, tailored pants of the same color, polished shoes, his hair combed back. They were illuminated by the Moon, placid and silver. Your heart felt as if it would be spat out of your mouth, your stomach twisted and there was a brief tremor in your hands, when he simply asked in a sarcastic tone:
“What is it, dear? If you want to kill me, I don't think trying it here is the best choice…” He fell silent.
He was silenced.
Your lips were glued to his, drinking the whiskey taste from his satyr mouth, feeling his daring tongue enter and touch yours, his heavy hands sliding over the skin of your back exposed by the dress's neckline, touching your warm nape, giving you a sense of security, letting you glide through that sacral osculum between the old and new testament of that era that would be built, through you. Titus gasped when you parted from that kiss to the rhythm of your words bursting from you:
“Let's get married. I accept being your wife; in exchange, promise me—swear to me!—that I will truly have the world in my hands.” Your heart drummed in your chest, crushing your ribs, it was burning in flames, and you felt your blood, already contaminated by the man's venom, seething in your veins. You wanted to tear your skin, bleed before him, scream with emotion at the visceral nature of that madness. Titus held your face as one holds a heart that still beats—fragile and tenuous—smiling at you:
“You already have me. That is already the beginning to dominate everything.”
He stole your lower lip, trapping it between his teeth, pressing hard until he drew your blood. He licked the blemish that sprouted crimson droplets. He tasted you with relish, sealing that strange engagement.
Behold her here, at her wedding to the man, with demons as witnesses—on earth.
When the Lawyer said:
“The husband may kiss his bride,” you tried to hold back the anxious little smile on your face. Titus slowly lifted your veil, exposing you to an entire audience dressed in black robes, eyes attentive to every detail—your parents in formal clothes of the same shade, a somber air on their faces; on the other side, Ursula dryly leafing through her wounded pride and her fear of being so easily dethroned, the useless younger brother in his position anxious for the consolidation of the legacy that would allow him to live the rest of his life in luxury. Your husband held your face and kissed you with faith—the perseverance that with this union, he would be as victorious as if he were alone. He sealed your lips the same way they had sealed your blood in the golden chalice, the same that served as a seal for your names engraved in the Book.
When they parted lips, the man couldn't hold back the comment:
“I can't wait to wed you entirely, Mrs. Danforth.”
You shuddered, for throughout the short time you had been engaged and lived together as boyfriend and girlfriend, if you could categorize your strange relationship that way, you had not broached the sensitive subject that you were still a virgin. And Titus Danforth did not strike you as the type of man who would go slowly in bed—especially considering that during this time he had been patient, always following your lead, never rushing too much, almost too polite.
Or perhaps you were just creating a huge drama over something that, in theory, would be as banal as sex. Flesh with flesh uniting for the sake of a greater evil, an heir who would hold the power of this world in his hands, carry the names of his ancestors stained by blood pacts, and lead over everyone without shame—you presumed that was exactly what your now-husband desired. Watching him flaunt the golden ring with a large groove in the middle, as if something were missing, the void of power concentrated in that symbol, placing it on the same finger where his wedding band was. With disgust and bitterness, you witnessed the usual ceremony that ritualizes the heir's ascension to patron, spilling the innocent blood of a goat into the hole in the ground, which exhaled a putrid smell of rotting flesh, flies, and death reaped by dry, coagulated blood, reminding you of the terrible rawness of this profane universe.
The deaths would still be present.
There was no way to detach yourself from what you had accepted. He himself had made a point of knowing if this was truly what you wanted for your life. He faced everything with seriousness, waiting for it to end so you could flee from there. The offering was accepted when the fire grew in size, the flames licking the air. Titus smiled boastfully, turning to you expecting something in return.
And you smiled, complicit in your promise.
…
"Daughter, I truly hope you accepted this marriage because you wanted to… Not because you were forced by Mr. Danforth."
"Mother… We already talked about this weeks ago. I can't believe you still haven't accepted my decision."
"That's not it. I just worry about my only daughter—," your mother took your hands, a caricature of the exaggerated concern she always had for you, looking at you pleadingly while the guests danced as if nothing had happened in the Temple hours ago, in their mundane formal attire, dancing and eating, enjoying a traditional party. Titus Danforth was on the other side of the hall in his black high-collared overcoat, buttons open exposing the same-colored dress shirt beneath, a silver brooch with emeralds encrusted framing the family crest. He was drinking something, standing with his brothers talking to him, but his eyes were on you.
You felt a shiver down your spine, as if the ghost of his hands were stripping you entirely. You shrugged, looking at your mother who brazenly exposed her thoughts about the union:
"...your father and I swore our little girl would break this bond with everything, wouldn't be capable of going this far, but you rebelled and to take revenge decided to marry Danforth. The worst of them all!"
"Mother, this is not the time to play the righteous one! Especially knowing the things you do." Bitterness rose to your throat, incredulous at your mother who argued:
"But this is serious! You were going to break it and free us from this fate. You! Now we'll be forced to witness a crazy sociopath rule over all of us with our heiress by his side and…"
"Am I interrupting?" Titus sounded deep and serious before you. You were so engrossed with your mother and her exaggerated expressions that you barely noticed him approaching where you stood, his arms behind his back. He smiled cynically, devouring your mother, diminishing her to nothing with his presence. She stammered, denied, shrugged—she looked like she was about to bury herself in a hole and jump straight into the Devil's lap. He looked at you amused, smiling slyly, extending his hand:
"May I take my wife?"
He looked challengingly at your mother.
You were inwardly amused, maintaining an austere posture, thinking how ironic that scene was: both of them sharing the same age, fighting for your attention, as if you were now the most mature person in the entire room. Pathetic. Your husband waited for a response from your mother; you stared at her expectantly, raising an eyebrow equally challengingly, until she let out in a murmur:
"Feel free, Mr. and Mrs. Danforth."
"With great pleasure!"
He extended an inviting hand, pulling you close to him, moving you away from your mother's table, taking your waist to pull it against his body, whispering in your ear:
"I'm dying to get out of here and get to what matters, my wife. What do you think?"
You froze, feeling a cold sweat break out on your forehead. You looked at the hall full of familiar faces, in the background the Danforth brothers staring at you, to the side your father at the drink table serving himself more gin, in the back, in a corner, Daniel Le Domas getting drunk while his younger brother argued with his girlfriend, daughter of Ignacio El Caido. Everything seemed to spin for a moment, but when you felt the pressure of his firm grip on your waist and the ring on your finger seem to vibrate and burn, you knew it was time.
"Let's get the hell out of here before I send these people to Hell!"
Titus laughed—a sonorously pleasant laugh that you had heard on rare shared occasions, guiding you out of the hall, leaving the guests to enjoy themselves without you nearby, commenting with acidity:
"My love, but that won't be very difficult to happen…"
…
The nuptial chamber smelled of sweet tobacco, spicy whiskey, burnt candles, and the lasciviousness of the moment that awaited her.
It was spacious and dark—as expected given the gothic and melancholic tone in which some families of the Council lived their lives, so it was with yours, no different from the Danforths who maintained an old-fashioned elegance in their aesthetic. Shades of dark brown and moss green mixed with wine red in the details of heavy Persian rugs, the veil that enveloped the canopy of the enormous bed with sheets of pure white, which contrasted with the rest of the dark, rustic furniture around. There was an enormous painting above the lit fireplace, the fire licking and slowly consuming the wood, warming the room with its enormous windows, heavy curtains in a red as dark as coagulated blood, almost blending with the blackness of the vast sky outside. An oval side table with a curved carved foot, containing a silver tray and a crystal bottle of aged whiskey and two glasses in the center.
Dark green leather armchairs, one next to the side table, with its back to the fireplace and facing the enormous bed. There was a door at the back leading to the bathroom, and just ahead, one step down, another room adjoining the bedroom, immersed in darkness. You walked to the center of the room, staring at the painting before you, imposing. Titus appeared behind you, whispering in your ear:
“Did you like my gift, Mrs. Danforth?”
Your surname slid like honey from his mouth into your ears. You shuddered, pressing your sweaty hands together, nodding in surprise as you came across a perfect painting of you alongside Titus, both of you flaunting the brooch with the family crest on your completely black clothes, serious and imposing expressions; him standing and you sitting in an armchair that looked more like a throne, his hand on your shoulder, you with crossed legs, staring at yourself.
"It was your future.”
That grew inside you more than it should have, filling you with a pleasant ego and a delirious desire to be seen that way.
Titus pushed aside your veil, exposing your neck, your sensitive, warm skin inviting a kiss that made you shiver—his hands were on your shoulders, strong, pressing against flesh and bone as if he wanted to merge into you. He whispered:
"This is you. How I see you by my side, seated as a sovereign. You and me ruling this lost world."
He coaxed a small smile from you, relieved by the relaxed atmosphere around you. Titus began kissing your neck with more eagerness, his hands that had been on your shoulders now sliding forward, squeezing your breasts, pressing you against his body—he moaned hoarsely, longing for this moment for so long, shedding all that rawness and ugliness he presented before his satanic pulpit; here with you, he was just a man who desired. He desired viscerally, panting, breathing in your perfume deeply, devouring your skin with his mouth wide open. You yielded, closing your eyes, feeling the waves of pleasure take possession of your body, even as your inner voice screamed for you to stop and ask for a moment, your body, perhaps even your soul, if you still had one, were surrendered to him. He guided you to lean against his body, serving as a refuge for all that pleasure, one hand possessively rising to your throat, squeezing where the blood pulsed in your jugular, biting your earlobe, murmuring:
"You have no idea how much I want to fuck you completely, my love…," you were turning to face him when suddenly you stopped. In profile, you lowered your face, hiding your shame from the man—your man—who looked at you in surprise. Titus pulled back:
"What's wrong? Did I do something wrong…?"
No, you thought, bringing your hands to your face which was pure heat, I want you too, I'm just ashamed. You thought.
Titus seemed to read your mind; in some macabre way, it was as if from the moment you married, sealing your blood in that Book, he had access to you somehow. And being completely contradictory to all the perverse image you had carved for him, he took a deep breath, approaching you carefully, his hands gently enveloping yours, removing them as one reveals the face of a statue from beneath a cloth, admiring you with numbed eyes, dilated pupils, a soft voice:
"Regardless of what it is, you can trust me. Now we are one, from the moment you accepted being mine and I yours, I don't want any secrets between us. Understand? You can tell me what troubles you…"
You raised your eyes to him, shiny, fearful, breathing heavily, feeling the heat of the room and him emanating into you. Seeing truth in his eyes, you unburdened:
"I'm a virgin, Titus. That's it."
"Oh," he blurted out in a burst, surprised, blinked his eyes, arched his eyebrows, then simply smiled—you thought he would be ironic about your condition, or even sarcastic, would judge you and throw you on the bed like an animal; but as he placed a delicate hand on your face and caressed your cheek with his thumb, his words caught you off guard:
"Do you know how to feel pleasure?"
"No… More or less," you said without thinking. Titus flashed a smile of white, gleaming teeth. He nodded, suddenly pulling away from you, the emptiness caused by his absence putting you on high alert, as if you feared he had given up on everything. You watched him circle before you and sit in front of you, in one of the armchairs, elegantly crossing his legs and resting his face on his left hand, propped on the arm of the chair. Eyes on you, always on you, slowly undressing you with his gaze. He remained silent.
And his silence provoked an emerging desperation in you.
Crazy.
"What is it, Titus? Say something. Please," you turned to him, frowning, you asked.
The man smiled gracefully:
"When were you going to tell me this detail, Mrs. Danforth?"
"And what difference would it make? Either way, we have to consummate this marriage if you want an heir… I know how babies are made. I'm not naive at all…"
"Oh, I didn't say any of that! I notice you're a bit high-strung—I like that, dear! It makes everything even more… Intense," he clicked his tongue, savoring the moment. His somewhat irreverent yet dominant posture began to stir in you a desire to inflict that exact reaction on him. It made you pulse, made you enjoy acting this way to be admonished. He smiled slyly, crossing his arms:
"So why did you stop? Are you afraid of hurting me? That would never be a problem for me, Mr. Danforth."
"You don't know what you're asking for, young lady…," he laughed through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment, gesturing with his free hand, pointing a finger at you, he was entering that little game that was proving particularly delightful.
"Little girl? Really? Is that how we're going to address each other now?"
"No, I'm just stating a fact, my dear. But if it bothers you, I can call you other adjectives. What do you think of 'my woman'?"
"I prefer something rawer," your request came from some corner that was revealing itself in the moment. Seeing him there sitting, powerful in his human obscurity, living blood pulsing with chaos and pain, predator eyes waiting for the right moment to attack you, make you kneel before him and beg to be subjugated, was simply driving you mad. Lust consumed you, something numbing and more dangerous than any synthetic drug. It was purely the hunger you felt and didn't know you needed so badly to be satisfied. Titus raised an eyebrow, asking with false modesty:
"So what do you prefer to be called while I fuck you for the first time in your life?"
"Call me a whore. Your slut, your bitch. Anything, call me and make me beg for more."
"I will—I just don't promise to hold back. Do you like feeling pain?" The question was serious.
"Yes. I love it. I want you to hit me. And spit in my mouth. I want you to treat me the way you've always wanted."
"Done. And I want you to obey me."
"I will obey you, Mr. Danforth."
"Fuck—," he closed his eyes, shifted his legs, sighed exasperatedly. He swallowed hard, opening his eyes slowly; "I want you to kneel before me."
You did it.
Your knees bent, a prayer to that bestial angel, beautiful and immoral before you. The shadows that enveloped his face made him even more mysterious. Slowly, he opened his legs and pointed for you to fit yourself between them. When you crawled and stood there, arms static, he used both hands to immobilize your face, approaching you the same way he did when he pulled you into that empty hallway in your house, eye to eye, tooth to tooth, analyzing your expression as he murmured:
"When you ask me to stop, I will stop. But as long as you don't, I will really go all out, do you hear me, Mrs. Danforth?"
You nodded. He squeezed your face, harshly:
"Speak."
"Yes. Mr. Danforth."
"Great," he rubbed one of his thumbs on your lips, looking at them with desire, until you opened your mouth and he raised his index and middle fingers, touching the tips of his fingers against your closed teeth, commanding: "Now suck my fingers. Open that little mouth, that's it," he smiled satisfied, introducing both fingers into your mouth. They tasted of skin and dried blood underneath, tobacco and whiskey. He tilted his head back and forth: "This is exactly how I want to be sucked. Got it? Have you ever sucked a cock before?"
You shook your head no. Titus let out an exasperated groan:
"My little whore is so virgin she's going to receive a cock for the first time today, huh? What a delight to know it will only be mine, fucking that tasty little mouth."
You moaned at the image you had just imagined, salivating even more around his fingers, looking at him with desire. He removed his fingers with a wet pop, gave a sticky little tap on your cheek, whispering:
"Good girl, good girl… Now open my pants."
You looked hesitant, but when you looked down and saw the bulge between his legs, you couldn't help but open the zipper, your hands touching the stiffness between the layers of fabric, sliding it down with his help as he briefly lowered his pants, leaving himself in his underwear for you. Your hands stopped on each of his knees, squeezing, observing the freckles scattered around his pale thighs, light fine hairs, until you reached the thick bulge between his legs. Titus reached for your hands, pulling them until they touched his cock:
"Feel how much I want you, my girl. Squeeze it, don't be afraid, like this—," he closed his eyes as he made you press your hands, marking his entire rigid length, bit his lower lip and commanded: "—now take off my underwear and suck me like I taught you."
You did as he asked: you pulled down the fabric, watching his cock spring out, trimmed dark hairs, the pink little head already lubricated with precum. It was relatively thick with prominent veins, the skin around the head folded down. Your mouth filled with water, you looked at Titus, his eyes shining, his hands on each arm of the armchair, waiting for the right moment to envelop you. You opened your mouth, stuck your tongue out a little, and slid his cock into your mouth… The sensation was unusual. Fresh, sticky flesh against your mouth, warm, soft skin. But the feeling of giving him pleasure was far more enjoyable than the act itself—knowing that you were obeying the man, hearing him breathe heavily and begin to moan, low and slow, almost as if he were holding back from the sheer pleasure of the back-and-forth of your mouth, was what drove you to do more, because it was motivating you to suck out his entire soul (or what was left of it) through his cock, looking deep into his eyes, giving your best even though it was your first time doing it.
Titus couldn't hold back; one hand went to your hai—the veil was still there, framing the scene—pulling it off clumsily, holding strands of hair while the other hand held your cheek, caressing you:
"You suck very well, my love. Like the perfect little whore for me, huh? I think we've discovered a new hidden talent of yours—fuck, at this rate I'm going to come in your mouth."
"Come," you said impulsively as you took his cock out of your mouth, catching your breath, sliding a hand down to jerk him off while smiling. Titus smiled satisfied, holding the base of his cock, stopping your movements, placing his dick next to your face: "Look how beautiful you look with my cock on your face." He slapped your cheek once: "Do you want to suck more?"
"Please!"
"Here you go," he offered it to you again, and you received it with a wet mouth and a wet cunt—you were practically dripping, inside your dress, pressing your thighs together tightly. You drooled a lot, used your saliva to make it easier, ran your tongue around his cock, looked at him lasciviously, stopped to catch your breath, jerking him, listening to him moan deeply.
Until he stopped you with a command:
"Stop, stop! Now I'm serious… Shit. Get up, come on," he indicated that you should move away from him. Obedient and reluctantly—you wanted him to actually come in your mouth, on your face, wherever—you stood up, stepping backward. Titus seemed to recover his composure, smiling almost incredulously:
"I'm not the young man I was years ago, my dear. All control is necessary."
You laughed casually at the almost self-deprecating joke. Titus relaxed his shoulders, looking at you now seriously:
"Take off your clothes," almost immediately your hands were already undoing the ties of your bodice, when he signaled: "Slowly. I want to savor this moment."
Understanding what he wanted, you did so.
You loosened the ties and let the piece become loose around your bust. You removed the stiff framework, freeing the dress, slid down the zipper, shrugged your shoulders so the sleeves would fall, removing the piece that was snug around your bust and waist. The skirt fell gently. You stood with your breasts exposed, black lace panties, lace garters connected to seven-eighths stockings, a detail suggested by a cousin of yours. Titus stood almost motionless, hard, pants halfway down his thighs, still in his overcoat and dress shirt, a beautiful and deplorable mess, looking at you with clemency. He stood up, removing his shoes and socks, pants and underwear, finally the overcoat and dress shirt, revealing himself completely naked to you: an athletic, muscular body, pale skin full of freckles around his chest, shoulders, arms. Beautiful. They stared at each other, at a distance, until he approached you, embracing you and kissing you.
It was a kiss that devoured your mouth, you could barely keep up with him, his frenetic tongue and the way his lips moved, while his hands contoured your body pulling you against him, gasping at every movement you made with your head, pressing yourself against his erect cock between your bodies, wanting more and more. Titus led you in this dance of sweaty bodies to the bed, tilting you until you lay down and he came on top, kissing the salty skin damp with sweat and perfumed with floral talc. He sucked at your jugular as if he wanted to draw blood, bit your breast painfully, looking at you with relish, smiled when he grabbed a nipple between his teeth and squeezed, releasing a burning sensation that pressed against you and made you grind against him, before sucking the nipple with wet pops. He slid one hand down to your panties, entering the garment, his agile fingers slipping between your wet folds, the soft skin welcoming him as he slid his index finger over your clitoris, moving up and down, in circular motions, lifting himself up with one arm while watching your expression transform into pure pleasure and pleading.
You grabbed his neck, pressing your foreheads together.
You were ready for him.
You kissed him tenderly, slowly, guiding his hand that was inside your panties outward, making him take them off entirely, ripping the garters, feeling the garment being slid down your legs—he broke away from the kiss to toss it aside, positioning himself between your legs, the tip at your entrance:
"If it hurts too much, please tell me," you nodded, grabbed him, pulling him toward you, your hands sliding down his back to his buttocks, squeezing his flesh so he would shove himself inside you already. Titus slid in with difficulty, tearing you and filling you, making the unctuousness of virginal blood wet him and burn. He stayed still, pulsing and hoarsely moaning. It was only when you ground your hips and guided him that he began to move. It was something pleasurably agonizing—a painful pleasure that seemed to last an eternity, his body being yours now, yours being his, in the back-and-forth of moans and sweat, in that blood that blessed him and celebrated you as a Danforth. He filled you, and rocked you. With each thrust he moved and moaned:
"You take me so well. Being the good little slut that you are, so tasty and tight."
"Titus… Don't stop, fuck me like this, just like that," you asked without knowing exactly what you felt; you felt everything and nothing, your heart pounded and your body vibrated. Titus looked at you with a fury of desire, held your neck firmly, squeezing it, looking deep into your eyes, positioning himself better to look at you from head to toe, you spreading yourself even wider for him.
"Open that mouth, whore!"
You obeyed him without blinking, while he increased his thrusts, going deep into that blood and your honeyed juice, spitting into your mouth. He gave you a sharp slap:
"You like that, don't you? Being fucked by your husband's cock? Hmm? Like the good little whore you are for me, fuck! I'm going to fill you with cum—" you were in a trance, sweating and pure flame. Titus loosened the grip on your neck, leaned down to kiss you slowly, returning to thrusting the same way, slowly, almost letting his cock slip out of you only to come back in completely. When he trapped your lower lip between his teeth, pressing once more, drawing your blood again and kissing you with it mixed with saliva, he roared.
Thick spurts and a shudder, he had come.
You moaned along with him, even though you were still in a frenzy. Still inside you, he kept pushing, murmuring:
"Not a single drop will be wasted. Not when I don't put my child inside you."
When you opened your eyes, Titus was staring at you. He smiled slyly:
“You think it's over?"
Suddenly he had your legs propped on each of his shoulders, opening you up for him, his mouth devouring you with relish—consuming that sacred blood—looking at you in admiration while you moaned, feeling the pleasure increase, grabbing your hair, begging for more, feeling his wet tongue around your clitoris, his large hands holding your thighs, giving wet kisses and biting the fragile flesh of your inner thighs, passing his cursed mouth between your labia, sliding his tongue through your slit. He used his index and middle fingers to penetrate you, curled at a point that left you breathless, gasping and arching your back, being led to the state of ravine. Being consumed alive by him, having your blood and your orgasm in him, it was a glorious climax that left you in orbit. With your eyes closed, you saw red and white stars against your eyelids, a hiss, your body trembled, and you moaned your man's name.
He rose and smiled proudly while you caught your breath, coming close to you, welcoming your body against his sweaty and tepid skin, arms that enveloped you.
"So this is what it's like…?"
"Like what?"
"To be devoured entirely," you let out without thinking, your mind a pleasurable void. He laughed deeply:
"I suppose so. Did you like it?"
"I loved it," you said between laughs. He rocked you, and they stared at the flames of the fireplace, until you looked at him with something crossing your mind, mischievous.
"Can you handle one more?"
Titus tilted his head to the side, laughing incredulously, while you laid him down and nestled into his lap, laughing, rubbing against his thighs, seeking his lips for an eager kiss. Grabbing your ass with desire, he grumbled:
"I chose my wife very well."
…
It was on Halloween that you were able to hold your son in your arms. You spent an entire afternoon in labor, feeling torn apart inside, crying and swearing you would never let Titus Danforth impose another child on you again. He laughed mockingly, arms crossed, while trying to hide his nervousness at seeing you in such a state of delivery. When the baby finally came out and saw the light, he had red hair and eyes as gloomy as his father's. You observed the fruit of that strange love, flesh and blood and bones and perhaps a clear and pure soul sleeping in your arms, with pride, thinking that you were now the mother of an heir.
Titus was sitting beside you on the bed.
As was the tradition in his family, the birth had taken place in the privacy of his estate. They were in that moment of silence when they were interrupted by the presence of Ursula, who held a white envelope in her hands.
"Am I interrupting something? How is my nephew? I hope he hasn't inherited his father's face…"
"Funny—," he laughed mockingly, getting up and going to his sister: "what the hell is this?" he took the envelope curiously. Ursula smiled:
"Open it and see for yourself."
Titus opened the envelope, glanced at you, then pulled out a card and read quietly what was inside. You stretched with curiosity, waiting for him to say something. Titus let out a sigh, turned to you, and announced:
"The Danforth family is invited to the wedding of Alex Le Domas and his future wife… Grace McLaughlin."
"Who is that?" Ursula asked, looking at you confused. You shook your head, indicating you didn't know who it was. Titus put the envelope back, handed it to his twin, and walked toward you, where he took his son in his arms, proudly:
"I don't know and honestly I don't care to know. Not when we have a future Danforth here to follow in his daddy's footsteps."
While Ursula rolled her eyes and shrugged, and Titus held and rocked little Danforth, you tilted your head, exhausted against the pile of pillows behind you. You felt yourself emptying into a sensation of torpor, remembering your wedding night and everything you had gone through with your husband. You smiled faintly, knowing that from your flesh something genuinely fresh might perhaps emerge.
Something for which that blood pact would never be broken, yes, but which could be digested and diluted into something new.
titus danforth x f!reader
Word Count: 11k
Rating: E
Summary: You’re falling for Titus, and it makes no sense. He’s tied to everything you’re against.
Warnings: SMUT (MDNI 18+) professor reader, mentions of an original character, (Ursula’s ex), smidge body insecurity, alcohol, being tipsy/drunk, hungover reader, sexual tension (so much of it), flirting, feelings, mutual pinging, jealousy/possessiveness (titus is soooo down bad for you), pet names, semi-public smut, (golf course... specifically the golf cart!!!), dirty talk, praise, thigh riding, dry humping, oral sex (f – receiving), emotional argument, angst, flashback of a hunt (mentions of blood, but no violent graphic descriptions), kips wife is also an original character, i think that’s it
A/N: I’m on my period, plus all this Quinn promo definitely made me feral. Sorry…not sorry. Your girl was horny when she wrote that smut scene. I wrote this in a way where anything 'revealed' in this story is in the trailer / general lore implied from the trailer, and / or discussed in the first movie. However, I’ll label this as smidge spoilers just in case. Also, the picture in the mood board is not representative of reader, once you read the story, you’ll understand it's another person. GIF by @wesandresons.
Masterlist | PART 1 | You're reading PART 2 | PART 3 | FINAL PART
The sun had been sitting heavy for hours, turning the grass gold and the stone patio warm beneath your calves. You and Ursula had taken a few lazy dips in the pool throughout the afternoon, letting the water cool your skin before drifting back to your loungers near the edge of the garden.
Half‑empty glasses sweated beside you, the rosé bottle(s) migrating between you without either of you acknowledging it, Now everything felt pleasantly loose around the edges, the world softened by sun, chlorine, and just enough wine. You’d decided to extend your trip after the original two weeks passed. What were another two? Chester was barely around. He’d flown in for a few days, just long enough to check on a few things, and then he was off again...this time to Hong Kong to close a deal with some company.
Ursula lay stretched out beside you, sunglasses tipped low on her nose, one arm draped lazily over her stomach. She looked relaxed in a way you rarely saw. You weren’t sure how long it had been. Two hours, maybe more? Long enough that your skin hummed with heat and your thoughts drifted without permission.
And if you were honest…you were both probably a little drunk. Ursula let out a small laugh at something you’d said a minute earlier, the sound warm and unguarded. You traced the rim of your glass again, the sunlight catching on the pale pink wine. The question pressed at the back of your teeth, and maybe it was the rosé or the heat or your curiosity…but you let it out.
"Why didn’t you marry Conrad?"
Ursula’s sunglasses didn’t hide the way her eyes widened. She lifted her head, then pushed herself upright with a slow, deliberate motion. Her designer red swimsuit caught the light as she adjusted the wide‑brimmed hat on her head, buying herself a second.
"Well," she said, lifting her sunglasses with one finger, "that’s not what I was expecting."
"I mean… my mom told me you were engaged for, like, 2 seconds," you shrugged, though your pulse ticked faster. "And then you guys broke it off."
Ursula studied you for a moment before the breeze suddenly lifted the edge of her hat, and she pressed it back down with two fingers. Your mind drifted back to two years ago, when your mother had first told you about Ursula’s engagement. You remembered the way she’d said it that Ursula had called her personally to announce she was marrying Conrad Fairfax Harrington III. Your mother had been delighted. She’d met Conrad while working on the estate, and she’d spoken about him with the kind of fondness she rarely extended to the family’s inner circle. They’d dated for years, apparently—long enough that your mother had even questioned what was taking so long.
Which was why the second call had stunned your mother.
Barely a month later, Ursula had phoned again, but this time to say the wedding was off. No explanation, just a breezy, "We’re not proceeding. It wasn’t right."
"Conrad," she repeated, almost to herself. "God. That feels like a lifetime ago."
She took a slow sip of her drink, eyes drifting toward the far end of the garden, where the estate stretched out in sun‑bleached stone and manicured hedges. Then she gave you a boilerplate shrug, the kind people use when they’re trying to make something sound smaller than it was. "We weren’t right for each other. Happens."
You frowned. "Didn’t you guys date a long time? Like… 5 years or something?"
"7," she corrected, "Which is 6 and a half years longer than I should’ve tolerated his taste in furniture."
"Did something change during the engagement? Or had things shifted before then? Or—I don’t know— was there some big moment where everything snapped?"
"You’re just full of questions today." Ursula turned her head toward you slowly, like she was deciding whether to be amused or throw you into the hedges.
You hesitated, then blurted the thing you probably shouldn’t have.
"Oh my god… did he meet someone else?"
"Him cheat on me?" she barked out a laugh…absolutely delighted by your audacity. "Please. He worshipped the ground I walked on. Which, frankly, should’ve been my first red flag. No one is that devoted." But the humor didn’t fully disguise the truth humming beneath it…that she’d cared for him more than she wanted to admit, and that losing him had cost her something she still didn’t have the language for.
She tipped her head back against the lounger, letting the sun hit her face.
"Anyway," she said breezily, "he dodged a bullet. Marrying into this family would’ve been a tragedy for him."
You squinted at her. "Why?"
"Why?" she echoed, as if the question itself was silly, and gave you a look that said, You already know the answer.
You suspected, but did you really know? Was it as ugly as you thought? God, you hoped not.
"Did you love him?" you whispered.
Ursula snorted in an inelegant, unfiltered sound that told you the rosé had definitely settled in. "Love?" she scoffed. "Love is for fools and poets. A marketing strategy. Something books and movies cooked up to convince people they’re incomplete unless they’ve got someone hanging off their arm." She waved her glass vaguely, as if dismissing the entire concept. But then her voice shifted…almost like she hadn’t meant to let it slip. "And besides…" She stared into her wine for a moment. "In this family, we learned a long time ago that love isn’t in the cards for us."
She blinked hard, as if realizing she’d said too much, and sat up abruptly.
"I need more wine."
You watched her stand (a little too quickly), brushing imaginary dust from her red swimsuit. She didn’t call for anyone, didn’t press a button, or summon a staff member like she normally would. Ursula went inside the house, a silent confirmation that she wasn’t fetching wine but excusing herself from the conversation. You exhaled, reached for the bottle of sunscreen, and squeezed a line of it onto your palm.
Your mind was scrambling to make sense of what she’d just said. You smoothed the sunscreen over your shoulders, your collarbone, the tops of your thighs. The lotion went on cool, but your skin felt hot anyway. You were halfway through rubbing some onto your arms when the door slid open again.
Without looking up, you called out, "I hope you brought water—"
But the rest of the sentence died in your throat, because it wasn’t Ursula.
It was Titus, dressed in khakis and a blue crew-neck T‑shirt, which was surprisingly casual for him. He was usually always wearing something crisp, tailored, and intimidating. Instead, he looked almost… normal.
Titus's eyes raked over you slowly, deliberately, like he was cataloging every curve and shadow the sunlight painted on your skin. That smug little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that always made you wonder if he knew something you didn't or if he just enjoyed watching you squirm.
Ever since he apologized, something in the air between you had shifted. It was subtle…more like a series of small, almost accidental moments that had begun to add up. When you crossed paths in the hallway, you no longer looked away. Instead, you exchanged words. At first, brief, then gradually more extended. Dinner had stopped being something you avoided when he was in the room; somehow, you’d ended up sitting near each other more often than not. And there was that one night in the home theater when both of you were watching a movie in comfortable silence, the kind that felt natural and unforced. It was confusing how quickly you had become so at ease with him, especially given how uncertain and guarded you had felt before.
And then there was the carriage house.
He’d offered to show it to you one afternoon, almost casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. This place held pieces of your formative years and, most importantly, the echo of your mother’s laughter. As well as her lessons. You drank alcohol inside here for the first time with a friend. You’d been sixteen, curious, and hiding from the world for an afternoon. Your mom had found you an hour later, throwing up, and instead of yelling, she’d sat beside you and told you that you were terrible at being sneaky. You were also so fucking grounded. A whole month. You hadn’t meant to share all that with Titus. It just… slipped out. The memories were warm and a little ridiculous, and he’d listened without interrupting or teasing. And when you’d fallen quiet, realizing how much you’d said, he’d looked at you with this strange, gentle understanding. You knew he could tell you were sad about the renovations. Because in a way, changing this space felt like erasing her. It was a goodbye you hadn’t prepared for.
You swallowed hard, your hand hovering awkwardly over your arm, the sunscreen glistening on your fingers like some kind of evidence of your vulnerability. He’s probably used to women with flawless bodies sculpted by personal trainers, not someone like me in a basic one-piece that hugs a little too snugly around the hips, you thought, the insecurity twisting in your gut like a knife. The alcohol from earlier buzzed in your veins, blurring the edges of your thoughts and making his gaze feel heavier, more intentional than it probably was. Or was it?
"Getting some Vitamin D?" Titus drawled, his voice low and smooth, laced with that flirtatious edge that could be teasing or something more if you let yourself read into it. He sauntered closer, and you forced a laugh, but it came out breathy, unsteady, as you finally lowered your hand and capped the sunscreen bottle with a soft click.
"Yeah, trying too," Your words tumbled out a bit too quickly, the wine making your cheeks feel hotter under his scrutiny. Was he really looking at you like that, or was the booze turning every glance into something charged? You shifted on the lounger, the fabric of your swimsuit pulling taut against your thighs, suddenly hyperaware of how it clung to the soft swell of your breasts.
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine despite the sun's warmth. "Trying, huh?"
His eyes flicked to the bottle in your hand, then back to you. Without asking, he dropped onto the edge of your lounger, the cushion dipping under his weight and forcing your legs to part just slightly to make room. The proximity hit you like a wave with his thigh brushing yours, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the sunscreen's coconutty tang.
"You've barely covered your back." He wasn’t wrong. You were wearing one of those one‑piece swimsuits with a completely open back. The kind that looked modest from the front but dipped low and clean down your spine. Thin straps crossed at your shoulders and disappeared, leaving everything else exposed to the sun.
Your heart stuttered, a mix of protest and something warmer, more insistent, pooling low in your belly. "I can handle it," you shot back, but your voice lacked conviction, coming out softer than intended, almost playful. You twisted slightly, trying to play it cool, but the movement only made the straps of your one-piece dig into your shoulders, reminding you of every imperfection you suddenly couldn't ignore. Titus leaned in closer, his smirk widening as he plucked the bottle from your fingers. His touch was brief but electric, his warm hand grazing yours, leaving your skin tingling.
"Turn around."
You hesitated, the insecurity flaring again, but the alcohol nudged you forward, whispering that it was harmless. With a dramatic sigh that hid your nerves, you twisted on the lounger, facing away from him, your back exposed to the sun and his gaze. The position felt intimate…your legs pressing together as you braced your hands on your knees.
The cap snapped open with a sharp pop, and then the cool squirt of lotion hit your skin, making you gasp softly. It was cold against the heat of your body, but Titus's hands followed immediately, large and sure, spreading the sunscreen in firm, circular motions across your upper back. His palms glided smoothly, the slick sound of lotion being worked in filling the air as he kneaded it into your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots there with just enough pressure to draw a low, unintended moan from your lips. It slipped out, breathy and surprised, your body betraying you as the tension in your muscles melted under his touch. He paused for a beat, and you could feel the heat of him behind you, his breath ghosting over your neck.
"Professor, it seems you need a massage. You’re so tense," he murmured, voice husky now, the flirtation unmistakable even through the haze of your buzz. His hands slid lower, tracing the line of your spine, fingers splaying wide to cover the curve of your waist. You bit your lip to stifle another sound, but a soft whimper escaped anyway when his thumbs dipped just under the strap, teasing the boundary without crossing it. Your breath hitched, every stroke of his hands igniting nerves you hadn't realized were so alive. The lounger creaked faintly under your shifting weight, your thighs clenching as warmth built between them. You glanced over your shoulder, catching his hazel eyes as his fingers worked lower still, massaging the lotion into the small of your back with deliberate, unhurried pressure.
His hands lingered for just a second too long on the small of your back, the slick warmth of the sunscreen and his touch still seeping into your skin as you both froze at the sound of the door sliding open again. Ursula stepped back onto the patio, and you and Titus both straightened instinctively, the moment between you snapping closed. Your heart was still racing from the intimacy of his fingers on your skin. Ursula peeled off her sunglasses, hooking them on the neckline of the tank top she had put on, her sharp green eyes flicking between you and Titus.
She crossed her arms, one hip cocked out. "Just got off the phone with the girls," she announced. "We're hitting this new bar tonight. And you," she pointed a finger right at you, "you're coming. No excuses."
You blinked, the haze of the sunscreen application and the lingering buzz from the drinks making your protest sluggish. "Wait, no, I can't—"
She cut you off with a wave of her hand, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Oh, please. You've been holed up teaching that online class, grading shit, or doing research this entire time. It's summer, for fuck's sake. All you're doing is working your ass off on that laptop like some hermit. You need to go out, have fun. Maybe get laid?" Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "When's the last time you felt the weight of a man on top of you, huh? Don't tell me it's been so long that you've forgotten."
Heat flooded your face, burning hotter than the sun. You ducked your head, mortified, the words hitting too close to home because it had been a while. Longer than you'd admit to anyone, let alone in front of Titus. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, the earlier tension with him now twisted into something awkward and exposed.
"Ursula," Titus interjected, his voice a low growl. He shifted on the lounger, his broad shoulders tensing, jaw clenching as he shot her a sidelong glare, one hand flexing against his thigh like he was holding back from saying more. She ignored him and grabbed your arm before you could sink further into the cushions.
"I don't even have any going-out clothes," you stammered.
"Oh, relax, you own a credit card. You’ll buy something. Come on, let's go. I need to fix your face, and that’s going to be a whole… process with you." She tugged you up with surprising strength, her fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you to your feet.
The lounger springs groaned in protest as Titus stood too, his lips pressed into a thin line, arms crossing over his chest in that brooding way that screamed jealousy without a word. His eyes followed, a muscle ticking in his jaw as Ursula hauled you toward the door.
As she dragged you inside, the cool air of the house hit your skin. Ursula was already rifling through her phone, muttering under her breath.
"Shit," she said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the foyer. "I need to call the pilot so he can get here with the PJ."
"What?" you screamed, stumbling after her, the patio door sliding shut behind you with a definitive thud.
"Yeah, we're going to Nantucket tonight."
Titus didn’t expect to still be awake at 1 in the morning, but there he was, lying in the dark with his phone lighting up the room. He wasn’t even doing anything productive…just scrolling, trying to tire out his brain. Then his screen lit up with a message from Ursula.
He opened it, and she’d sent him a few photos taken at some party from a discreet angle. The first photo showed a woman in a gold dress seated between two men, her hand resting boldly on one of their knees. The next photo was of her in the center of the frame with a man they did business with, a very married man, sitting on a velvet couch draped across his lap. They were kissing, her hand curled around the back of his neck, his wedding ring catching the light.
Classic Ursula. She probably snapped it for future leverage. But Titus barely seemed to notice any of that. Because you were in the picture too, standing off to the side, holding a cocktail in one hand. The Capri crystal‑embellished beaded tulle mini dress you wore caught the light, scattering it in tiny reflections across the frame. The dress looked delicate and intricate, and unmistakably out of your price range.
Titus knew his sister well enough to recognize her handiwork immediately. Ursula had definitely used her credit card to buy you that dress. Probably without asking you first. Then he noticed the jewelry…the earrings and the necklace. Both distinctive pieces he’d seen before in Ursula’s collection. Titus stared at the screen longer than he intended, his thumb hovering over the phone but not moving. The glow of the screen was sharp against the dark room, holding him in place as he absorbed the image.
You were fucking gorgeous. He locked his phone and lay back in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Titus's mind raced, the darkness of the room closing in like a vice.
What if someone tried to fuck you tonight?
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, twisting his insides with a rage that made him want to smash the phone. He sat up abruptly, the sheets tangling around his legs, his breath coming in sharp bursts. You deserved better than these sleazy bastards. He unlocked his phone again, zooming in on the photo of you standing there in that dress Ursula had shoved on you, the beads shimmering like they were mocking him. You were probably surrounded by drooling men and their wandering hands. Were you getting groped by some hedge fund asshole?
Titus's fists balled up, knuckles whitening. He could picture it too vividly…the way these men were probably stripping you bare in their minds. You were his (whether you knew it or not), he seethed internally, the obsession coiling tighter in his chest. It made his blood boil because these men didn't deserve to even breathe the same air as you. He wanted to shield you from it all, wrap you in his arms, and lock the world out. No more parties, no more dresses that hugged your curves like an invitation. Just him… keeping you safe, and only his hands would be the ones allowed to trace your skin, to feel the heat of you against him.
The jealousy surged, a dark wave crashing over him. What if some fucker approached you? What if he pulled you onto his lap, his fingers digging into your thigh, and whispered bullshit promises into your ear to get you into bed? Titus growled low in his throat, the sound echoing in the empty room. He'd kill for you. Snap any man’s neck without a second thought, and watch the life drain from their eyes for even just thinking about touching you.
Titus spent the entire next morning trying to bury himself in work. He had a meeting scheduled with the family accountant, a sizable stack of documents waiting for his signature, and a long list of financial decisions that demanded his full attention. Normally, he could easily compartmentalize and push everything else aside, but today was different. Today, his mind refused to stay focused.
Every time he attempted to concentrate, his thoughts drifted back to you. And finally, to the unsettling fact that neither you nor Ursula had come home last night. He kept telling himself it didn’t matter (complete lie), that he didn’t care (even bigger lie), and that he had more important things to think about (another lie). But none of those reassurances helped.
By the time he finally returned home in the afternoon, he felt drained and stepped inside, loosening his tie, and shut the door behind him.
The sound echoed through the foyer.
"Too loud," you groaned from the staircase.
He looked up sharply, and there you were, on the staircase wearing a faded concert tee and sweatpants. You were moving slowly, one hand gripping the railing tightly, the other pressed to your forehead. You looked up, squinting as if the light was personally attacking you. "I’m hungover."
He raised an eyebrow. "I gathered."
"No, like—hungover hungover," you said, dragging yourself up another step. "I honestly can’t remember the last time I drank this much."
"You look like you can’t remember the last time you slept either," he smirked, trying not to smile.
"I didn’t. Ursula dragged me everywhere. I think we went to 3 places? Maybe 4?"
"That would explain the state you’re in," Titus replied, leaning casually against the banister.
You groaned again and buried your face in your hands. "I’m never drinking again."
"You say that now."
"I mean it. I’m too old for this shit," you insisted. With a defeated huff, you turned and resumed your slow climb up the stairs. "I’m going to bed. If Ursula asks, I died. She dropped me off; she had to handle some business in town."
"I’ll pass along the message," Titus said, watching you go, one hand gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You missed a step, caught yourself, muttered something under your breath.
He pushed off the banister with a quiet sigh. "Alright. Come on."
"What?" You blinked down at him.
"You’re going to fall on your face at this rate," he said, already moving up the steps. "I’m making sure you get to the east wing without breaking something."
You opened your mouth to argue, but the argument died somewhere between your headache and your dry throat. "Fine," you muttered.
He walked beside you, matching your sluggish pace as you dragged yourself down the long hallway. Despite your state (hair a tangled mess, makeup smudged, and your eyes dull), you still looked remarkably beautiful, even in your disheveled, exhausted condition. Titus couldn’t help but notice how your features, though marred by fatigue, still held a kind of effortless grace, the kind that seemed to glow even through the haze of suffering. The contrast struck him…that you looked perfect, even while you looked utterly miserable.
When you finally reached your room, you made a beeline for the bed, already half-collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, your body sagging with exhaustion.
"No," Titus said firmly from the doorway.
You groaned into the comforter. "Why?"
"The best hangover remedy isn’t just passing out in yesterday’s makeup."
You lifted your head an inch, squinting at him through bleary eyes. "Then what is it, oh wise one?"
"A bath," Titus said simply, gesturing toward the bathroom with a subtle nod.
"A what?"
He repeated, more deliberately this time, "A bath. It’ll help relax your muscles and clear your head. Then you take a nice long nap. Trust me."
"I don’t have the energy for a bath."
"That’s why I’ll run the water. You just need to get in it afterwards."
You pushed yourself upright with a dramatic groan, feeling the weight of your body protesting every movement. "I hate everything," you muttered, voice muffled against the pillow.
From the bathroom, the familiar noises of the faucet turning on and the soothing flow of water filling the tub reached your ears. This wasn’t an ordinary bathroom…it felt more like a personal spa. Heated floors warmed your feet, soft recessed lights cast a calming glow, and a rainfall shower spanned almost an entire room. At the heart of it all stood the tub: a deep, sculptural soaking pool carved from a single slab of smooth, creamy stone, which was large enough to swim laps in if you dared.
Titus took his time, adjusted the lighting first, dimming the overheads and switching on the warm sconces along the wall until the room felt calm, almost serene. He played around with the temperature meticulously, testing the water with his hand to find that perfect, comforting warmth. He was thorough, ensuring every detail was just right. When he was satisfied, he reached for a glass jar of Epsom salts on the shelf and sprinkled a generous handful into the water. The crystals dissolved instantly, releasing a clean, soothing scent. He added a few drops of premium lavender essential oil, allowing its soothing aroma to drift effortlessly through the air. Next, he retrieved a plush, hotel-grade towel from the warming rack and draped it neatly over the edge of the tub. Finally, he carefully folded a soft washcloth placing it gently nearby.
Finally, he stepped back, satisfied. "Alright. It’s ready," he called out. You shuffled toward the doorway, pausing briefly beside him.
"You didn’t have to do that," you mumbled, voice rough and your eyeliner smudged. "I can’t believe you even know how to make a bath, honestly."
He gave you a flat look. "I’m capable of basic human tasks."
"Are you… being nice to me?" you teased.
"Don’t get used to it."
You giggled, immediately regretting the effort, and pressed a hand to your forehead. "Ugh. My brain hurts."
"Then go sit in the bath," he said, stepping aside so you could pass. "And drink water. A lot of it. I’ll have Paula bring you some."
You nodded, slow and pitiful, and Titus lingered just long enough to make sure you didn’t trip over the bathmat before he turned to leave.
"Um—" you started, and he paused, his hand still on the doorframe. You were standing there, shoulders pulled up tight, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of your shirt.
"Do you… want to eat dinner together tonight?"
Titus kept his voice even, trying not to let any of his curiosity show. "Sure. What do you want me to ask the chef to make?"
You shook your head immediately, almost as if you couldn’t help it. "No, let’s go out tonight. You took a deep breath and then added, "I’m craving this burger I used to get in Providence."
"Alright," he smirked. "We can do that."
"Okay. Cool. Great." you said, sounding a bit more at ease.
Titus exited the doorway, gently closing it behind him with a quiet click. He began walking down the corridor, making his way directly to his office. As he reached the end of the hallway, he suddenly became aware that he was smiling. Or at least his version of smiling.
Later, after your nap, you found him downstairs with the driver, keys in hand, ready to drive off. You led him to the burger place, which was a tiny, questionable spot squeezed between a laundromat and a pawn shop. It was the kind of place he’d never set foot in on his own. As soon as he stepped inside, Titus knew exactly what he was in for with the grease-stained menus, flickering neon lights, and a fryer that sounded like it was struggling to stay alive.
You ordered with enthusiasm, and he ordered simply because you were ordering. When the food arrived, you took a bite and sighed like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
He took a bite too, and his face scrunched up in displeasure. It was… fucking awful. You burst out laughing at his reaction, and it was the kind of unrestrained laughter he had never heard from you. Titus forced himself to take another bite. Not because he liked it, and not because he wanted to.
But because… he honestly would’ve eaten horse shit if it meant hearing you laugh like that again.
The next week, you found yourself at the Newport Country Club, a place that felt both familiar and suddenly new. Chester used to bring you here when you were in college. He’d parade you around the club, introduce you to people with firm handshakes, all while you stood there pretending you understood the rules of a world that wasn’t built for you.
You were in the women’s locker room, washing your hands slowly as your eyes lingered on your reflection in the mirror. The golf outfit you had bought…something you had sworn you wouldn’t splurge on, actually looked pretty good on you. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but tug at the hem of your shirt and adjust your skirt nervously, your frown deepening as you studied your own face.
When Titus found out that you’d never really learned how to play golf, he had offered to teach you on the estate. Before you knew it, you’d said yes, impulsively, without really thinking it through. Since then, you’d had a few lessons, and truthfully, you were terrible at it. Titus never outright said it, but you could see it in his expressions, in the way he subtly guided you through each swing.
You vividly recalled that first time clutching the club awkwardly in your hands at the Danforth estate. Your stance was all wrong, with your feet too close together, hips slightly twisted, throwing off your balance. When you swung, the ball barely moved, trickling forward to a pitiful stop just a few feet away. You bit your lip, warmth flooding your cheeks with embarrassment, fingers tightening around the grip as if that could somehow make up for the miss. Titus stood a few paces behind you, adding a dense, almost suffocating weight to the air.
"Easy there," he drawled, stepping closer with a teasing smile, his voice smooth as he circled around you slowly. You couldn’t help but notice how broad his shoulders looked under that fitted polo, the fabric stretched tight across his muscles. Without a word, he moved behind you, aligning his body with yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine despite the warm day. His large hand covered yours on the grip, firm and guiding. He adjusted your hold, pressing his fingers into the backs of your knuckles, then shifted one hand to your elbow, nudging it straighter, while his other palm settled against your hip, giving it a gentle, guiding push. The touch felt instructional on the surface, but beneath it was an undercurrent of some sort. His skin's heat seeping through your thin shirt, his breath brushing your ear as he murmured corrections.
"Loosen up a bit, yeah? You're gripping it too tight, like it's going to bite back."
You nodded silently, acutely aware of how his chest nearly grazed your back. You swung again, this time with more power, and the ball sailed farther. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.
After the shot, he lingered, his hand lightly trailing down your arm in approval before stepping back. "Not bad. Good girl."
The words slipped out casually, like they meant nothing, but they sparked a flutter deep in your belly. You clenched involuntarily, a secret throb stirring between your thighs, making your breath hitch. Deep down, you realized how much you liked it. How the praise was wrapped in his calm authority, how it made you feel seen and craving more. Your eyes widened slightly, lips parting in a soft exhale, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice. But your body’s warm, tingling response betrayed you.
As the lessons continued, you began to notice it more… how you’d hesitate just slightly on some swings, deliberately letting your form slip so his hands would return, correcting you with that same touch you’d started to crave. One afternoon, you 'missed' a straight shot on purpose, the ball veering off wildly. You turned your head, feigning apology with a sheepish smile, brows furrowed in mock frustration, but inside, anticipation coiled tight. Titus sighed, and you couldn’t tell if it was at your obvious sabotage. He sauntered over, smirking with that confident curl of his lips. His tall frame loomed as he gripped your waist from behind, fingers wide across your sides to realign you.
"That was sloppy. I know you can do better than that." His touch was firm, guiding your hips with a gentle roll that pressed him against you, and you felt every inch of his strength. His strong thigh muscles bracketed yours as his arms wrapped around you to demonstrate the swing, pulling you through the motion as if you were an extension of himself.
It was intoxicating, the way he handled you. When the ball finally connected properly, arcing cleanly across the green, he released you slowly, his hand brushing your lower back in a lingering pat.
"There you go. Good girl."
Today, he had a meeting scheduled with a business colleague at the club. You’d asked if you could come along, to practice more, but… that was a lie. It was really because you wanted to spend more time with him. As you continued to stare at your reflection in the mirror, you tried to make sense of it all. How had this man become the person you wanted to be around? The person you had become strangely aware of, suddenly conscious of every glance, every word, every faint smile he threw your way?
Titus embodied everything you’d spent years dismissing with his old-money elegance and the kind of generational wealth that was fucking disgusting. He represented privilege without self-awareness and was part of a system built to protect those already protected.
You thought about the online class you’d taught yesterday, and you delivered a lecture on economic power and moral responsibility, which was the kind of topic you loved because it let you challenge your students to think critically about the systems they lived in. You’d talked about how wealth shapes behavior, how privilege can warp a person’s sense of what’s normal, how easy it is for comfort to masquerade as ethics. At one point, you’d even said:
"The more money someone has, the easier it becomes to mistake convenience for virtue."
And the whole time, you were sitting in a house that probably cost 30 million dollars, drinking coffee you didn’t make, and wearing clothes the maid had steamed and laid out for you that morning.
The irony wasn’t lost on you. You felt like a fucking fraud.
You’d closed your laptop afterward and just sat there, staring at the carved molding on the ceiling, wondering when exactly your life had drifted so far from the version you recognized. You remembered how you and your mother used to argue over this—she never understood why you were so disillusioned with this life.
"I took this job to give you opportunities I could only have dreamed of!" she always said. After Kip's wedding, you begged her to quit, but she refused. As a result, you two didn't speak for nearly a year. During that time, you moved to the UK, and when she finally visited you at Cambridge, you both chose not to bring up the Danforth’s.
You stepped out of the bathroom, breath steadying as you made your way back toward the terrace. The club was buzzing with the low hum of weekend brunch: clinking cutlery, soft laughter, the occasional burst of applause from a table celebrating something.
Titus spotted you before you reached the table, and he shifted in his seat, making space for you beside him. Titus and his colleague were mid‑conversation, something about an acquisition, but he paused long enough to stand up and pull out your chair. You sat, smoothing your skirt, and thanked him.
You swallowed when his gaze lingered on you, a smirk flickering on the end of his lips. You just sat there, hands folded in your lap, trying to look composed while the waitress returned with water. His colleague who was probably a man in his late fifties with a sun‑leathered face and a navy blazer, reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar.
He held it up slightly. "Mind if I smoke?"
"I don’t mind," you shook your head.
He had been perfectly pleasant to you so far…overly polite, even. But you weren’t naïve. You knew exactly why. His son was 'considering business school,' as he had put it, and while that wasn’t your department, he perked up the moment he realized you were on a first‑name basis with the dean at Harvard Business School. You had taught a seminar there last year. Just a guest course on organizational ethics. Suddenly, you were "Doctor" and "Professor," suddenly your insights were "fascinating," though you could practically see the strategic calculations behind his eyes.
He wasn’t being nice to you. He was being nice to the access he thought you represented.
"I mind," Titus said.
You turned toward him, confused. That didn’t track. You knew Titus enjoyed them because you’d seen him multiple times at the house, leaning back with a cigar in hand, smoke curling into the night like it was part of his bloodstream. So hearing him object now made no sense.
"She’s just being polite," he added. "She hates the smell." You stared at him, caught off guard because you did hate the smell, but you didn’t realize he cared. "And besides," Titus went on, "we need to go. I promised her we’d actually golf today, and I’ve spent this entire meal listening to you outline a truly terrible plan for how we acquire this company."
His colleague froze, the cigar halfway to his mouth. Titus stood, smoothing his jacket with a practiced flick of his wrist. "I expect to hear something better by tomorrow morning. I want something in my inbox by 6 am."
"Of course, Mr. Danforth," the man said quickly, his voice tight with nerves. He turned to you with a strained smile. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Professor."
"You as well," you replied, keeping your tone polite as Titus stepped behind you and placed a hand at the small of your back as he guided you away from the table and toward the waiting golf caddy.
"I know you have to work," you said once you were far enough from the table, your voice low so only he could hear. "You can keep talking to him if you need to."
"I’m probably going to fire him. He’s incompetent. I don’t know why Father has held on to him for so long."
Before you could respond, the golf caddy rolled up beside you, cheerful and oblivious. "Mr. Danforth, I can take you both out to the course now."
"We won’t be needing that."
The caddy hesitated. "Sir?"
"I’ll drive," Titus said, already steering you toward the row of private carts, his hand still at the small of your back.
The caddy blinked, thrown off. "Are you sure, sir?"
"I’m sure," Titus replied, the words sliced clean and precise. You felt a pang of sympathy for the caddy. He couldn’t have been more than 20, probably home from college for the summer, just trying to make some extra money.
Titus nodded toward the back of the cart. "Put our clubs in."
The caddy scrambled to do it, fumbling only once before securing them properly. He stepped back quickly, as if afraid to take up too much space. Once the clubs were in place, Titus climbed into one of the private carts and waited for you to join him. You climbed in beside him, still trying to catch up to the shift in his mood. He started the cart with one hand, the other resting casually on the wheel as he pulled away from the terrace. Before he turned onto the path, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded bill, and handed it to the caddy with a brief nod.
The kid’s eyes widened slightly, relief washing over his face as he murmured, "Thank you, sir."
Instead of heading toward the main course, he took a narrow path that dipped behind a line of old oaks, which was a route you hadn’t noticed before, one that clearly wasn’t meant for guests. The further he drove, the quieter it became.
You glanced at him. "Where are we going?"
He didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly.
"Somewhere we won’t be interrupted."
And he kept driving, deeper into the most private part of the grounds. The golf cart hummed softly as Titus navigated the narrow path, the old oaks towering overhead like silent guardians, their branches weaving a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground. The air grew thicker with the scent of freshly cut grass and earth, the distant sounds of the main course fading until it was just the two of you, isolated in this hidden corner of the grounds. Finally, he eased the cart to a stop behind a thick cluster of trees, the engine cutting off with a quiet whine, leaving only the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Titus turned to you then, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. The way the light hit them turned the green flecks into something almost predatory, but there was a vulnerability there too, something raw beneath the surface.
"You know… I'm not only firing him because he's incompetent," he said, his voice low and edged with something darker than anger.
"What do you mean?" you murmured, tilting your head, confusion knitting your brows.
He leaned closer, those eyes narrowing slightly, his gaze dropping for a split second before snapping back to your face. "He stared at your ass when you got up to go to the bathroom."
The words hung in the air, heavy and possessive. Your stomach flipped, and a rush of heat flooded through you as you processed what he said.
"I didn't fucking like it," he growled.
"You didn't?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.
"I didn't," he echoed, and you knew then, in that charged silence, that the weeks of buildup had led you here. There was no more dancing around it. His hand reached for your face, fingers gentle as they cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw.
"Titus," you breathed, his name a soft plea, and your lips parting as you leaned into his touch.
The kiss started slowly, and it was surprisingly tender. His mouth met yours with a careful pressure, lips soft and exploring, like he was savoring the taste of you for the first time. You melted into it, your eyes fluttering shut, a quiet sigh escaping as his tongue brushed yours lightly, coaxing rather than demanding. His free hand settled on your waist, pulling you closer across the seat, his breath mingling with yours in the confined space of the cart. But he didn't stop there; his lips trailed from your mouth, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue flicked out, licking a slow, deliberate path up the column of your throat, tasting the faint sheen of sweat that had gathered from the day. You shivered, a soft moan bubbling up as he sucked gently at the spot just below your ear, his teeth grazing enough to send sparks straight to your core.
"Titus," you gasped again, but it dissolved into a whimper when he captured your mouth once more. You fisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, and he growled low in his throat, the tenderness fracturing into feral hunger. He could feel your pulse racing against his tongue, and it was driving him insane. No one was ever going to look at you like that again, not while he was breathing. You were his to protect, his to ruin.
Suddenly, his kiss deepened further, teeth nipping at your lower lip as he angled his head to claim more. Your hands fisted tighter in his shirt, and he responded by hauling you over the console and into his lap in one fluid motion. You straddled him, knees bracketing his hips on the narrow seat, the golf cart rocking slightly under your weight. The seclusion of the oaks made it feel illicit, exposed even in privacy, but that only fueled the fire. His hand slid under your shirt, calloused palm skimming up your side until he cupped one breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace of your bra. You arched into his touch, a sharp gasp breaking the kiss as he pinched lightly, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful like this," he murmured against your mouth, his voice husky with praise, hazel eyes dark and dilated as he pulled back just enough to watch you. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you down onto his thigh, the hard muscle pressing up against your core through your panties underneath your skirt. You gasped, the friction immediate and electric as you rocked forward instinctively, grinding against him.
"That's it, baby." He squeezed your breast harder, kneading the soft flesh as his mouth found your neck again, tongue lapping at the sweat trickling down, sucking marks into your skin. A whimper slipped from your lips, your face feeling hot, brows furrowing in pleasure as you moved again, the seam of his pants rubbing right where you needed it. His expression was intense—lips parted, jaw clenched, those eyes of his fixed on your face like he was memorizing every twitch.
"Look at you, so eager for me. My perfect girl." He thrust up slightly, meeting your rhythm, and you moaned louder, the sound echoing softly in the quiet grove. Your hands braced on his shoulders, nails digging in as you picked up the pace, fucking his thigh with desperate rolls of your hips, the pressure building fast and filthy.
"God, Titus," you panted, your eyes squeezing shut, mouth open in a silent cry as waves of heat coiled tight in your belly. He praised you through it, words spilling out in a gravelly stream.
"You're doing so well, sweetheart. Making such pretty sounds for me. Come on, let me feel you come." His grip tightened on your hip, the other still mauling your breast, pinching the nipple until it ached deliciously. You rode him harder, thigh muscles flexing under you, the cart creaking with each grind, your mouths crashing together again in a sloppy, tongue-heavy kiss that left strings of saliva between you when you broke apart. Sweat dripped down your back, and suddenly your orgasm hit—sharp and shattering. You cried out his name. Your body shuddered, face contorting in bliss, lips pressed together in a gasp as you clenched around nothing. He felt you tremble in his hold, your wetness soaking through to his pants.
"Good girl," He praised, but he didn't let you come down fully. Before the aftershocks faded, he was shifting you, strong hands shoving your skirt up around your waist.
"Need to taste you," he growled, eyes wild now, feral edge sharpening his features
"Oh, fuck," you moaned, completed turned on. He yanked your panties off, and saw your cunt…bare, glistening, and swollen from the friction.
"Jesus, look at this pretty pussy." You were drenched, begging for his mouth. He could smell you, musky and sweet, and it took everything not to rip his pants open. But first, he needed to bury his face in your cunt, and make you scream his name until you forgot every word in the English language.
"Please. Please please please," you babbled, watching his eyes locked on your cunt.
"You've been aching for this, haven't you?" His words hit like a spark, making you clench visibly, and more of your arousal leaked out.
"Yes, fuck, I need it," you begged. He maneuvered you out of the cart with urgent hands, lifting you effortlessly and setting you on the back chair, the metal warm from the sun. The grass crunched under his knees as he dropped down, pulling your legs up to drape over his broad shoulders, spreading you wide.
"So fucking wet for me already, dripping down your thighs. Have you ever been this wet before?"
"No…" You whined. “I only—only g-get this wet for y-you," you choked out. And it was the truth, because you had never been this wet after an orgasm. It was probably because you had this powerful man on his knees for you. Powerful Titus, reduced to this, pleading for you to fuck his face publicly in broad daylight amid the course's open sprawl.
"It’s for you, Titus."
"Fuck." The word left his lips as a gravelly exhale, more a prayer than a curse. The sight of your slick arousal and the scent of it had been one thing, but now your trembling admission? It ignited something primal and absolute in him.
Everything felt raw and desperate. The oaks loomed close, leaves whispering like they could see you, and you felt so exposed. His mouth descended on your pussy like a man starved, tongue flat and broad as he licked up your slick folds in one long, filthy stroke. You yelped, hands flying to his salt and pepper hair, the sensation overwhelming—wet, hot, and unrelenting. He devoured you, sucking your clit between his lips with a hungry groan, nose bumping against you as he buried his face deeper. His chin was glistening with your arousal, and his stubble was scraping your inner thighs raw.
"Taste so good," he rasped between laps, the words vibrating against your skin. It was desperate, the way he ate you out. His tongue thrusting inside, then circling your entrance, lips smacking obscenely as he lapped at your arousal like it was his lifeline. He added two fingers, thick and rough, pumping in and out while his mouth focused on your clit, sucking and flicking until your thighs quivered around his head.
"Fu-uck," you whined, face twisting in ecstasy and embarrassment, moans turning into breathy sobs.
"Feel good?" he growled against your folds, voice muffled and ragged, breath panting hot across your skin.
"Yes," you panted. Oh God, yes, Titus, p-please don’t stop." You glanced down, chest heaving, and caught him...his free hand palming his cock through his pants, squeezing the thick bulge with a frustrated grunt. His gorgeous eyes flicked up to meet yours with raw desperation mid-lick, and his fingers crooked ruthlessly against that spot inside of you.
The thought that he was the one unraveling you, the one capable of drawing these shattered, beautiful sounds from your throat, filled him with a savage possessive pride.
"That's it," he grunted, the vibration a direct assault on your senses. His mind was a single, focused point of heat and need. The taste of you, the desperate sounds you were making, he could feel your climax building. "Come for me. Let me have it."
The sight of him, so hard and straining, touching himself while he feasted on you… it was too much. Your thighs clamped tight around his head, your pussy pulsing wildly as your orgasm broke. You arched off the seat, a keening whine tearing from your throat, as your eyes rolled back in your head. He didn't stop, tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every pulse until you were limp and gasping, utterly spent in the hidden heart of the grounds.
Titus rose from between your thighs after your recovery, his own breathing ragged and uneven. The raw hunger in his eyes hadn't dimmed; in fact, it had only intensified. He remained silent, leaning in instead to capture your lips in a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of both you and his own desperate need. Your hands moved to his waist, fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt, the metallic clink echoing sharply in the quiet. Suddenly, your phone blared from the golf cart; the sound was like a tiny, digital guillotine, slicing through the moment. The spell shattered, and you froze, his fiery gaze flickering with desperate heat while yours was replaced by a dazed confusion.
You felt the panic building inside of you, a knot tightening in your chest. The gravity of what you had done was beginning to sink in. Thinking about it was one thing, but actually getting involved with a man that you were half convinced was the heir of some satanic cult was another thing.
Fuck.
You practically sprinted back to your room the moment the driver dropped you off. The second the bedroom door shut behind you, you went straight for your suitcase, yanking it open and shoving clothes inside without even folding them. Your hands were shaking. You knew this was a mistake…coming back here, letting yourself get pulled into this world again. You should never have given that letter to Chester. Everything had spiraled from that single decision, and now all you wanted was to get out before it got any worse.
"This is your mood after two orgasms?" Titus growled as he burst into your room, the door slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.
You stopped where you were, hands still on the half‑packed suitcase. The open luggage on the bed suddenly felt incriminating. Titus’s gaze moved from the suitcase to you, slow and deliberate, and the look on his face made your stomach drop.
"Where are you going?"
You swallowed hard. "What happened earlier was a mistake."
"A mistake," he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it ridiculous. He took another step, closing the distance. "Let me get this straight. You, spread out and screaming my name where anyone could have seen... that was a mistake?"
"Stop it," you whispered, your cheeks burning. You folded a blouse with trembling hands, shoving it into the suitcase.
He didn't stop. He took another step, crowding you against the bed. "The way you begged? The little sounds you made right before you fell apart on my thigh? That was a mistake?"
"Titus—"
"What? I shouldn't have tasted you?" he pressed, his gaze boring into the side of your face. "Shouldn't have learned exactly how sweet you get when you come on my tongue?"
"Just stop," you said, firmer now, a plea wrapped in anger. You grabbed a pair of jeans, not even folding them, just balling them up to create a barrier of motion between you. He was right in front of you now, his presence overwhelming. He reached out, not to touch you, but to snap the lid of your suitcase shut with a final, definitive thud.
"You don't get to call the only real thing I've felt in years a fucking 'mistake' and run."
"You can fuck anybody you want, Titus," you snapped, your voice trembling with a fury that was half horror, half a desperate need to push him away. "The entire world is at your feet. Go find another woman to amuse yourself with."
He didn't move back. He loomed, his body a wall of intent. The casual, predatory grace was gone, replaced by a rawness you'd never seen in him before. His eyes, usually so guarded and mocking, were stark, stripped bare.
"I don't want to fuck just anybody," he said, his voice terrifyingly sincere. The words weren't a smooth line; they were torn out of him. "I only want you."
"Well, I don’t want you."
"You’re seriously going to stand here, and look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t want me?"
Before you could form a denial, his hand came up, not harshly, but with a firm, undeniable certainty. His palm was warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing just below your eye. The contact was electric, a direct circuit to the memory of his touch everywhere else. Your eyes, against your will, filled with traitorous tears, blurring his intense, searching gaze.
He saw them. His own expression flickered—something like pain, so he leaned in, his intention clear, his focus dropping to your mouth. But the movement broke the spell.
With a choked sound that was half sob, half cry of protest, you shoved your hands hard against his chest. "Don’t!"
The push wasn’t strong enough to move him far, but it was enough. He stumbled back a single step, more from the shock of the rejection than the force. You stood there, breathing raggedly, the ghost of his touch still burning on your cheek. The tears you’d held back spilled over.
"You know why I can't just... do this with you," you said, your voice barely a thread of sound, breaking under the weight of it.
He didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. He just held your gaze, the storm in his eyes banked to a dangerous, waiting stillness.
"Then fucking say it," he commanded. He needed to hear you speak the reason into existence, to give a name to the thing that was stealing this from him.
"Kip's wedding," you whispered. "For 12 years, I’ve been pretending that maybe I was wrong about what happened. But I wasn’t. It did happen."
The raw confession hung between you… it was like a ghost was given flesh and voice. You saw the exact moment your words landed, and the way his entire body went rigid.
"His wife didn’t just run off with her ex," you went on, voice shaking. "You and I both know that’s not what happened." Your throat burned as the memories pressed in, sharper than you wanted them to be. "My mother told me I imagined it. That I was confused." You shook your head, tears gathering despite your best effort to hold them back.
"But I didn’t imagine it. I know what I saw."
The wedding had been a blur of champagne and forced smiles. Dinner was over, the band packing up. You were pleasantly fuzzy, your mother’s uncharacteristic permissiveness with the wine a surprising delight. You watched from the terrace as the Danforth’s gently guided Kip’s radiant new wife, Celia, away from the straggling guests and toward the looming main house. Their smiles were bright, their hands on her arms firm.
"Time for a family nightcap," you heard Chester boom, ushering everyone else toward their cars. Staff materialized, beginning the swift, silent cleanup. Your mother found you, her own smile tight.
"You've had enough fun, honey. Time for bed." She steered you toward the carriage house, her grip a little too sharp.
You drifted into a fitful, wine-heavy sleep in bed. Then you heard the noises. They jerked you awake. Not the distant thump of music or laughter, but something else. A stifled scream that was cut off too quickly. Your heart slammed against your ribs, the pleasant buzz of alcohol evaporating into pure, cold adrenaline. You slipped from the bed, your feet silent on the cold floor. Peering out the window of the carriage house showed nothing but still, dark gardens. With a trembling hand, you turned the knob and stepped out into the night. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine—a scent that would forever be tainted. You moved like a ghost, staying close to the shadows of the hedgerow, following the direction from which the terrible sounds had come.
That’s when you saw her. A crumpled splash of white against the dark boxwoods near the old reflecting pool. Celia. Her beautiful lace wedding gown was now torn and saturated with a shocking, wet red darkness that glistened under the sliver of moon. She was trying to crawl, one hand leaving a slick, dragging trail on the dewy grass.
Her head lifted as you approached, her face a mask of blood and dirt. Her eyes, wide with a primal, animal fear, locked onto yours. Her mouth opened, but only a wet, gurgling sound came out at first. She tried again, her voice a shattered, stuttering whisper you had to strain to hear.
"Please... help me."
You dropped to your knees beside her, the damp grass soaking through your nightclothes. The coppery scent of blood filled your nose, thick and nauseating.
"Celia," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "What happened? Who did this to you?" She trembled violently, a bloody hand flailing before it finally clutched at the fabric of your sleeve, her grip surprisingly strong.
"The... the card," she rasped, each word a painful, wet exhalation. "I pulled... the Hide and Seek card." Her eyes were wild, pleading for you to understand something fundamental, something terrible. You stared, uncomprehending… A card?
"I don't understand," you breathed, your gaze darting over her ruined dress, the dark, spreading stains.
A raw, desperate sound escaped her, a mix of a sob and a choke. Her fingers dug into your arm. "They're going to kill me," she managed, her voice rising to a broken scream that was barely more than a harsh, tearing whisper. "This fucking insane family is going to kill me! They're hunting me!"
Before you could react, before you could even process her words, a new sound cut through the night. It was the deliberate crunch of boots on gravel, approaching fast from the direction of the main house. Celia's eyes widened further in pure terror. You hooked your hands under her arms, the slick, warm blood immediately coating your skin.
"Come on, Celia. Up. We have to go." You strained, your muscles burning, managing to haul her partially upright. She was a dead weight, her legs buckling. The bootsteps were almost upon you. You took a staggering step back toward the faint light of the carriage house door, dragging her, your own bare feet slipping on the wet grass. You had just turned, your back to the approaching threat, your entire world narrowed to the twenty feet of safety, when it happened.
There was no warning sound. Just a blinding, white-hot explosion of pain at the base of your skull. It wasn’t like being hit. It was like the night itself had solidified and shattered against you. Your vision flashed pure white, then spiraled into violent, swirling darkness. The last thing you felt was Celia slipping from your grasp. The last thing you heard, fading as if down a long, dark tunnel, was Celia's voice. Not a whisper anymore, but a full-throated, ragged scream of pure agony that was abruptly cut short. Then there was nothing. No sound. No sight. Just a deep, swallowing blackness that pulled you under.
You woke up in your bed in the carriage house. Morning light streamed in, harsh and wrong. Your head was a throbbing universe of pain. Your mother was sitting in a chair beside the bed, calmly dabbing a cool cloth to your forehead.
"You had a nasty fall last night, honey," she said, her voice smooth as glass. "Far too much champagne. You hit your head on the fountain ledge."
"I fell?" you whispered, your voice cracking. "No… I was with Celia. By the pool. She was hurt… Oh my god, where’s Celia?"
You pushed yourself up further, the world tilting.
"What are you talking about?"
"I heard her screaming," you rasped, your throat dry and raw. "Mom. I saw her. I found her. Outside. On the ground."
Your mother’s hand stilled on your forehead. She sighed, a sound of profound disappointment.
"Oh, honey," she murmured. "What you likely heard was their horrible fight. It was terribly embarrassing. It seems the new bride was... not so great. Kip discovered she was still sleeping with her ex."
"What?"
She leaned closer, the scent of her perfume (usually so comforting) was now cloying and suffocating. "You couldn’t have seen her because she left last night. Celia ran off in the middle of the night."
"But—I saw her. She was... her dress was torn. There was so much blood—"
"You must of imagined things when you hit your head. The mind plays tricks, especially when it's confused and full of champagne."
"Mom—"
Her gaze was unwavering, a steel trap snapping shut. "You. Are. Confused."
You wrapped up the story with Titus, your voice barely steady.
"Somebody knocked me out," you said quietly. "And whoever did… also killed Celia. So…if you respect me at all… you’ll confirm that what I remember is real." Titus didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed once, a small, controlled movement that told you he was choosing his words carefully.
"I know our family is different," he finally said.
"Different," you replied sarcastically.
"We have our own ways of handling problems. Some would call it barbaric. Others," he gave a slight, chilling shrug, "would call it interesting."
"Stop talking in riddles, Titus. Please," you begged, stepping toward him. "Just say what you mean."
"If I say it plainly, you won’t like the answer."
"I already don’t like any of this," you said, your voice cracking. "I just need the truth."
He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years. "You’re not wrong…about that night. About what you heard. About what you saw."
Your heart lurched.
"But," he added, "you’re asking me to confirm something that will change everything for you. And once I do… you don’t get to go back to pretending."
You stared at him, pulse pounding.
"Titus," you whispered, "I stopped pretending a long time ago."
"In the interest of fairness," he said, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather, "Celia really was fucking her ex. Kip was livid. But yes. My aunt Eleanor killed Celia. Put a crossbow bolt right through her chest. Clean shot."
He said it. He just said it. Like you hadn’t spent years in therapy over that night, thinking that you were fucking crazy. He looked at you, his head tilting slightly, an expression of almost academic curiosity on his face. "But it wasn’t my aunt who knocked you out that night," Titus continued, his voice dropping to a low tone that was somehow more terrifying than his previous casualness. "Aunt Eleanor was busy… retrieving her bolt. Making sure the job was done." He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving intensity.
"The person who came up behind you, who swung that heavy stone garden ornament with just enough force to put you down but not kill you… that was your mother."
Masterlist | PART 1 | You're reading PART 2 | PART 3 | FINAL PART
And just like that… I lied, and this is going to be more than 2 parts… Guess I need to create a masterlist for this. And yes, before anyone panics…even if Titus Danforth is a murder daddy, this story will have them end up together. Again, I’m a softie, even when it is for a fucking unhinged man… so they will have their twisted HEA 🖤
Readers going out outfit: CLIO PEPPIATT Capri crystal-embellished beaded tulle mini dress | NET-A-PORTER
pairing: titus danforth x fem!reader
summary: After a bloody shake-up in the Danforth family, Titus decides the family needs stability, optics, and a new symbol of power. He chooses you to stand beside him in a formal union that is half strategic arrangement, half deranged fixation. Draped in silk, heirlooms, and ritual, the marriage becomes less a public alliance than a private claiming—one Titus intends to see through to its last, irreversible step.
wc: 11.3k
a/n: please enjoy, wanted something bloody and horny. not beta read
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, dubcon, forced/arranged marriage, piv, unprotected sex, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, creampie, possessive behavior, sexual ownership, power imbalance, ritualistic sex, degradation, objectification, oral (f!receiving), orgasm control/overstimulation, nipple play, dirty talk, body worship, public ceremony/private consummation contrast, emotional manipulation, dark romance, old-money/cult ritual themes
MASTERLIST
By the time Titus Danforth slid the wedding ring onto your finger, it was already too late to run.
You’d understand that later—hours later, with candlelight shivering over diamond and platinum, with his hand wrapped around yours like the last quiet step in a ritual already underway, with the whole grotesque machine of his family already grinding forward around you too smoothly to stop.
But that night, at the start of it, you still thought there was time.
You still believed, in some stubborn, furious part of yourself, that there had to be a line somewhere. Some point at which even people like them—people with too much money, too much blood behind their names, too much rot hidden under the veneer of polished manners—would finally hear the word no and be forced to reckon with it.
Time to refuse.
Time to humiliate your parents into calling the whole thing off.
Time to make enough of a scene that even the Danforths would decide you were more trouble than you were worth.
That illusion lasted exactly as long as the drive up to Danforth mansion.
The estate rose out of the dark like a stronghold, not a home—severe lines, old stone, and the kind of wealth that had long ago stopped caring whether anyone found it welcoming. Warm light glowed low behind the windows, but nothing about the place felt soft. It was beautiful in the way old money always was: shadowed, expensive, and built to make everyone entering it feel smaller than the family that owned it.
Rain had fallen earlier, and the world still smelled of it. Wet earth. soaked box hedges. iron-rich soil. The cold that slipped in through the cracked car window had bite, but it did nothing to clear the weight pressing behind your ribs. The closer the family car rolled toward the house, the more the estate seemed less like a home and more like a mouth opening, ready to swallow anyone who approached whole.
You sat back against the leather seat and watched it loom larger through the glass.
Beside you, your mother kept both hands folded in her lap so tightly the tendons stood out.
She hadn’t said much on the drive over. Neither had you. There hadn’t been anything worth saying after the call that afternoon. Not after the clipped, bloodless way your father had informed you there would be a dinner at the Danforth estate, that attendance wasn’t optional, and that you were expected to be on your best behavior.
As if that hadn’t been enough to curdle your stomach on instinct.
As if anyone in this city ever got summoned to a Danforth table unless the family meant to take something.
The car rolled to a stop beneath the portico. One of the doors opened before the driver had fully climbed out, a servant already waiting beneath the spill of amber light. Efficient. Silent. Trained to move around wealth the same way one moved around lit matches and open gasoline—carefully, without drawing attention.
You stepped onto the wet stone and tipped your chin up, taking in the house one last time.
The front doors were open.
That, somehow, felt worse than if they’d been shut.
Inside, warmth hit you first. Not comfort—just heat gathered in old walls, thick with beeswax, smoke, old perfume, and polished wood. The house didn’t open up so much as close around you. Low golden light burned from wall sconces, catching on dark paneling, antique tables, and the carved edges of chairs that looked more ceremonial than comfortable. Portraits watched from the walls in heavy frames, generations of Danforth faces rendered in oil and shadow. Every room felt arranged rather than lived in, as if comfort had never ranked very high among Danforth priorities.
Dead Danforths, all of them.
Or soon-to-be, if there was any justice in the world.
A servant took your coat. Another offered a tray of drinks. Somewhere deeper in the house, a string quartet was playing low enough to be mistaken at first for the hum of the building itself.
You didn’t take a drink.
Your mother did. Fast.
You glanced at her. “Comforting.”
“Don’t start.”
“I haven’t started anything.”
Her mouth tightened. “Please.”
You almost laughed at that. Please. As though this were one of those evenings that could still be guided into civility if only everyone used the right cutlery and kept their voices down.
As though you hadn’t spent the entire drive here feeling like livestock on the way to a very expensive slaughterhouse.
A third servant appeared, older than the others, spine straight as a blade.
“They’re waiting in the council room.”
Of course they were.
Not the dining room. Not the conservatory. Not any space with warmth or softness in its name. The council room.
You followed the servant through corridors that seemed designed to remind guests exactly whose house they were in—dark wood, arched thresholds, muted rugs softening every footstep, and pools of amber light that never quite reached the ceiling. The place had the hush of a church and the intimidation of a courtroom. Nothing garish. Nothing modern. Just old money and older control pressing in from every side.
By the time you reached the double doors at the end of the hall, your pulse was a hard, steady thing.
The servant opened them.
Conversation died.
The room beyond was formal without being grand, the sort of space built for family decisions no one else was meant to question. Dark walls drank the light. Amber sconces and shaded lamps threw a low glow across polished wood, heavy chairs, and a patterned rug worn soft beneath generations of expensive shoes. Nothing in it looked accidental. Every object seemed placed to frame authority. Several faces turned toward you and your family with the flat attentiveness of people already halfway through deciding what your life was worth.
You knew most of them by sight. You’d grown up in orbit around these people, at galas and funerals and charity auctions and whispered afterparties your parents thought you were too young to understand.
Danforths at the far end. A few representatives from other old families arranged like chess pieces around them. Lawyers. Advisors. Men who’d spent their whole lives confusing cruelty for refinement.
And there—
He sat to the left of the head chair, one elbow hooked over the armrest, looking as if the room had been designed around him rather than the other way around.
Titus Danforth.
You’d seen him before, of course. At distance. Across rooms. Once, years ago, on the courthouse steps with blood drying in a neat crescent along one cuff while reporters shouted questions no one had the spine to repeat once he’d looked their way.
But proximity was different.
Proximity made it clear why people lost their nerve around him.
He wasn’t the loudest person in the room. Wasn’t even pretending to be. He sat in dark formalwear cut so sharply it made everyone else look rumpled, one hand curved around the stem of a glass, the fire gilding the planes of his face. There was no impatience in him. No restless movement. Just a kind of waiting stillness that was somehow more threatening than temper ever could’ve been. The kind a predator had when it already knew the outcome and was merely letting the moment arrive in its own time.
His gaze touched your face and stayed there.
Not appreciative. Not exactly.
Assessing.
As if he’d been expecting you.
Your father cleared his throat beside you. The sound landed weak.
“Thank you for receiving us.”
One of the older Danforths smiled without showing teeth. “Please. Sit.”
You didn’t move.
“Before I do,” you said, “I’d like to know why I’m here.”
Your mother made a tiny, horrified sound under her breath.
No one else seemed especially surprised.
At the head of the table sat Chester Danforth, old and dry and ghastly elegant in black. He folded his hands and regarded you the way some men regarded racehorses before purchase.
“Direct,” he said.
“I come by it honestly.”
That earned the faintest flicker at the corner of Titus’s mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the thought of one.
You hated that you noticed.
Chester gestured to the empty chair opposite Titus. “Sit, and we’ll spare ourselves theatrics.”
“I’m not the one staging an ambush in a room called the council chamber.”
Your father hissed your name. You ignored him.
For three long seconds no one moved.
Then Titus set his glass down with a soft click.
The sound was quiet. It still cut through the room like piano wire.
“Let her stand,” he said.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Every other voice in the room simply vanished around it.
You looked at him.
He was still watching you with that unnerving steadiness, one hand resting loose on the arm of his chair, expression impossible to read in full. Calm, yes. Mild, even. But there was something underneath the mildness that felt sharpened and deliberate, like velvet laid over a blade.
Chester inclined his head as though the matter had been settled by a higher authority.
Of course it had.
“Very well,” he said. “You’re here because the Danforth family requires an alliance. Your family requires protection. In light of recent events, both interests are best served by unity.”
You stared at him. “That could mean anything.”
“It means,” said your father, not looking at you, “an engagement has been arranged.”
The room went perfectly still.
For a split second, all you heard was the fire.
Then you laughed.
It came out once, sharp and unbelieving, and then stopped dead when you realized no one else was joining you.
Your eyes went to your father. Then your mother. Then back to Chester.
Then finally, unwillingly, to Titus.
He hadn’t moved.
He looked exactly the same as he had a moment ago. Same posture. Same terrifying calm. Same gaze on your face, unreadable and fixed. As if he were watching the first inevitable crack spread through glass.
“No,” you said.
No one answered.
Your pulse kicked harder. “No.”
Chester folded his hands tighter. “This benefits everyone at the table.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Mind your tongue,” your father snapped.
You turned on him. “You don’t get to sell me to these people and then talk to me about my tongue.”
“Enough.”
That came from your mother, but it landed with none of the force she probably meant it to. Fear had already thinned her voice.
You looked back at the table. “You can’t be serious.”
“We’re entirely serious,” Chester said.
“You think I’m going to agree to this?”
At that, Titus finally rose.
It was almost nothing, just the smooth shift of a man unfolding from a chair, but every eye in the room tracked it. He set one hand lightly on the table and regarded you across the candlelight.
He moved like someone who’d never been hurried in his life.
“You misunderstand,” he said.
His voice was low, polished, almost gentle. It should’ve sounded civilized. Instead it slid over your nerves like something expensive and lethal.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
Silence.
Your throat went hot with fury.
He came around the table without urgency, passing the candelabra, the gleam of silver, the motionless figures seated on either side. Everyone made room for him instinctively, their bodies yielding before he even reached them.
He stopped a few feet away.
Closer now, he was worse.
There was nothing overt in his expression. No vulgar leer. No obvious satisfaction. If anything, he looked maddeningly composed, his dark tie immaculate, his cufflinks catching firelight, his face set in the kind of attentiveness most men only pretended to possess. The menace was in the precision of him. In the way he looked at you as though the rest of the room had ceased to matter.
You lifted your chin. “Then you can marry someone else.”
“I could,” he said.
The words were smooth as poured whiskey.
“I won’t.”
A silence opened between you, dense and ugly and charged.
You felt everyone in the room listening.
You also felt, with a sudden and vicious clarity, that Titus knew exactly what he was doing to you by answering this way. Not pushing. Not raising his voice. Not giving you anything easy to fight. He was refusing the argument by acting as if it had already ended.
You hated how effective it was.
“I’d rather die,” you said.
At that, finally, his mouth curved.
Not kindly.
Not much.
But enough.
“I know,” he said softly.
The words settled in your chest like a verdict.
Chester cleared his throat, too loudly this time, as if even he felt the room tipping out of his control and disliked it.
“The engagement will be announced within the week,” he said. “Preparations are already underway.”
You rounded on him. “You can go to hell.”
“Likely,” he said. “But you’ll still be married before we get there.”
Your father stood. “That’s enough.”
“No,” you sneered, not taking your eyes off the Danforths. “I think we’re all done pretending there’s a respectable version of this.”
Your hand was shaking. You curled it into your palm before anyone could see.
Titus noticed anyway. Of course he did.
He stepped aside at last, giving you a clear path to the door with the kind of grace that was more insulting than restraint.
“You’ve had a long evening,” he said. “You should rest.”
The dismissal in it lit something white-hot behind your ribs.
“Don’t speak to me like I belong here.”
He tilted his head just slightly. “Not yet.”
You left before you did something reckless enough to get your family buried in the gardens.
The door shut hard behind you. The corridor outside seemed colder than before, though the house was warm. You stood there for one sharp breath, then another, fighting the humiliating urge to pace like an ensnared animal.
Footsteps sounded behind you.
You turned, already furious.
Titus had come out alone, closing the council room doors with one hand. The sound of voices inside dimmed to a muffled murmur. He was nearer now than he’d been across the table, and the effect of that closeness was immediate and deeply inconvenient. His cologne was faint, expensive, something dark and resinous threaded with smoke. Beneath it clung the cleaner scent of starched cotton and cold night air, as if he’d come in not long before you had.
You hated that you could pick any of it out.
“You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“No?”
“No.”
He regarded you for a beat. “You seem upset.”
That nearly did it.
A laugh broke out of you, sharp as cut glass. “Upset?”
“I’m trying to be charitable.”
“Try harder.”
For the first time, he looked almost entertained.
It made him worse.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall opposite you, casual in a way that felt studied enough to be its own kind of violence. The corridor light turned the edge of his face gold and left the rest in shadow.
“You’re angry,” he said.
“I’m furious.”
“Good.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
His gaze dropped, briefly, to your hand at your side—as if he could still see the tremor you’d hidden in the room—then rose again.
“I have no use for timid women,” he said.
The words should’ve sounded like flattery. Somehow they didn’t. Somehow they sounded like he was selecting a weapon.
“You don’t have any use for women at all,” you snapped. “You have uses.”
Another tiny curve at his mouth.
“Sharp,” he murmured. “That’s one of the reasons.”
You stared at him. “Reasons for what?”
Now he pushed away from the wall and closed the distance between you in two measured steps.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to make the corridor feel suddenly, suffocatingly smaller.
“For choosing you.”
Your breath caught despite yourself, more from disgust than anything else, and he saw that too. Saw everything. His attention was surgical. There was nowhere to put your face that didn’t feel noticed.
“You’re insane.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You think that makes this sound romantic?”
At that, something shifted in his expression—subtle, but real. Amusement thinning into something cooler.
“Romance,” he said, “is for people with the luxury of illusion.”
You opened your mouth. He kept going.
“This is better.”
His voice had gone quieter. Not softer. Quieter. A difference you felt in your blood.
“This is honest.”
You wanted to slap him.
You wanted, with equal intensity, to force him to lose that impossible composure just once, just long enough to prove he was made of the same ugly nerves and blood and temper as everyone else.
Instead you said, “I’m not some jewel you can buy and put in a case because the room looks empty without it.”
“No,” he said.
Then, before you could decide whether he meant to mock you, his hand lifted.
He touched the inside of your wrist.
Just that.
Two fingers over the pulse point, light enough that he could’ve pretended it was accidental if he’d been anyone else. It wasn’t. The contact was deliberate down to the last fraction of pressure. Warm. Gloveless. Intimate in a way a grope never could’ve been.
Your whole body went rigid.
He looked down at where he was touching you, not hungrily, not greedily, but with the awful, proprietary interest of a man appraising workmanship.
Then he lifted his gaze back to your face.
“You’re something much rarer,” he said.
You jerked your hand away so hard your bracelet bit your skin.
His expression didn’t change.
“Don’t touch me.”
A beat.
“As you wish.”
He stepped back.
That should’ve made you feel victorious. Somehow it didn’t. Somehow it felt as though he’d only let go because he’d wanted you to feel what he could do with almost nothing.
“I'm not gonna marry you,” you said.
He studied you in the silence that followed, eyes dark and steady, the corners of his mouth gone neutral again.
Then he said, “Get some sleep.”
You stared at him.
“You’ll look better rested in the ring.”
You might have hit him if a servant hadn’t turned the corner just then, carrying folded linens and immediately freezing at the sight of the two of you in the corridor.
Titus stepped away from you at once, immaculate again, every trace of intimacy wiped clean so thoroughly it made you feel briefly insane for sensing it in the first place.
He nodded once to the servant, then to you.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll have the heirlooms brought out.”
And just like that he was gone, walking back toward the council room as though he hadn’t just upended the axis of your life with all the emotional investment of a man confirming dinner plans.
The heirlooms came out the next afternoon.
Of course they did.
No miracle intervened overnight. No late-breaking scandal. No sudden attack of conscience among your parents. By morning the engagement had already taken on the slick, polished inevitability of something handled by people with too much money to imagine failure. Your mother wept in private and avoided your eyes in public. Your father busied himself with logistics. Flowers appeared. Fabric swatches. Guest lists. Security arrangements.
By noon you wanted to burn down half the city.
Instead you were brought to another formal room at Danforth mansion, quieter than the rest and no less oppressive for it. Low light slid across burnished wood, old upholstery, and display cabinets crowded with the sort of antiques families like this mistook for legacy. The air carried old linen, polished wood, and the dry velvet hush of jewelry kept shut away more often than worn.
At the center of the room waited three attendants and an open lacquered case lined in dark blue silk.
Jewels lay inside.
Diamonds. Emeralds. Pearls yellowed faintly with age. Rings in settings so old they looked less designed than inherited by force.
You stopped in the doorway. “No.”
One of the attendants offered a brittle smile. “Just the fitting, miss.”
“I said no.”
“Titus said yes.”
You turned.
He was already in the room.
You hadn’t heard him enter.
He stood by the windows in shirtsleeves and dark trousers, suit jacket draped over the back of a chair, hands loose in his pockets. The stripped-back look should’ve made him seem more human. It didn’t. It just made him look less ceremonial and somehow more dangerous for it, as if this was what he was underneath the polish and the cufflinks and the family theater—something patient, expensive, and impossible to shame.
“You dismissed my answer yesterday,” you said. “Don’t expect a different one today.”
“No,” he said. “I expect consistency. It’s one of your better qualities.”
The attendants looked studiously at the floor.
You hated this room. Hated the sun in it. Hated the flowers on the sideboard. Hated the neat arrangement of rings waiting to be tried on your hand like shackles dressed as heritage.
Most of all, you hated that Titus looked entirely at ease in your fury.
He crossed the room and stopped before the open case.
“Leave us.”
The attendants vanished with near comic speed.
The door clicked shut.
For a few seconds, all you heard was the tick of the mantel clock.
“You enjoy this,” you said.
“I enjoy certainty.”
“You enjoy watching people realize they’re trapped.”
He glanced over the jewels, then chose a ring without hesitation. Platinum, old-cut diamond, severe and devastatingly beautiful.
“No,” you said again.
He turned, ring held between two fingers.
“Come here.”
You laughed once, flat and incredulous. “Have you mistaken me for someone obedient?”
“No.” His gaze swept over you, unhurried. “That would bore me.”
The heat that rose in you then was almost worse for being useless. Anger, yes, but threaded through with something rawer—the fury of being seen too clearly by someone you wanted to despise in simple terms.
You didn’t move.
Titus did.
He closed the distance without any visible tension, as if walking toward you in a locked room was the least dramatic thing in the world. When he reached you, he took your hand before you could snatch it away, not rough, not hesitant, fingers closing around yours with a confidence so complete it felt like the roughness had been moved somewhere subtler and more humiliating.
Your breath caught.
“Let go.”
“In a moment.”
His thumb pressed once against your knuckles, angling your hand toward the light. Then he slid the ring down your finger.
It fit.
Perfectly.
Too perfectly.
For one hideous second neither of you spoke.
The diamond flashed cold fire.
You looked at it and felt something cavernous open beneath your ribs.
Titus didn’t release your hand right away. He turned it slightly, studying the ring where it sat on your finger, his expression unreadable except for the terrible concentration of it.
“There,” he said at last, voice low. “That’s better.”
You yanked your hand back.
The ring stayed where it was.
Panic flared mean and hot and stupidly physical.
“It’s too tight.”
“It isn’t.”
“I want it off.”
He lifted his eyes to your face.
“No,” he said.
A silence stretched. The clock ticked on. Somewhere outside the window, crows were making ugly sounds in the bare trees.
You curled your fingers into your palm, as if hiding the ring might somehow lessen it.
Titus watched the movement.
Then his gaze went to your mouth.
When he spoke again, it was quieter than before.
“You wear my name beautifully.”
The words hit like a slap.
You stared at him, pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
“Go fuck yourself.”
He smiled then—really smiled, though only with his mouth, and the sight of it was so unexpectedly handsome and so deeply wrong on his face that your stomach dropped.
“There she is,” he murmured.
He reached past you, only to lift the veil draped over the nearby chair—ivory lace, antique and absurdly delicate. For one surreal second he held it between his hands as though testing weight, texture, history.
Then, without asking, he raised it and let the fabric fall over your hair.
The world turned cream and shadow.
You froze.
Through the sheer lace, his face blurred and sharpened with your breathing.
He stepped in just close enough that if you leaned even a fraction you’d hit him.
“This,” he said, almost conversationally, “is what they’ll remember.”
Your mouth had gone dry. “Take it off.”
“One day,” he said, “you’ll stop mistaking resistance for power.”
Then he lifted the veil again, careful as a priest with a relic, and laid it back over the chair.
He walked past you toward the door, collected his jacket from the chair, and shrugged it on with neat, effortless movements.
At the entryway, he paused.
You hadn’t moved.
You weren’t sure you could.
Without turning fully back, he said, “Dinner at eight. Wear the ring.”
Then he left you standing in the middle of the dim room, hand curled around a diamond that felt like a brand, staring at the closed door and listening to the old house settle around you.
That night, when the servants finally left you alone in the dressing room and the last pin came out of your hair, you stood in front of the mirror and looked at yourself for a very long time.
The ring caught the candlelight.
The silk of your evening gown whispered when you breathed.
Somewhere downstairs, laughter floated up through the vents—soft, cultured, inhuman.
You touched the diamond once with your thumb.
Then you lifted your eyes to your own reflection and understood, with a sickening clarity that settled all the way into your bones, that this was happening.
Not as threat. Not as theory. Not as one more grotesque performance among powerful people.
As fact.
And worse than that—worse than the ring, worse than the veil, worse even than the way Titus looked at you like the ending had already been written—was the unbearable knowledge that he’d barely touched you at all.
A wrist.
A hand.
A veil lowered over your hair.
And still he was everywhere.
In the room. In your pulse. In the hard little silence that followed you even when no one was speaking.
You should’ve felt only rage.
You did feel rage.
But beneath it, humiliating and hot and impossible to deny, was the raw edge of anticipation.
As if some part of you had looked into the mouth of the trap and, for one terrible heartbeat, admired the craftsmanship.
You shut your eyes.
When you opened them again, your reflection was still there—dressed in silk, ringed in candlelight, already half transformed into something you didn’t recognize.
A bride in all but vows.
And somewhere in the house, calm as ever, Titus Danforth was waiting for the moment it became irreversible.
By the time they came for you, the house had already dressed itself for the ceremony.
That was the first thing you noticed when the door to your room opened and the morning’s hush gave way to movement—servants carrying white boxes and tissue paper, polished shoes whispering over the rugs, the faint drift of incense winding in from somewhere deeper in the estate. Danforth mansion had worn darkness well the night before. In daylight, it looked no less sinister. If anything, the low gold burn of lamplight against old wood and stone felt stranger with morning pressing at the windows, as though the house had refused the sun on principle and built its own atmosphere in defiance of it.
No one spoke above a murmur.
No one asked how you’d slept.
No one asked whether you still intended to go through with it.
By now, apparently, even the illusion of choice had been set aside.
The dress waited on a stand near the hearth.
White silk. Old lace. Long sleeves that narrowed at the wrist. A high collar fastened with tiny pearl buttons. Not soft. Not romantic. It was too severe for that, too deliberate in every line. It looked less like something chosen for a bride and more like something selected for an offering.
You stared at it until one of the women gently asked you to raise your arms.
You did.
Not because you’d surrendered. Not because you’d accepted a single goddamn thing about this day.
Because refusal had become useless in increments so precise you’d barely felt them happening.
First the dinner. Then the announcement. Then the ring. Then the veil lowered over your hair by the same hand that would, by nightfall, claim you before a room full of witnesses and call it sanctified because rich families had always known how to dress violence in ceremony and get away with it.
Layer by layer, the dress closed around you.
Silk sliding over skin. Lace hugging your throat. The snug draw of the fitted bodice. Fingers at the back fastening button after button until you could feel the weight of yourself altered by craft alone. Someone arranged your hair. Someone else fitted earrings at your ears—diamonds old enough to have belonged to women who’d probably smiled through their own ruin with better posture than yours.
You stood still through all of it, hands loose at your sides, face turned slightly toward the mirror without truly looking into it.
Only when one of the women reached for your left hand did your attention sharpen.
She paused when she saw the ring already there.
Of course she did.
A servant behind you lowered her voice. “Mr. Danforth said it wasn’t to be removed.”
A strange silence followed that.
No one looked directly at you after that.
When they were finished, the room emptied in stages until only one woman remained to settle the veil over your hair. The lace spilled cool and weightless down your back, brushing your shoulders, your spine, the backs of your arms.
She stepped away.
The door shut behind her.
At last, you were alone.
You lifted your eyes to the mirror.
For a long moment, you didn’t breathe.
The woman staring back at you looked composed. Expensive. Untouchable in the way statues were untouchable—seen, admired, paraded, and entirely at the mercy of the hands that placed them where they stood. The silk gave you an elegance you hadn’t asked for. The veil softened nothing. The ring flashed like a hard little fact.
You looked like you belonged to the house already.
Your mouth tightened.
A knock sounded once at the door. Not tentative. Not loud. Just enough.
Before you could answer, it opened.
Titus entered alone.
He shut the door behind him without taking his eyes off you.
For a second neither of you spoke.
He was dressed in black.
The sight of him in it did something ugly to your pulse.
Not because black was novel. Men wore black every day in houses like this and called it timeless. But on Titus it looked less like formality and more like a decision. The cut of the suit was ruthless. The white at his throat only made the rest of him darker by contrast. Every line of him was composed down to the smallest detail—cufflinks, watch, the fall of the jacket, the gleam of his dress shoes. Not a hair out of place. Not a flicker of nerves visible anywhere.
As if weddings were nothing.
As if forcing a woman to the altar were only monstrous when poorer men did it badly.
His gaze moved over you once, slowly.
Not leering.
Worse.
Appraising.
And, beneath that, unmistakably pleased.
“You look right in it,” he said.
Your fingers curled at your sides. “That’s a disgusting thing to say to someone on their wedding day.”
“If you were interested in pretty lies, I’d have chosen someone else.”
“You keep saying things like that as if I’m supposed to be flattered.”
“No,” he said.
He crossed the room at the same maddening, measured pace he brought to everything, then stopped behind you rather than in front of you. In the mirror, you saw him lift one hand toward the veil where it fell from your hair.
He didn’t touch it yet.
“Flattery is cheap,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth.”
Your throat went dry with anger.
“And the truth is what, exactly?”
His eyes met yours in the glass.
“That you were made for this room better than most of the people born into it.”
Silence rang between you.
The words should’ve sounded manipulative. They were manipulative. That didn’t stop them from landing with a sharpness that made your stomach knot.
You hated him for knowing how to speak to pride instead of fear.
You hated yourself a little for listening.
His fingers finally closed over a fold of lace, adjusting the fall of the veil with careful precision.
“I’m not walking willingly into this,” you said.
“No,” he answered. “Willingness was never the part I required from you.”
You turned then, fast enough that the veil stirred around your shoulders.
His hand fell away.
“Do you hear yourself?” you demanded. “Do you ever once hear the things that come out of your mouth and think 'maybe I sound like a fucking monster?'”
His expression didn’t change.
“No.”
The bluntness of it nearly made you laugh.
Instead you said, “You should.”
“Would it help?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it would make you less unbearable.”
He considered that as if you’d offered him a practical question rather than an insult.
Then, with the faintest ghost of amusement: “I doubt it.”
A noise escaped you—somewhere between a scoff and a disbelieving breath.
He studied you for another second, then reached up and rested two fingers beneath your chin.
The contact was light.
Still, your body went taut at once.
He tilted your face slightly, not enough to be rough, just enough to make the gesture impossible to mistake for anything other than control.
“You can glare at me all the way to the altar if it eases you,” he said. “I won’t object.”
Your gaze locked on his.
“And after?”
His eyes were very dark at this distance. Steady. Inhumanly patient.
“After,” he said, “you’ll have the courtesy to stop acting surprised.”
He let go.
A knock sounded again—this time from outside, followed by a servant’s careful voice letting Titus know the family was assembled.
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you one last time, gaze dropping briefly to the ring, then returning to your face.
“Come along, then,” he said softly. “You’ve kept them waiting long enough.”
The room they’d chosen for the ceremony wasn’t a church.
That would’ve been almost comforting in its hypocrisy.
No, this was worse.
It was one of the larger formal chambers at the heart of the estate, transformed not into something holy but into something that wanted to be mistaken for holiness by people who’d spent generations believing money, blood, and repetition could manufacture sacred things where none existed naturally. Rows of chairs had been arranged in exact lines beneath amber sconces and shaded lamps. Candles burned in clusters on tables and ledges, their light wavering against dark wood and old stone. White flowers had been brought in, but even they couldn’t soften the room. They only sharpened the hush of it, their perfume drifting too sweet through air that still carried incense and polished furniture and the cold mineral smell of old walls.
At the front of the room stood a narrow dais.
On it, beneath the low gold burn of the lights, waited Titus.
For one traitorous moment, you forgot how to breathe.
He looked as though the whole room had been built for the sole purpose of framing him here—black suit, white shirt, hands loosely clasped in front of him, face composed into something calm enough to pass for reverence if a person were stupid enough to want to believe in it. He didn’t shift when you entered. Didn’t smile. Didn’t do anything theatrical to mark the moment. He simply watched you begin the walk toward him with the same certainty he’d brought to every other stage of this from the start.
The aisle felt longer than it should have.
The veil softened the edges of the room but sharpened everything that mattered. The drum of your own pulse. The whisper of silk around your ankles. The flicker of candlelight on brass and crystal. Faces turning to look. Families gathered in ordered silence, all of them dressed in mourning colors and jewels as if they’d come not to bless a union but to witness a sealing.
Your father escorted you only halfway.
That had been decided without your input too.
At the midpoint he stopped, his fingers pressing once at your arm before withdrawing. He didn’t look at you when he let go. He looked at Titus.
Like a man delivering something expensive and breakable into the hands of its new owner.
You wanted to scream.
Instead you kept walking.
Titus stepped down from the dais to meet you before the final few feet had been crossed.
Again, not showy. Just controlled. Precise in his timing. He offered his hand.
You looked at it.
The last time he’d taken your hand, a ring had gone onto your finger and stayed there.
Every instinct in you recoiled.
Every eye in the room waited.
At last, you placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours at once, steady and cool, not squeezing, not stroking—just holding, as if the contact itself were enough to announce the rest.
Then he led you up to stand beside him beneath the candles.
The officiant—one of the council men, grey-haired and grave in a dark suit—began to speak.
You barely heard the first part.
Something about alliance. About continuity. About two houses joined in mutual strength and common purpose. About the preservation of legacy and the solemn duty of those called to steward it. The usual poison dressed as tradition.
Your attention kept snagging on smaller things instead. The warmth of Titus at your side. The line of his shoulder just inside your vision. The weight of the ring on your finger. The scent of wax and flowers and the faint resinous cologne that clung to him whenever he leaned the slightest bit nearer.
Then came the vows.
The officiant prompted Titus first.
Of course he’d go first.
Titus turned toward you fully, and the room seemed to recede in a single slow pulse.
You braced yourself for prettiness.
He gave you none.
“I take you before these witnesses,” he said, voice low and even, carrying cleanly through the chamber without ever needing to rise, “to stand at my side, to bear my name, and to be kept under my protection as long as I draw breath.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
The officiant should’ve interrupted. No one did.
Titus went on, eyes fixed on yours.
“What is mine, I keep. What I keep, I defend. Before family, law, and God, I bind myself to that duty.”
A murmur, almost too soft to be called one, moved through the guests and died.
You stared at him.
He had not improvised those words in the moment. You knew that instantly. He had chosen them. Considered them. Brought them here intact.
Protection.
Keeping.
Duty.
Not love. Never love. Something older and harder and far more dangerous in a man like him because it asked for nothing tender in return.
When it was your turn, the officiant prompted you too quickly, as if fearful of giving anyone more time than necessary to think about what had just been said aloud.
Your own repeated words tasted strange in your mouth. Ancient. Formal. Sanded smooth by a hundred dead brides before you, none of whom had likely been allowed the comfort of saying what they meant either.
You spoke them anyway.
What else was left?
By the time the ring exchange came, your hand was colder than the diamonds.
Titus took it again.
His thumb brushed once across your knuckles before he adjusted the ring already there, turning the stone minutely until it caught the light. The gesture was so small that no one but you could’ve understood it for what it was.
Not placement.
Possession.
The officiant said the last words. The room held its breath.
Then, with solemn satisfaction: “It is done.”
Done.
Not blessed. Not celebrated. Done.
Titus lifted the veil from your face.
The lace slid back in a whisper.
For one suspended second, with the room silent and the candles throwing gold around both of you, his hand stayed at the edge of your jaw.
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was brief.
Formal.
It should’ve been nothing.
Instead it landed with devastating accuracy—mouth firm against yours, measured enough to be publicly appropriate and intimate enough to feel like a warning. No fumbling hunger. No softness. Just the terrible confidence of a man sealing a contract in front of Mr. Le Bail and witnesses.
When he drew back, the room returned all at once.
People rose.
Applause began, muted but insistent.
And you stood there in white silk with Titus Danforth’s hand at the small of your back, feeling the whole world slide one inch further off its axis.
The reception took place in an adjoining room that had been rearranged for dinner.
Long table. Candlelight. Crystal. Flowers in low arrangements pale as bone. More guests than before, though still not enough to pretend this was anything other than a tightly controlled family affair. The house had shifted its posture for the occasion, but it hadn’t softened. Laughter never rose very high. Music from the quartet stayed low and bloodless. Even the servants moved differently now—quicker, quieter, as if aware that some threshold had been crossed and the air itself required more caution.
You were seated beside Titus at the center of the table.
Of course you were.
Your chair had barely been pushed in before the procession of toasts began. Chester first, speaking about continuity and the strength of old alliances. Another council member after him, congratulating both families on their wisdom. Someone from your side talking about endurance in terms so neutral they might as well have been discussing architecture.
Through all of it, Titus remained maddeningly composed.
He didn’t drink much. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t lean into the performance the way lesser men would have. He listened when required, inclined his head when politeness demanded it, and kept one hand resting lightly against the back of your chair as if the gesture cost him no thought at all.
It cost you plenty.
Every time his fingers shifted against the carved wood behind you, you felt it.
Every time someone addressed you both as if this were a union freely entered, your jaw tightened a little further.
At one point Chester lifted his glass and toasted “to the new Mrs. Danforth.”
Your stomach turned.
Without looking at Titus, you reached for your wine and drank.
Next to you, he said very quietly, “You’ll make your teeth ache if you grind them any harder.”
You set the glass down. “I hope that’s what ruins the evening for you.”
“My evening is going extremely well.”
You turned your head a fraction. “I hate you.”
His expression didn’t shift. He lifted his own glass, took one measured sip, and set it back down.
“I know.”
The calm with which he said it made you want to stab him with the dessert fork.
Instead you faced forward again, eyes on the flowers, on the crystal, on the slow moving reflections in your wineglass.
A beat later, you felt his thumb brush once along the back edge of your chair, impossibly close to the bare stretch of skin at your neck where the veil no longer covered you.
Not quite touching.
Worse than touching.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“I’m restraining myself.”
“So am I.”
The words dropped into your lap like lit coals.
You went very still.
To anyone watching, nothing had changed. The new husband and wife sat side by side beneath candlelight and public approval, speaking quietly as refined people did at refined tables. No one would’ve guessed that your pulse had gone ragged or that Titus, without so much as lifting his voice, had just made it brutally clear how thin his own leash was running.
You looked at him then.
He was already watching the room again, not you.
The side of his face gave away nothing.
And somehow that was the worst part. That he could put words like that into your blood and then look away as though the act required nothing of him.
Dinner stretched.
Courses came and went barely tasted. Congratulations arrived in tidy lines, most of them spoken to Titus first and you second. He accepted them with cool ease. You endured them. The ring on your finger felt heavier with every passing minute.
At last, after coffee was poured and the last formal toast had died, Titus rose.
The room quieted.
He offered no speech.
No grand gratitude.
He simply placed one hand over the back of your chair, and the collected company seemed to understand all at once what that meant.
The evening’s public portion had ended.
Your chair scraped softly as you stood.
No one tried to stop you. No one looked shocked. Not one face in the room betrayed even a flicker of discomfort. Why would it? This, after all, was what the entire day had been arranged to culminate in. The silk. The flowers. The vows. The blessing. The dinner. All of it had been a polished corridor leading neatly toward one private room and the man waiting to take you there.
Titus settled his hand at your back.
The gesture was light.
It might as well have been a brand.
“Goodnight,” Chester said, in the tone of a man concluding excellent business.
You looked at him and thought, very clearly, that if there were a hell deep enough for families like this, it ought to have separate wings.
Then Titus guided you out.
The corridor beyond the reception room was quiet enough to hear the house settling around you.
No quartet here. No voices. Just the soft drag of your skirt over the rugs and the measured tread of Titus’s shoes beside your own, the low amber light along the walls, the old wood and stone holding the evening’s warmth close.
He didn’t hurry.
That, more than anything, began to fray your composure.
If he’d dragged you off in triumph, if he’d shown one crude crack of appetite, you could have despised him cleanly for it. But he moved through the corridor with the same composure he’d brought to the altar and the dinner table, as if what waited at the end of this walk were not a wife he’d cornered by increments but merely the next solemn duty in a day of solemn duties.
You hated how much more frightening that made him.
At the first turn in the hall, you stopped walking.
His hand fell from your back.
He turned to look at you.
“No.”
The word came out low, hard, breathless with everything you’d held in all night.
For the first time since leaving the reception, his attention sharpened fully onto you.
“No?” he repeated.
“You don’t get to act like this is just another room.” Your voice shook once and steadied. “You don’t get to walk me through your house like I’m already trained to it.”
He watched you in silence.
The amber sconces lit one side of his face and left the other in shadow. His collar was still neat. His expression still controlled. Only his eyes had changed, going darker somehow, more focused.
“Have I given you the impression I think tonight is unimportant?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Interesting.”
You laughed once, ugly and tired. “You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I mean it.” You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, rage making you reckless. “You stand there acting like the most monstrous thing about you is your honesty, when really it’s the calm. It’s the way you do all of this”—you gestured between him, the house, the dress, the ring, the whole suffocating architecture of the night—“like you’ve already forgiven yourself for it.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.
“I haven’t forgiven myself for anything.”
The quiet certainty in that landed harder than denial would have.
You stared at him.
“Then what exactly do you call this?” you asked.
His answer came without hesitation.
“An inevitability.”
Something about that word, spoken there in the hush of the corridor with the whole house closing around it, made your anger slip briefly into something more dangerous. Not fear exactly. Not surrender. Something sharper. The vertigo of standing too near the edge of a decision already made by someone else.
You should’ve stepped back.
Instead you stayed where you were.
Titus took in the fact of that and said, very softly, “Ask me what you’ve been asking yourself all day.”
You frowned. “What?”
His eyes never left yours.
“Why you.”
The breath left you in a quiet rush.
For a second the only sound was the low hiss of one of the wall sconces.
Then, because the question had been clawing at you in one form or another since the council room, you said it.
“Why me?”
No smile touched his face this time.
No indulgence either.
When he answered, it was with a steadiness so complete it almost felt cruel.
“Because you’re the only person in either family who looked at me and saw the cost before the reward.”
Your throat tightened.
He took one step nearer.
“Because you know what rooms like these are made for, and you walk into them anyway with your head high.”
Another step.
“Because you’re not soft enough to bore me, not foolish enough to flatter, and not weak enough to break usefully.”
The words should have insulted. Somehow they didn’t. Not entirely.
His gaze dipped to the ring on your hand, then returned to your face.
“And because when I thought of the seat beside mine,” he said, “I found I had no interest in seeing anyone else there.”
Silence.
It hit deeper than any prettier answer could have. Not because it was tender. God, it wasn’t tender. But because it sounded horribly true.
You swallowed.
“That isn’t a reason,” you said, though your voice no longer had the strength it had a minute ago.
“It is to me.”
Then he reached for your hand.
You let him.
Maybe because the fight had shifted. Maybe because the entire day had stripped choice down so thin that this no longer felt like the battlefield to spend it on. Maybe because some ruined part of you wanted to see what his face would look like if he touched the ring now, here, with no witnesses left to perform for.
His fingers closed over yours and lifted your hand between you.
He turned the ring once more in the light.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he pressed his mouth to the stone.
Not your knuckles.
Not your skin.
The ring.
The gesture was so restrained it nearly undid you.
When he lowered your hand again, his thumb moved once along the inside of your wrist.
“Come with me,” he said.
Not a command barked out for effect. Not a plea.
Something worse.
Something spoken like fact.
You went.
The room at the end of the corridor was not the sentimental bridal chamber of old stories.
Nothing in Danforth mansion would ever allow itself that kind of softness.
It was large, yes, and beautifully appointed in the cold, curated way every room in the estate seemed to be—dark wood, old stone, low lamps, a bed hung with pale fabric, an antique wardrobe, a fire banked low in the hearth. Candles glowed on the mantel and bedside tables, their light turning the silk coverlet and the lace at your sleeves to shifting gold and cream. Somewhere incense had been burned earlier. The air still held the fading trace of it under the cleaner scents of linen and polished furniture.
The door shut behind you.
The click of the latch ran through your body like a second pulse.
You stood just inside the room, veil trailing behind you, hands at your sides.
Titus remained by the door for one measured second, watching you.
Then he crossed to you and stopped close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through layers of fabric.
Neither of you spoke.
The room had gone intensely quiet.
At last he lifted a hand and touched the edge of the veil where it fell over your shoulder.
“This first,” he said.
He drew it back slowly, letting the lace slide free from your hair and shoulders in a long soft waterfall. When it was clear of you, he laid it aside with a care that felt almost obscene in its contrast to the violence of the day.
Then his hands returned to you.
One at either wrist.
Not pinning. Not rough.
Only holding for a moment, as if acquainting himself with the fact of you in this room, under his name, in the clothes chosen for this exact hour.
Your breathing was no longer steady.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“You’re angry,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
It almost made you laugh.
“Is that still your favorite thing about me?”
“No,” he said.
His thumbs shifted once against your pulse points.
“That changed when you walked toward me.”
The room tipped very slightly around the edges.
You looked up at him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things like that now.”
A flicker—not amusement, not quite, but close—moved at the corner of his mouth.
“Now,” he said, “is exactly when I mean them.”
His right hand released your wrist and rose to the pearl buttons at your throat.
He paused there.
Waited.
You could have stepped back.
You didn’t.
One by one, he opened the collar o f the gown.
Each button slipped free with a tiny sound that seemed to echo. Cool air touched your skin where the dress loosened. His knuckles brushed your throat once, then the line beneath it. No haste. No fumbling. Just that same devastating patience he brought to everything, as if he intended to prove that he had all the time in the world to watch every last defense come apart.
When the last button at the collar was undone, he let his hand rest briefly at the base of your throat.
“Still surprised?” he asked.
You hated how breathless your answer sounded. “No.”
“Liar.”
The word was almost gentle.
You stared at him.
Then, because pride was the one thing still reliably yours, you said, “I’m not afraid of you.”
His gaze held yours for a long beat.
“Not in the way you expected,” he said.
And because that was true—because that was the worst truth of the night, that fear had been joined by something hotter and more humiliating and infinitely more complicated—you said nothing at all.
He looked at you for another second.
Then he angled his head toward yours, mouth near your temple, your hair, your ear.
When he spoke, his voice was so low it seemed to belong to the room itself.
“That’s enough pretending.”
And then his mouth was on yours. It’s nothing like the chaste, public kiss at the altar. This was wet and sloppy, his tongue pushing past your lips before you could even think to deny him. You taste the expensive whiskey he drank at the reception, the sharpness of it, and something else—something just him. Your head spun. Your hands came up, flat against the hard wall of his chest in his tailored jacket, but you don’t push. You can’t. The fight has bled out of you, leaving a hollow, accepting ache.
One of his hands leaves your face, slides down your spine, over the intricate beading of the wedding gown. It finds the curve of your ass and grips, hard, fingers digging into the silk and the flesh beneath. He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. He pulls your hips flush against his, and you feel the thick, hard length of him straining against his dress pants, pressed against your belly. A shudder runs through you, involuntary. Your body betrays you, a flush of heat spreading low in your stomach.
He breaks the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. His breathing is ragged. “Look at you,” he says, his voice a rough, velvet baritone. “My wife.”
His fingers find the hidden zipper at the side of your dress. The sound of it parting is the sound of your last defense falling. The heavy silk gown slumps, and he pushes it from your shoulders. It pools at your feet, a puddle of white and silver on the dark patterned rug. You stand before him in only your lace-trimmed stockings, garter belt, and a pair of delicate silk panties. The air in the chamber is cool on your bare skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze is a physical weight, traveling over your breasts, your stomach, the juncture of your thighs.
“Perfect,” he breathes. It’s not a compliment. It’s an assessment.
He shrugs out of his own jacket, lets it fall carelessly. His fingers make quick work of his cufflinks, his shirt buttons. He strips to the waist, revealing defined muscle underneath. You’ve never seen him like this—not a politician, not a strategist. Just a man. A predator in his den. He steps forward, closing the distance, and his bare chest brushes against your nipples. You gasp. They’re already tight, sensitive.
He doesn’t kiss you again. He lowers his head, his mouth finding the slope of your breast. His tongue flicks over one nipple, once, twice, through the lace of your bra. Then his teeth graze it. You cry out, a short, sharp sound. Your hands fly to his hair, the greying strands surprisingly soft between your fingers. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or holding him there.
He answers by unhooking the front clasp of your bra. It falls open. His mouth is on you instantly, hot and wet, sucking your bare nipple deep. The pull is exquisite, a sharp pleasure that arrows straight to your cunt. You feel yourself getting wet, a slick, embarrassing heat. You’re panting. Your head falls back.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast. His hand comes up to knead the one his mouth left, pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “This belongs to me now. This body. This sweet gasp.” He sucks harder, and your knees buckle. His arm bands around your waist, holding you up. “Say it.”
You can’t. The words won’t form. You just moan, a broken, needy sound.
He straightens, his lips glistening. His hands go to the fastening of his trousers. “On the bed, darling. On your back. Legs spread for your husband.”
The command brooks no argument. The formality of ‘Eleanor’ in the midst of this filth makes your stomach clench. You move to the massive four-poster bed, the dark velvet coverlet cool under your back. You look up at the canopy, the Danforth crest embroidered there. You spread your legs. The cool air touches your wetness through the silk of your panties. You’re exposed. You’re his.
He pushed his pantsand briefs down, his cock springing free. It’s thick, flushed an angry red, the head slick with pre-cum. He’s fully erect, veins standing out along the length. He strokes himself once, his eyes locked on where you’re laid out for him. “Look at you waiting for it.”
He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, slowly, dragging the damp silk over your hips, your thighs. He tosses them aside. Then he just looks. At your bare cunt, glistening and already swollen for him. His jaw tightens. “Beautiful. So fucking wet for me already.”
He doesn’t use his fingers first. He lowers his head. His breath ghosts over you, hot. Then his tongue, flat and broad, licks a slow, firm stripe from your entrance to your clit. You jolt, a full-body spasm, a choked sob escaping your throat. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
He eats you like a man starved. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, then pushes inside you, fucking you with it. The wet, obscene sounds fill the silent chamber. Your hips lift off the bed, seeking more pressure, more of that devastating friction. One of his hands pins your hip to the mattress. The other slides up your body, his thumb finding your mouth. “Suck,” he orders.
You open your mouth, take his thumb inside. You suck on it, the salt of his skin on your tongue, as his tongue fucks you deeper. The dual sensations unravel you. The coil in your belly tightens, a terrifying, inevitable pull.
“That’s it,” he growls against your cunt, his voice muffled by your flesh. “Come on my tongue, wife. Let me taste it.”
His words are the final trigger. Your orgasm crashes over you, a silent, seizing wave. Your back arches, your cunt clenching around nothing, around his tongue, pulses of pure, mindless pleasure wracking you. You cry out around his thumb, the sound swallowed by the room.
He doesn’t let you come down. As the last tremors shake your thighs, he rises over you. The broad head of his cock presses against your soaked entrance. He’s not asking. He’s positioning. You’re still spasming, oversensitive, when he pushes inside.
The stretch is breathtaking. He’s so thick, filling you in a way that borders on pain. You gasp, your nails digging into the velvet coverlet. He sinks in slowly, relentlessly, until his hips are flush with yours, until he’s buried to the hilt. You feel him throbbing inside you, a deep, insistent pulse. He’s so deep. You’re so full.
“Mine,” he grunts, the word punched out of him. He pulls back almost all the way, then drives back in. The pace he sets is brutal, possessive. Each thrust is a claiming. The wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, his ragged breaths—it’s the only music. He watches your face, his eyes burning. “Take it. Take your husband’s cock. This cunt was made for this. For me.”
You can’t speak. You can only feel. The drag of him inside you, the delicious friction, the building pressure again, already, so soon after your first peak. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. You surrender to it. To him. This is your fate. This is your marriage bed.
His thrusts become erratic, harder, deeper. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Gonna fill you,” he pants. “Gonna put my heir in you. Right now.”
He slams into you one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go. You feel him pulse, then the hot, sudden flood of his release filling you. It’s thick, so much of it, spilling inside you, marking you. A low, guttural groan tears from his chest, and he collapses his weight onto you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
You lie there, joined, his cock still lodged inside you, his cum leaking out around where you’re stretched around him. The smell of sex, of sweat, of him, is overwhelming. Your body is humming, spent. The defiance is gone. In its place is a hollow, terrifying acceptance. You are his wife. You are carrying his seed.
He shifts, pulling out of you slowly. A gush of his release follows, warm on your inner thigh. He rolls onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes. His chest rises and falls steadily. After a moment, his hand finds yours on the bed between you. His fingers lace through yours, holding tight. He doesn’t speak.
Afterward, the room looked altered.
Not destroyed. Titus wouldn’t have allowed destruction in the vulgar sense. But changed. The veil half fallen from where he’d placed it aside. Candlelight guttering lower. Silk drawn into new creases. One earring missing from where it had once sat at your ear, now glinting faintly near the edge of the coverlet. The air warmer than before, touched through with the fading incense, the spent sweetness of candles, the sharper living heat of skin.
You lay against the pillows, breathing slower by degrees.
Titus sat beside you, one forearm braced along the mattress as he looked down at you with that same impossible composure he’d worn all evening—except now there was something else in it too. Not softness. He did not become soft. But satisfaction, yes. A terrible, settled kind of satisfaction, like a lock finally turned all the way home.
His hand closed lightly around your left hand where it rested atop the coverlet.
He turned the ring once beneath his thumb.
The diamond caught the candlelight.
“There,” he said quietly.
Your eyes lifted to his face.
“There what?”
He looked at the ring, then at you.
“Now it looks earned.”
You should have told him to go to hell.
The words didn’t come.
He raised your hand and pressed his mouth, this time, to your knuckles. A brief touch. Almost formal. Worse somehow for that.
Then he lowered your hand again and settled it back against the coverlet, leaving his own over it.
“My wife,” he said.
The title moved through you differently now.
Not easier. Not cleaner. But deeper.
You stared at the canopy above the bed for a long moment, listening to the fire settle in the hearth, to the quiet breath of the old house around you, to Titus’s silence at your side. Somewhere under the ache in your body and the rage still glowing stubbornly in the corners of you, something else had begun to take root. Not peace. Never that.
Recognition, maybe.
Of what he was.
Of what this was.
Of the fact that the cage had shut, yes—but also that he had never lied to you about the bars.
At length, you turned your head to look at him.
He was already watching.
Of course he was.
That dark, unreadable gaze met yours, and for the first time since the council room, you didn’t look away.
Whatever he saw in your face then made something shift, almost imperceptibly, in his expression.
Approval.
Not because you were meek. Not because you were broken.
Because you were still there.
Still proud. Still furious. Still looking back.
His thumb moved once over your ring.
“You understand now,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
You should have denied it.
You should have laughed in his face, turned away, spit the title back at him like poison.
Instead you lay in his bed with his name on your hand and his scent in the sheets and met his eyes long enough for the silence itself to become an answer.
Outside the closed door, the house remained what it had always been—old, watchful, merciless.
Inside, candlelight trembled against the walls, and Titus Danforth looked at you like the long wait had finally ended.
Somewhere in the distance, far below the room you now occupied, the estate settled deeper into its foundations.
And beside him, still wearing white gone warm in the dark, you understood with sudden, terrible clarity that the most frightening thing about the night was no longer that it had become irreversible.
It was that when Titus reached for your hand again, you let him.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦
It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.
But he’s everywhere.
There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.
That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.
“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”
You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”
“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“
“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not-“
“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.
“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.
“Congratulations.”
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your job?”
“It’s not my job-“
“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
“Have you been carrying that around all day?”
“That doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it really does-“
Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“
“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“
“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“
“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”
“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
“Why’re you skipping.”
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.
“I have a date.”
“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.
“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”
“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.
“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“
The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
“What’s-“
“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.
“No, he’s not-“
“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.
You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.
“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.
You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But they’re back early.
And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all.
You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just… Finish early.
You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
“You need to go, Buck-“
“I’m fine-“
“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“
“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
“Hi.” You whisper.
His throat bobs. “You’re back.”
“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“
“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“
“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.
“How was your date?” He grunts.
“Bucky-“
“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”
And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”
Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.
“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.
You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.
“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehow—just barely—fight it.
“Why can’t I access these files.”
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.
“Barnes-“
“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”
You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“
“Steve should change that.”
God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.
He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.
“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
“You want hot chocolate?”
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.
Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”
You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
It’s almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘
But it is Bucky.
And he’s never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.
“Hi.” You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“
“Bucky, are you-“
“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.
“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“
“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
“Bucky-“
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”
You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.
But you do go right to Steve.
“What happened on the mission.”
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.
“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“
“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“
“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”
You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”
Steve sighs. “Is it you?”
“Yep.”
He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“
“I really don’t care.”
“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.
“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“
“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
“No, you just won’t tell me-“
“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“
“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“
“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”
“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.
“I know how it sounds-“
“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“
“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole.
“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Steve-“
“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”
Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“
You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.
And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”
You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”
Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”
You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.
But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.
“What are the symptoms?”
Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”
“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”
“But- Bucky-“
“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”
“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”
Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”
“Before or after the mating?”
Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“
“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”
“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
“What-“
“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
“Steve-“
“I didn’t say anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“Nope.”
You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”
Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.
“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesn’t turn you down…
You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
“Fuck off, Stevie-“
“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response.
Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
“You shouldn’t be here-“
“Steve said you need me.”
You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.
“I- I made him.”
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”
“I was worried about you-“
“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“
“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“
“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”
He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.
“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“
“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“
“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.
“Who says?”
“You’re an ass to me-“
“You’re an ass to me.”
“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.
“Me neither.”
You nod. “But…”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”
And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didn’t know you could want him more.
“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
“You- You got no idea, do you?”
Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“
“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.
“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”
“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.
“Didn’t you?”
You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Bet I imagined more.”
And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.
You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.
“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”
Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.
“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“
He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.
You can’t have that.
“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
“How?”
“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.
“You think this is funny?” He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“
“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“
Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.
“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.
“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”
You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.
You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”
And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“
“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“
His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.
He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
“Aren’t you?”
“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“
“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.
“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
He’s jerking off while he eats you out. He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.
You don’t want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.
“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
“Good girl.” He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.
“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.
“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But you’re at an advantage.
Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”
If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“
“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And he’s not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.
You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
They’re blue again.
“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
“I’m back.”
You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”
Oh.
Or that. That’s nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”
You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.
“Yeah. I’m staying.”
✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
word count: 14.2k
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, extremely dubious consent, fem!reader, sex work (obviously!), age gap (20/40), size difference (he calls you “little one” and tosses you around a bit oop-), coercion, lust/love at first sight, misogyny (by other ppl, not pope), very insecure!reader (bc ppl are mean! but don't worry, pope takes care of them), murder (re: previous), inexperienced!reader (and pope loves that you are), praise kink, first kiss, unprotected sex, squirting, fingerfucking, forced orgasms, loss of virginity (on camera!), threats of anal (but no actual anal play!), choking, breeding kink, cnc/rape roleplay, fear play, sex toys, humiliation/degradation kink, he matches your freak (and you bring out his), kind of a slow burn all things considered
summary: andrew cody, better known as his stage name “pope”, is a rising star in the porn world. people love his gritty, dark, aggressive demeanor. so when you, an amateur porn producer, pitches an idea to him that aligns a little too well with his kinks, he finds himself wanting to only work with you.
to the point where he won't fuck anyone on camera that isn't you…
a/n: oh porn star!pope, he has been on my mind and I just had to write him out. he's too yummy (especially when he's fucked up)!
hope it's a sick read ♡
Andrew “Pope” Cody has a very strict routine. He wakes up, has a glass of water with his pre-workout supplements, then runs a few miles before heading back to do a few weight-lifting sets. When he feels like he has let the pent up energy out of his body, he'll shower and then eat a protein heavy breakfast so he can take the rest of his pills.
Because if he doesn't take his meds, he'll surely go crazy when he's on set. The medication numbs the worser parts of himself. The ones people usually are afraid of.
The ones directors tend to tell him to “tone down” when he's fucking whatever actor or actress they're asking him to for the week.
They're lucky he even cums. It doesn't feel good. Hasn't since he started working as a porn star.
But it pays the bills better than robbing people.
It also keeps him away from his family, since most of his shoots are in Los Angeles.
So, he deals with the fact sex is muted now. The medication helps him not feel some type of way about it, thankfully, because he doesn't have sex for fun.
It's all for work.
That is, until he meets you.
You're sitting off to the side, legs dangling off a dressing table, laptop resting on your beautiful exposed thighs.
It's hot on set. You're wearing flimsy little shorts and a halter top that lets Pope see much more than anyone should for a girl your age.
“Who is she?” He asks one of the producers on set.
Could you be his newest co-star?
Why is he…excited over that prospect?
Pope hasn't felt any kind of attraction in a long while, so if you are, maybe he'll actually get to enjoy himself for once.
He's curious to know what your pussy feels like.
Are you a loud performer or a more subtle and shy one?
Do you actually cum or do you just fake it for the camera?
He wants to make you cum for real.
But his desire gets shut down immediately when the producer he asked answers, “oh her? I don't know who she is. Probably one of the director's kids or something. Wannabe producer. Been trying to pitch a script but no one's biting.”
“Why's that?” Pope doesn't know why he's so curious about you.
The producer laughs, in that grating kind of way that makes Pope want to knock his teeth out. Especially when the guy goes, “because she wants to make girly porn. As if that shit will sell. Men aren't going to buy into any of that cutesy femme shit.”
Pope knows there's a female audience for porn. He has a lot of followers online. Plenty of them are women. And he is fully aware of the many comments he has read on his posts where some of his fans wish he would do more work that “catered to the female gaze”. He never understood what that meant. He has worked with plenty of female directors and producers before, but apparently they focus on making sure male audiences are satisfied first and foremost.
He's never read a script made for a woman's interest before.
Now, he's even more curious about you.
So much so, that he's walking over to you before he can stop his legs from doing so.
You look up and are startled to see Pope. You've never seen him in person before. You didn't know he'd be on this set. Your aunt is one of the directors and she didn't give you much notice on what exactly the production was.
“Oh, hi.” You put your hand out and introduce yourself. “You must be Pope, right?”
“Have you seen my work?” He asks, shaking your hand, his lingering in yours for a beat longer than he normally would.
“Clips here and there.” You seem a little flustered at his question. How cute.
“I heard you've been trying to pitch a script.” Pope is more direct than he intends.
You're surprised he knows about it. “I am, but it's probably not going to sell much.”
“Can I see it?” He leans back on the edge of the table next to you, gesturing to your laptop. “My shoot isn't for an hour. Wouldn't mind something to kill the time.”
“Oh, sure!” You scramble to pull it up.
Pope glances over your shoulder, seeing how many scripts you have written already. You're sifting through them, parsing out which one you'd want him to see. You decide on one where you had based the main lead on him and hand him your laptop.
“You can fold it over to use like a tablet.” You show him, your hands brushing against his as you do, your heart skipping a beat when you feel how big his fingers are.
Pope is so close to you that he nearly leans in and kisses you. He doesn't, but he does take a brief inhale, liking the smell of your perfume mixed with the sweat that's trickling off your neck from your nerves.
You sit there in silence, his big bicep casually resting on yours as he scrolls through your script. You take out your phone to distract yourself, trying to calm your rapid heartbeat from his proximity.
You never thought you'd ever get the chance to be near anyone in the industry. You always figured you'd be behind a camera. But Pope is right next to you, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off of him.
It almost makes you dizzy how hot he is…
Pope is worried his skin is growing too red. He hasn't felt this turned on in years. Reading this script has him needing to resist getting hard, which is usually not the case for him. Most of the time, it's difficult to get hard and he'll end up needing a pill or some help.
But what you've written is too well-aligned with the fantasies that haunt his mind.
“What would you consider this?” He asks you when he finishes reading, handing you back your laptop.
“Ah, like a dark romance, I guess?” You had shown him the plot where the main lead, a distant family friend whom the other lead refers to as her uncle, lures her to his private estate for the summer so he can hold her captive until she agrees to be his forever.
“I like it.” Pope tells you in that flat tone of his that has you questioning whether or not you heard him correctly.
“Really? You might be the only person who thinks so.” You're elated to hear that but then immediately talk yourself down. “Everyone else I've shown it to thinks that it's too focused on his obsession with her and that it should be the other way around because “why would anyone want to watch a man throw himself at a woman”. Men wouldn't buy it, I guess.”
You bite your lip after you say that, wishing you hadn't just dumped all of that onto Pope.
You open your mouth to apologize but then Pope goes, “then those men just don't get the appeal. I think it's good and you should make it.”
“Wow.” You can't stop the big smile that forms on your face. “That's so sweet of you to say, Pope. I hope I get the chance one day.”
Pope wants to tell you that he'd make it happen but they're calling his name to get ready. So, instead, he tells you, “do you want to come over after this and talk more about it?”
You're speechless. No one has ever invited you over to their place before.
And it's Pope, of all people.
He never invites people over.
His house is his sanctuary.
But he wants you alone.
He wants to get to know you more.
He wants to see if your desires truly align with his own.
“I'll have to check in with my aunt first, since she drove me. But I'd like to.” You reply, reaching your hand up to touch your warm cheek.
You must look so flustered right now.
Pope loves the sight of it. Such a shy girl. To think you're on a porn set right now and about to watch him fuck someone else.
He'll have to put on a good show for you.
“I'll come find you after, little one.” He calls you what the uncle in your script calls his pseudo-niece and it has your skin flushing with more heat in response.
Once he's out of your line of sight, you bury your face in your hands, muffling a scream because what was that!
Did he really just…
You loop him calling you “little one” over and over in your head, wanting to memorize the sound of it for when you touch yourself later. You have to resist touching yourself now while you watch Pope at work.
You've, of course, seen him naked before. You've watched plenty of clips of his porn online. For research purposes, of course!
But there's something different about seeing him in person.
About knowing how his hands could feel, how warm his body is, how big he is compared to you that makes watching him pound his huge cock into his co-star all the more enjoyable.
Then, your heart stops in your chest when he locks eyes with you from across the set when he cums deep inside of her.
That wasn't in the script. Not in the one he's performing right now, because rarely does male centric porn ever “waste” a cumshot.
It's in yours, though, because you like the idea of getting filled and you're certain other people do too.
But for a shoot like this one, they want to see his cum on his co-star somewhere, for the visual.
Pope couldn't help himself, though. He wanted you to see what he could do to you. He hasn't cum that much in a long time, which might be the only saving grace for the shoot because when he pulls out of his co-star, so much leaks out that they don't have to fake it for the shot.
All in all a successful shoot so the director yells “cut” and it's done.
You meet Pope out in the parking lot afterwards, since your aunt didn't seem to care if you wanted to go home with a porn star. She knows he's clean, because he has to be for work, and that you're an adult so she's letting you make your own decisions. Her only warning to you was that you will likely get your heart broken dating a porn star.
But you wave off her concerns because you don't believe he's interested in you.
Pope just likes your scripts…right?
That seems to be the case when you come over to his house and he spends the entire time reading through every idea you've written.
You're both sitting on his couch together. He has on some kind of nature show, the one that follows a pack of lions throughout their day.
You watch one of the lions chase after a gazelle before it pounces on it and the gazelle becomes its next meal. You don't know why watching that has your heart racing so much.
Maybe it's because you're currently in a lion's den and he's looking to make you his next meal…
But you're oblivious to it, to Pope resting his hand on your thigh casually as he scrolls through your writing, asking you questions about it here and there like what you're looking to do, etc.
“I'd like to make a truly indie production.” You explain to him your dream shoot. “Like maybe only me and the stars on set. The script just being a loose guideline. Going with the flow, seeing where the scenario takes us naturally. I'd like for it to be organic and less “produced” than the stylized porn available now.”
“Have you ever thought of starring in it yourself?” Pope poses a question that has you stammering out your reply.
“I-I…um…” You shake your head, the nerves apparent in your voice as you admit, “I don't think I could. I've never…”
“No one has ever touched you before?” He can hardly believe that.
In his eyes, anyone would be lucky to have the chance to be near you. He can barely keep his eyes off of you as is.
“Why would they?” You chew on your cheek after you say that, wishing you didn't let your insecurity slip out so readily so you pretend to shrug it off, “it's not a big deal. I'm not in a rush to experience anything.”
“Shouldn't you experience the things you want to produce?” Pope doesn't mean to sound so coercive but it definitely doesn't help that his hand slides higher up your thigh as he asks, “wouldn't it be nice to know for your writing?”
“But no one would want to…” The words get caught in your throat when he leans in, his lips so close to your own that you can taste his breath.
“I'd want to.” His voice is so low, so intoxicating that you almost melt when he says, “if you'd let me, little one.”
This is all too similar to something you've written before. It's like he's roleplaying your own words back to you.
You don't know how to react to it…
“I don't think this is a good idea.” You tell Pope as he leans in closer to you, pressing a kiss on your jaw, making your whole body shiver as he trails upwards to the shell of your ear. “Oh god…”
“We don't have to do anything today.” He whispers right into your ear. “But I'd like to see you again.”
“Why?” You feel so stupid asking that, your insecurity leaking out again.
Pope cups your face, turning you to look at him, his gaze so intense. “Because I want to know what you look like when you feel good.”
His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, seeing the way you're trembling, the nerves overtaking you.
You're so precious, so scared, so perfect for him. He can't get enough of you.
“I'll probably be really bad at it.” You want him to be prepared. “You might not have a good time. I won't know what I'm doing.”
That makes him chuckle lightly. “I've got enough experience for the both of us.”
“I've never even kissed anyone before.” You admit with your eyes locked on his lips.
The lips you've watched go down on his co-stars. The lips you've seen leave marks on their skin. The lips you're desperate to kiss right now.
“Do you want to?” He brushes his lips against yours. A simple brush, not a true kiss, but it has your whole body quivering just from that light touch. “I think you do.”
“Will you go slow?” You have to ask because you're so nervous you'll get swept up in him.
“I'll go at whatever pace you want.” He pulls away and you don't like how disappointed you feel. But then, he pats his lap and gestures, “come here, little one.”
This is truly everything you've dreamt of and he's feeding into it. You stand up, staring down at his lap, trying to figure out how exactly you should sit.
When you've stalled for long enough, Pope just grabs you by your waist and tugs you down onto him. You're straddling his lap now, his large thighs becoming your new chair.
Your breath catches in your throat when his lips land on your neck all of a sudden, causing you to grip onto the thin black shirt he's wearing that doesn't leave anything up to the imagination. His chest is flush against yours and he can hear your heartbeat thrumming so quickly, like your heart might burst at any moment.
Pope smiles against the column of your throat, pressing a kiss there. Just one, right in the center, so he can feel the air get caught before it can reach your lungs.
“Stay calm.” He instructs, his words warm and oddly gentle. “It'll feel better if you aren't so worked up.”
“I'm sorry.” You don't know what you're doing…
You smooth out his shirt, worried you've wrinkled it from how hard you were gripping it for leverage.
“You can hold onto me, little one.” He takes your hand and places it onto his shoulder. “Lean on me.”
His other hand splays across the small of your back beneath your shirt, practically engulfing your skin. Every touch is sending signals to your core that you've never felt before. Anxious signals, screaming at you to stop this before you start feeling more than you should.
“Maybe we should stop.” You say out of concern, your nerves getting in the way.
“Just one kiss and then we can stop for today, okay?” He already has you on his lap. He can't lose out on this golden opportunity.
One kiss will be enough to convince you. Pope is sure of that, sure of himself and his skill.
He just needs you to say yes. And to stop squirming on his lap or he might have to do something about how hard he's getting.
“Okay.” You nod, gripping onto his shoulders like you might fall off his lap if you don't. “Just one kiss.”
“Atta girl.” He shifts slightly, pulling you closer until there's not an inch of space between the two of you. “Why don't you try?”
You shake your head immediately. “I'll fuck it up.”
That draws another chuckle from his lips, which you feel very prominently on yours from how close he is to you. “I doubt that. I want to see you try. Then I'll take you home.”
You take in a deep breath, your chest rubbing against his when you exhale. Pope's eyes drift down to your chest, loving how your top lets him see much more than he'd want anyone else to be able to. He'll have to make sure you only dress like this for him.
His eyes go back up to look into yours, that intense gaze of his making you even more nervous than you were already.
“I don't think I can do this.” You tell him as your hands ball up the fabric of his shirt beneath your fists. “I'm scared. My heart feels like it'll explode.”
So cute. Pope can't help thinking how adorable you are, so frightened by the prospect of a little kiss.
“And you want to produce porn?” He smirks at you, nudging your nose with his own playfully. “You need to be able to do this if you want to direct it, little one.”
“Okay, okay.” You know he's right.
You have to find the confidence to push forward, to make things happen.
So, you press your lips against his. You don't do it hard. It's the lightest kiss Pope has ever felt, laced with fear and anxiety.
Exactly the kind of kiss Pope has been dreaming about. Everyone he has ever kissed before you has been so full of themselves.
You are the exact opposite. So careful, so worried you'll do it wrong that you barely do it at all.
Just the gentlest little tap on his lips.
Now he needs to know how frightened he can make you.
So, Pope slides his hand up to the back of your head, securing you in place so that the moment you lift your lips away from his, he can press them right back down.
Your eyes widen, not expecting for him to kiss you back again right away.
It's not harsh. His lips just stick onto yours, keeping steady right there. Then, when he starts to move them, you start to panic, the blood rushing straight to your head and tension forming in your core.
You're wriggling in his lap like a scared little mouse caught in a trap.
Just the way he wants you to be.
“Easy.” He breathes against your lips. “Don't get scared. Just pay attention to what I'm doing and follow me.”
He tilts your head a little, angling himself a bit to get a better hold on your lips. You're gasping between each feverish kiss and Pope loves it.
Loves how inexperienced you are, how easily provoked you are.
Like when he grinds his hips upwards just as a tease and you moan against his lips unexpectedly, your face heating up in reaction.
“Oh god, I'm sorry.” You can't believe you're reacting this much.
“Don't be sorry.” He says, sliding his hand over to cup your jaw. “I like that you feel good. I wanted to see it, remember? I like hearing it too.”
“It's embarrassing though…” You feel like such a virgin.
You are one but you feel it a hundred times more because you're in the presence of someone who fucks for a living…
“Is it?” He nips at your bottom lip, liking how you shiver when he does. “I think it's cute.”
“You think I'm cute?” You don't believe him.
Not until he says, “I don't “think” it. You are cute, my precious little one.”
His precious…
Bad thoughts are running through your mind. Of hoping he means it and it's not just part of some roleplay of his. But you know that can't be true.
What could you offer him that he can't already get?
Pope can see the warring thoughts in your eyes. So, he leans in and kisses you again, which snaps you out of your own head. Especially when you feel the tip of his tongue flick your bottom lip.
“Let me in.” He says, his tone sultry. “I want to know what you taste like.”
Pope smiles when you grab onto him tighter, unable to keep yourself still otherwise. Then, you nod, since you can't bring yourself to say any words.
His tongue flicks at your lip again and this time, your lips part, allowing him in. You expect him to go slow, to let you adjust to the idea of his tongue in your mouth but he does the exact opposite.
He just ravages you, his tongue tangling with your own, stealing your every breath away. His kisses get rougher, his movements too. You can't hold in your voice when you feel him grip your ass with his hands and roll his hips against yours, forcing you to feel how hard his cock is beneath you.
You know how big he is. Porn star big.
Impossibly big for someone who has never had sex before.
Big enough that it feels like he's fucking you already.
“Wait, wait!” You gasp out onto his lips, trying to get him to stop because you don't think you'd be able to live with the embarrassment if you came from this. “Please, Pope, I can't—”
“Are you going to cum, little one?” He smirks at how scared you are of your own orgasm. “It's okay if you do.”
You shake your head. “No, I can't, not like this…”
“There's nothing wrong with cumming from this.” He keeps rolling his hips and since your lips aren't plastered to his, you can't stop the moan that leaves your lips. “Let it feel good. Stop resisting.”
“But I shouldn't—” You bury your face in his shoulder, dry heaving as the friction against your clit becomes too much to bear. “I don't want to cum, I don't want to—”
Suddenly, you feel his hand slip into your shorts and without any warning, Pope pinches your clit, rolling it between his fingers until you cum so hard that you see stars in your vision. You're reeling, clinging onto him, your whole body shaking from the sudden surge of pleasure.
“There you go.” Pope starts rubbing your clit over the fabric of your underwear, making you whimper into his shoulder as another orgasm builds inside of you all too quickly. “Let it happen again.”
He grabs your face with his free hand, pulling you up so he can kiss you again.
Kissing him feels very different when his fingertips are playing with your clit.
You're lightheaded, unable to breathe, so close to cumming that you're nervous you might pass out…
Then, he moves off your clit right when you're about to and you whine uncontrollably before catching yourself. He laughs lightly, almost menacingly, at your reaction to getting teased.
“Did you want to cum?” He asks you, wanting to hear you admit it.
You chew on your lip. You shouldn't tell him yes. You shouldn't even be doing this. You should have him take you home like he said he would.
But you want to cum.
It's addictive, that wave of pure bliss that he gave you. It was unlike any of the orgasms you've given yourself.
You want to know what it feels like to be made to cum by Pope.
So, you tell him the truth, “yes, please make me cum, Pope.”
“I like a girl who knows what she wants.” He says with a smile that could kill. “Can I make you cum with my mouth?”
Pope wishes he could take a photo of your shocked expression, all wide eyed and beautifully nervous.
“I-I've been on set all day. It's probably—”
“Then take a shower here.” Pope offers, if you're really that nervous. He likes that you didn't say no.
He likes that you're so easy to convince.
“Okay…” You can't possibly decline getting eaten out by a porn star. People would think you're crazy to miss out on something like that.
“Mmm, good girl.” He praises you, making your whole body yearn for his affection. “Now, I'll make you cum one more time before you shower.”
“Wait, what—” You squirm when Pope suddenly dips his hand into your underwear and slides a finger inside of you, “Pope, stop—!”
You can't stop gasping when his finger curls at the same time as he starts palming your clit, giving you the friction you were desperate for just moments ago. But now his thick finger is buried inside of you, searching for the spot that makes you cry out his name.
“Andrew.” He demands, thrusting another finger inside of you. “Call me Andrew when you cum.”
“Andrew, please, please, not there—” You cry out when he grazes the right place inside of you, your stomach tensing at the feeling, “your fingers are—oh god—”
You're saying his name on repeat into his shoulder when his fingers keep pounding right where you need them to until you're bursting at the seams, cumming all over his lap because he won't let you stop.
“No, no, I can't cum anymore!” You tug at his arm but he keeps fucking you with his fingers against your wishes, “please, Andrew!”
Pope's too strong. He has you locked on his lap with his other arm wrapped around you, pinning you to him as his fingers ravage your insides until you're squirting so hard that you drench his hand.
It's only when tears start streaming down your face that Pope finally lets you breathe, pulling his hand away.
In your daze, you watch him lick his hand clean, grinning so happily at you with your lovely glazed over eyes, so lost in your orgasm.
Pope leans in for a kiss and for the first time, you lean into it, kissing him back the way he taught you to. You're a bit sloppy with it, but he adjusts you until you're kissing him exactly how he wants you to.
“Someone's a fast learner.” He compliments you again, which gets you wriggling, your heart racing once more.
You glance down, at how wet you've made his lap, humiliation coursing through you at the sight.
Pope catches it and says, “do you feel bad for almost ruining my couch?”
“I'm sorry.” You do feel bad. You've never squirted before in your life.
You thought that was just something that happened in porn…
“How sorry?” He wonders aloud.
“Very sorry…” You definitely wouldn't be able to afford to buy him a new couch.
“Then help me get out of these pants.” He points to his lap. “Take them off before your cum can touch my couch.”
You stare at how daunting of a task this is going to be. But, you listen, grabbing a hold of his belt buckle and undoing it. Then, you unzip his pants.
“Now get on your knees in front of me and pull them off.” Pope's tone is so commanding that you do it without a second thought, moving to the floor in front of him. He stops you before you can tug at his waistband. “Wait a second, little one. Look up at me.”
You do, your eyes meeting his. He likes the way you look on your knees. You would look even better with his cock in your mouth.
He'll shelve that for another time, when he has trained you so well that you'll be begging to put him in your mouth yourself.
Pope nods, gesturing for you to continue. You tug off his pants by his waistband, leaving him only in his boxer briefs. You notice the spot of precum leaking from where the tip of his hard cock is pushed up against the fabric of his underwear.
You can't help but wonder what he tastes like…
It doesn't look like Pope will have to train you at all because you ask him, “can I try making you feel good with my mouth?”
“Sure.” He says, reaching over to grab his phone. “If I can film it.”
“W-What?” You weren't expecting that.
“If it's your first time sucking cock, we should get it on camera. It'll fund our future film.” Pope knows how much authentic first time content goes for, especially when he's an experienced star and you're just an innocent inexperienced reluctant woman who never thought she'd ever star in a porno.
“Y-You want to make my film?” You hadn't asked yet if he was interested.
“If you star in it with me, I will.” Pope doesn't want to do it with anyone else.
He only wants you.
“What?” You sound like a broken record at this point.
But he likes how cute you are, all surprised. “You heard me, little one. I'll finance it myself, just be my co-star.”
“But I don't know a thing about…being filmed…” You know there's a whole learning curve to it, of knowing where the camera is and what angles look best.
It's something you've never thought about for yourself. You've only considered it in the context of filming others.
“You'll learn. I'll teach you. Like right now.” He hits record on his phone, holding it steady in his hand. “You're going to suck me off for the very first time in your life.”
Pope grabs your hand, putting it back at his waistband, inviting you to take his underwear off.
You do it, leaving him bare from the waist down. He looks incredible like this, his cock hard and leaking precum. His shirt clings to his upper body beautifully, reminding you that you were just grinding on his lap with his chest pressed flush against yours.
You feel so small knelt in front of him like this. He hovers over you like a giant, engulfing you completely, consuming you with his eyes locked on yours.
“Now, do what you think is right. You've watched plenty of videos. You know what to do.” Pope wraps his hand around his cock, pumping it a few times for the camera, before leaving you to do the rest.
You shake away the nerves so you can lean in, dragging your tongue along the bottom of his shaft until you reach the tip, swirling around it, tasting him for the first time. He chuckles at how stunned you look at how pleasant he tastes. You expected it to be more musky but it wasn't at all.
It's oddly…sweet.
“Do you like how I taste?” Pope takes a hold of his cock again, pushing the tip of it against your lips. “Let me feed it to you if you like it so much.”
You part your lips, letting his cock slip into your mouth. He's so big that your jaw nearly locks up trying to take him. You're careful with your teeth as he slides deeper inside, until he's so far down your throat that you gag.
“First time and you're already taking me like a porn star. Good girl.” His praise is so addicting that you start to suck on his cock in hopes he'll reward you with more. He does, which makes you so happy, “fuck, just like that, use your tongue too. You're doing great.”
You alternate between sucking on his cock and using your tongue to lick up and down his shaft. You try to pay attention to what triggers him to groan and focus on doing that. You know you're doing well when Pope puts his hand in your hair and grips it tight.
“God, I want fuck that face. Can I fuck your face?” He wants to use your mouth for his pleasure.
You nod, not really knowing what that entails. You know it's harsh from the videos you've seen but…you want to know what it feels like for Pope to use you to make himself cum.
So, you let him fist your hair rather roughly before he pounds his cock into your throat over and over again. You're gagging and crying but to Pope, you've never looked more beautiful.
He might not be able to post this video. It might just have to stay in his personal collection. Your first time taking his cock in your mouth.
Your first time swallowing his cum.
You gulp it down as he coats the back of your throat with his release.
“That's it, drink it up, don't waste a drop.” He slowly slips his cock out of your mouth and he can't stop himself from smacking your face with it a bit, so the camera can see how big his cock is compared to your face. You make him groan when you eagerly lick along his shaft again, since you assume it would look good on camera.
“Fuck, get over here.” He ends the video and drags you up onto his lap again. He grabs a hold of your face, looking at you fiercely as he asks, “who the fuck taught you how to suck cock like that?”
“You did.” You say the only correct response.
Pope lets out a dark chuckle. “Good girl. You're making me very proud.”
You want him to praise you more so you find the confidence to cup his face like he's doing to you and kiss him, applying the right amount of pressure against his lips that causes him to just start grabbing at your flesh, needing to touch you when your tongue flicks at his bottom lip.
“Oh, I'm going to fuck you.” He's looking forward to seeing how eager you'll be to please him once his cock is deep inside of you.
"Do you think you'll fit?” You look down, seeing the way his softening cock is still huge, pressing into your lower stomach.
“Don't worry, you can take it.” He presses his fingertips into your belly, massaging right where your womb must be, which draws out full body shudders from you. “You'll feel it right here and you'll love it.”
You meet his eyes and then, quietly, you ask him, “can we…do it a different time?”
Pope's jaw tenses at your question. “Why?”
You bite back a nervous sigh, your stomach churning from what you're about to say, “because I don't want this to be a one night stand…”
You let go of his shirt, not wanting to cling onto him when he'll likely kick you out for being so needy.
“I'm sorry.” You shake your head at him, deciding for him that you should leave. “I-I should know better. I'll just head out.”
“Wait.” He wraps his arms around you, keeping you in place. “Who says you get to leave?”
“Pope—”
"Don't call me that.” He doesn't want you to use his stage name. He wants you to use his real name.
You're the only one he'll let call him Andrew.
Which is why he doesn't understand why you can't see how special you are to him.
Maybe because no one has ever made you feel special before.
He'll have to change that.
“Andrew.” You saying his name allows Pope to relax his jaw. Though, he tenses again when you tell him, “I don't think I should stay. I'm going to do something stupid…”
“Like what?” He wants to know what you're running from.
“Like…” You look down at his slightly swollen lips, at how you wish you could just freely kiss him without the worry that he'll have to kiss someone else for show.
But you can't want that.
Your aunt is right. He'll end up breaking your heart.
So you need to push him away now, “I'm going to fall in love with you if we sleep together. I'm already…feeling too much from just…this. I'll fuck it up. I can't keep things casual. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”
“Then fall in love with me.” Pope states so nonchalantly that you think he must not have understood you.
“Andrew, I can't.” You shake your head at him.
“Why not?”
“Because you'd never…” You don't want to break your heart by saying it out loud but it feels like your heart has already decided to break.
“Do you want me to fall in love with you?” He asks, again with that flat tone of his that has you feeling like he doesn't understand the weight of his words.
“You won't.” Your answer isn't what he was looking for.
“Answer the question.” He's more stern now.
You pinch your lips together, tears welling your eyes. You should say no, because then you could run from this. From the desire to be his.
But you can't bring yourself to lie so you confess, “of course I want you to fall in love with me. But you won't—”
“Okay.” Pope hugs you tighter. “Let's fall in love.”
“What?” You're more astonished than you've been all night.
“What?” He parrots you.
“Andrew…don't fuck around with me.” You don't like whatever kind of joke he's making.
“I'm not fucking around with you. I want to fuck you, though. It doesn't have to be tonight but I'd like you to stay the night regardless.”
You blink at him. You're unsure if your hearing is fucked or not but did he really just say…
“Are you being serious?” You need a clear answer.
“Yes, little one.” He leans in to press a kiss on your temple. “I'd like you to stay the night. Sex is optional. I fuck for work. I wouldn't mind not doing it but I want to cuddle at least.”
“You want to…” You're speechless.
Pope laughs at how absolutely baffled you are. You turned out to be more fun than he thought possible.
“Is that bad? Would you not like to cuddle?”
“Of course I would love to cuddle.” You say it like that's the most obvious thing ever. “But, but…why do you want to cuddle with me?”
“You gave me a great blowjob.”
“Andrew!” You smack his chest and he laughs again. “I'm being serious!”
“I am too.” He smirks and you glare at him, making him smile even bigger. “You are so fucking cute. Come here.”
You're suddenly hauled up into his arms. You have to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his hips to keep yourself from slipping as Pope carries you past his bedroom and then sets you down in his bathroom.
“What are we doing here?”
“Well, you probably shouldn't have your first time in the shower but I want to shower with you.” Pope strips off his shirt, leaving him completely naked now.
He is used to people ogling him but knowing that you're so noticeably overwhelmed by the sight of him, he actually enjoys being looked at by you.
“You can touch me if you want.” Pope takes your hand and places it onto his chest.
You feel his steady heartbeat under your fingertips. It's calming but also worrying because if he felt something for you, shouldn't he…be more nervous?
It seems like you're the only flustered one, which you don't like. It has you feeling super insecure. But it makes sense that Pope doesn't react much, given his profession.
So, what makes you different enough that he wants to do this with you?
You can't wrap your head around it, your hand lifting off of him.
Then, out of a need to push him away, you demand something you doubt he'll give you, “I don't want to do this if you're just going to throw me away when you're bored of me.”
“Is that what you think I'm going to do?”
You nod, wishing you didn't feel this way.
“Hmmm.” Pope steps closer to you, grabbing a hold of your chin, lifting your face up to look at him since you've been avoiding eye contact this whole time. “How do I show you that I'm serious about you?”
You shrug. “I don't know…”
“Is there something you want?” He'll give you anything you want.
“Nothing that isn't super selfish.” You're honest there. Pope likes that you're honest.
“Tell me.” He wants to know.
“I want you to only kiss me.” You just spit it out but you don't think he'd actually say yes to this. “And I want to kiss you whenever I want.”
“So you don't want me to kiss anyone at work?”
You nod.
“But I can still fuck them?” Pope finds your conditions interesting.
“I'm not that selfish. I know what you do for work. I'm not looking to take away your livelihood but…if you only kiss me, I think that would be enough for me.”
“Alright.” He agrees way too easily for your liking.
“Andrew, I'm serious.”
“And I'm serious.” He leans down to press a kiss against your lips. “I won't even go down on anyone else. My lips are all yours.”
“Really?” You look at his lips, wanting to kiss him again but your nerves stop you. “Are you sure?”
“Only if you kiss me right now.” Pope needs you to seal the deal.
You kiss him immediately and he smiles against your lips, loving how visibly excited you are now. You're much more relaxed, which allows him to unbutton your shorts and tug off your bottoms, leaving you bare from the waist down. Then, he tugs off your top, his lips never parting from yours.
Pope drags you into his shower, turning it on, shielding you from the water until it's warm enough. He presses you up against the tiled wall, his hands roaming your naked body. You're no longer holding back, moaning against his lips when his hands cup your breasts.
“Just so you know,” Pope leans down to flick one of your nipples with his tongue, “you aren't allowed to wear such a low cut top around anyone but me from now on.”
“I promise I won't if you keep doing that.” That feels way too good.
He swirls his tongue over both of your nipples until they're nice and hard then he slides his hands up to tug at them. Before you can react, his mouth is back on yours, his thumbs swiping over your nipples, his thigh spreading your legs apart. You're so shy about how wet you are but Pope grinds his thigh into you, wanting to get you even more wet for him.
“Cum all you want, little one.” He says, pressing a kiss against your cheek. “We'll wash up after so no need to hold back.”
It's destructive that Pope knows what he's doing. You wonder if he's been this way with anyone else. You can't possibly be the only one swept up in his charms.
But you are.
Because Pope hasn't felt desire like this before.
There's something about how absolutely overwhelmed you are by his actions. He finds it too entertaining. He can't get this from the people in his industry, nor would he want to.
He has been searching for someone like you. Close enough to understand what he does for work, but far enough away that you haven't been exposed to the sides of him that he's trying so hard to hide.
Does he need to hide them from you?
The things you have written have shown him that there's a darkness lurking in your mind that is on the same frequency as the needs in his.
Shall he test you?
You feel his hands slide up your chest and wrap around your neck. Pope can feel your breaths quicken, fear suddenly causing your body to tremble in his hold as he squeezes around the delicate column of your neck.
“Are you scared of me?” He looks at you with the blankest stare you've ever seen.
And you can't believe how turned on you are.
Because he's performing your script, albeit with a bit of improv since this scene doesn't happen in a shower. But it's the same concept.
Hands wrapped around your throat, thigh between your legs, nerves on high alert.
So, you answer just as you wrote it, your voice the right amount of shaky, “d-do you want me to be?”
Pope doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.
He just steps aside, letting the warm water of the shower suddenly hit your face. You shoot your hands up, trying to stop the water from getting into your eyes but then Pope squeezes your throat and you gasp, swallowing water uncontrollably instead.
“Wait!” You can't push his hand away before it slips between your legs, dipping a finger back inside of you. His thigh keeps your legs apart so you can't resist him adding another one. “Andrew!”
“Scream my name louder.” He grips you by your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Let me see how scared you can get.”
In all his content, you've never heard Pope sound so frightening before. He usually plays the rougher, harsher characters but the producers never let him show this side of himself. The one he developed in prison.
The one that yearns for the dark.
Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh as his fingers drive into you over and over again. You cling onto him desperately, trying not to topple over completely but it's so hard to stay still when he's fucking you with his fingers like this.
The steam is getting to your head. The look in his eyes is heating up your core. The desire he has to see you completely unravel is messing you up inside, more than his fingers already are.
You should've known better than to expect vanilla sex from Pope.
This is what he truly likes. He only wishes it were his cock getting milked by your tight pussy instead of his fingers. But you need to loosen up a bit or you'll never take him.
You need to be able to handle him at his worst because the moment he puts his cock inside of you, he'll surely lose all rationality.
Like he does right now, when you kiss him out of nowhere.
Pope did promise you that you could kiss him whenever you wanted but he would've never guessed that you would do so while he was abusing your pussy with his fingers.
And now, he has to fuck you up.
You moan when Pope kisses you back, his tongue flicking at your lips, his movements rougher and sloppier than before. It helps that the shower washes it all away, making his rather aggressive kisses much more enjoyable since there aren't layers of spit to contend to.
You cum so much when he curls his fingers just right and he basks in how your pussy clenches to his fingers. “I need you to do that on my cock.”
“I think I'll die if you fuck me.” You might die right now because his fingers haven't stopped moving inside of you despite your blatantly obvious orgasm. He moves his fingers rapidly side to side until you're close to collapsing, your head so dizzy from cumming so hard all over his hand and thigh.
You're clinging onto him for dear life and it's only when he thinks you actually might pass out that he slows his fingers and pulls out of you.
Then you feel a light slap against your cheek. “Stay with me, little one.”
“I'm…dizzy…” You feel so lightheaded from the steam and the orgasms.
“I've got you.” Pope helps you wash up.
You find it odd how gentle he's being in the shower now. He's almost too focused on making sure you're taken care of from head to toe.
He even helps dry you off after the shower. He seats you down on his toilet so he can plug in his hair dryer and blow dry your hair for you.
You feel utterly spoiled, especially when he pulls one of his shirts over your head so you have something to wear and aren't cold while he finishes up with your hair.
It smells like him. You like that a lot.
“All done.” He pats your head. “Feeling better?”
You nod. “Refreshed.”
“Want some water?”
“Can I come with you?” You put your hand out then realize what you're doing.
Were you seriously going to try to hold hands with Pope?
Would he even—
Pope grabs your hand and yanks you to your feet, interlocking his fingers with yours as he walks the two of you out of his bathroom. Your heart is beating out of your chest at the sight of him leading you to his kitchen, hand firmly clamped around yours.
When you're close enough to him, he picks you up and sets you down on the kitchen counter, legs dangling off like you had them earlier on that dressing table. He likes the look of your bare legs. Maybe he'll have you stay pantless at his place.
“What do you want to drink?” He opens his fridge, gesturing to the few options he has.
Protein shakes, water bottles, beer and some juice. Usually he doesn't drink anything besides water. Tonight, he feels like a beer.
“I'm not old enough to drink.” You hadn't thought about that.
Pope didn't realize you were that much younger than him. “Do you want one?”
You shake your head. “I want to be sober when we cuddle.”
That makes Pope put his beer back in the fridge and grab water instead. “Then we'll both be sober.”
You don't know why that makes you so happy but the butterflies in your stomach are going nuts.
He rests his hand on your thigh, massaging it gently as the two of you drink water. You like the casual touching.
You like Pope, a lot.
So you set down your half-finished bottle of water then put your hand on his chest. It's bare. He's only wearing underwear. He looks way too good like this.
It makes you almost frustrated that this sight has been seen by millions…
“Like what you see?” He steps closer to you, tossing his bottle of water aside so he can place both of his hands on your thighs. “You can touch me as much as you want.”
“You aren't tired of being touched?” You're worried that after the shoot, he must not want to do this for much longer.
But then he says, “I'd never get tired of being touched by you.”
“Have you always been such a flirt?” You chuckle, your hands roaming his bare skin more freely now. “I hope you don't regret this. I might never want to let you go.”
You say it like a joke but Pope says it back like a promise, “I'm never letting you go.”
“We just met.” You remind him.
“You don't believe in love at first sight?” He thought you'd be more of a romantic type than a realistic one, given your aspirations.
“Love…” You blink up at him. “Are you saying…?”
Pope doesn't hide his truth. “I knew you were special the moment I saw you. I was hoping you'd be one of my co-stars.”
“I…still can be…” Your skin heats up when you say that, not believing that it actually came out of your mouth.
“Do you want to make content with me?” Pope wouldn't mind that.
As nice as it is to get paid regularly to do bigger porn productions, he knows he could pull the same numbers if he started making videos on his own. Or with you.
Especially with you.
“What if you get sick of fucking the same person?” You let your insecurities flood out, sighing.
“I could ask you that.” He spreads your thighs open with his big hands, settling his hips between them.
You glance down, surprised to see that he's hard. His cock is practically begging to burst out of his underwear.
“Are you going to get tired of being fucked by me?” He grinds his cock against your bare pussy. You can feel so much warmth radiating off of him despite the layer of fabric between the two of you.
It has your heart leaping out of your chest when you answer, “I doubt I could ever get bored of you.”
“I feel the same way about you.” Pope wants to reassure you that he's choosing you.
He can't help it. He hasn't wanted anyone like this before.
He would give it all up for you.
But he knows you're too sweet to let him. “You don't have to stop making porn for me, Andrew.”
“Say my name again.” He likes hearing it from you.
No one ever calls him Andrew, especially not in porn. And he is grateful for that because now the only memory he has of someone moaning his name is you with your lovely voice.
“Andrew.” You wrap your arms around his middle, tugging him to you. “I'm serious. Don't throw away your livelihood for me.”
“I'm not throwing it away. I'm shifting to a new style. You can help me. It would be good filming practice.”
You can't believe what he's offering you. “You'd let me direct you?”
“You said you wanted to make an independent production. Doesn't get more independent than just you and me.” He leans down to press a light kiss on your forehead to comfort you, since you're staring back at him so baffled. “I'd like to film with you. Only you.”
“I'm unsure if I'm star material…” You've never even had sex before.
How can Pope be so sure you won't drag him down?
Because he made that video of you going down on him earlier, looking like such a beauty that he's sure anyone would get riled up seeing you on camera.
“Why don't we practice?”
“How?” It will probably take you forever to get comfortable in front of the camera.
“I'll teach you everything about sex one step at a time. We'll film the whole thing, leading up to the first time we fuck.” His words have your heart racing unbelievably fast. “We won't fuck until you're ready to film it. Until you know your angles and what you want to show the world.”
“You would…wait that long?”
“Would that make you happy, little one?” Pope wraps his arms around you, tugging you closer to him.
You nod. You'd like that a lot.
So, that's what you and Pope do.
You help him set up an account on a reputable adult content sharing site. You shouldn't have been shocked how quickly he builds a hefty fanbase willing to buy his personalized content but you are.
He's making so much money. More money than you'd ever need for a simple production like you've been planning.
And Pope thanks you for his success.
He has you do all the filming. All your ideas sell very well to his audience, who love the jerk off videos where he's talking about how much he wants to kidnap you and rape you until you're his forever.
It's easy for Pope to make this content because he doesn't have to pretend. He's being completely honest and his fans can feel it through the screen. But he isn't talking to them.
He's talking to you, his pretty girl behind the camera who he has a vibe strapped to. He doesn't let you cum until the filming is over. He wants you wet and aching for him the moment the camera shuts off.
It makes for incredibly authentic videos when you're so desperate for him after all the edging. He has gotten a little too good at making you cum on his tongue.
You cum so well for the camera. You never have to fake it. And everyone who follows Pope wishes they were you.
You satisfy them by filming from your point of view, letting the world watch your porn star boyfriend eat you out and finger you until you're squirting all over his face, which he licks up in a way that has people begging for more content like that, where they can pretend to be you.
You've been faceless thus far. You're worried about showing yourself, that it might kill the fantasies of the viewers.
“Let them be envious.” Pope tells you while you're both cuddling in his bed. “I want to be able to see you in those videos too.”
“You might be the only one who would, Andrew.” You smile at that, though.
You really like him. He really likes you. And you believe he does because he is always making these kinds of comments. About how he wants the world to know that you're more than just his co-star.
But you urge him against it.
It's better for him if people don't know he's dating anyone.
You know this because you've been deleting all the messages that he's been getting where they complain about you being there. They want Pope content, not you. And if you are there, they want less of you and more of him. Which makes sense, since it is his account.
Pope can tell you've grown more apprehensive about filming content together. You insist on just filming him. But he doesn't want to film alone anymore.
He likes filming with you. He likes having you on camera with him.
He would like it even more if he got to fuck you but you're scared to do it.
Because you've read several comments telling Pope that they'll unsubscribe if he fucks you. A lot of them are sick of you “capitalizing his time and attention”. They miss when he made porn with different people because at least then, they could pretend he belonged to anyone and everyone.
But he belongs to you.
And you're starting to feel bad about it.
You don't want his career to get stunted because of you. Even though you can't possibly leave him. You love him.
These last few months have been incredible. You've learned so much about filming and about your own body.
You want to have sex with Pope but you're afraid that the moment you do, you'll never be able to let him go.
You feel selfish for wanting him all to yourself when there's so many people willing to throw ridiculous amounts of money at him as long as he stays “available” in their eyes.
But you don't know Pope.
Pope doesn't give a fuck about any of those people. He only cares about you. He has enough money. He doesn't need to make porn anymore.
If anything, the porn is just an excuse to keep you in his life because he worries you're not as crazy about him as he is about you.
Any time he tries to initiate sex, you worm your way out of it. He even tells you that you don't have to film your first time but that still doesn't persuade you.
You don't come over as often anymore. Only when he wants to film content and you don't stay the night. He can't convince you to, either. You always have some kind of excuse.
Your behavior is making him lose his mind.
He misses you when you aren't with him. He tells you this and you believe him but you also keep up the self sabotage because you delude yourself into thinking that he'll get sick of you eventually, especially when you're acting like this.
Why would he want you when you're being a burden? You keep it up, in hopes he'll finally see that you're not good for him, that you're making his life worse.
Even though Pope's life feels empty without you…
So empty that he has to fill the void somehow.
And he starts when he catches a comment on an old video of his.
You haven't been over in a week. He missed you so much that he went back to watch a video that he uploaded of you cumming on his tongue for the first time. He likes that video a lot because you're so shy about how hard you came and he chuckles on video. It's such a natural interaction between the two of you. Beautifully intimate, which is why Pope wanted to rewatch it. He figured other people would like the genuine connection you and him have.
But apparently, some people don't like this video at all.
He clicks on the profile of the person who left a comment saying that they wish Pope would stop making videos with you because they don't like you. He sees all the comments you deleted from his account from this person, since they're only deleted on his end, not theirs.
They're all hateful, disgusting comments that make his blood boil.
Pope realizes then that you've been hiding this from him. He doesn't get why.
Don't you know that he'd take care of these people for you?
These aren't people you need to worry your lovely head about, little one.
Pope will handle it.
He'll handle each and every one of them.
Then, you won't have anything to worry about anymore…
You find it strange that Pope's house smells like bleach. It never used to smell like bleach. You know he likes to clean but it's been more excessive lately.
You're concerned so you ask him the next time you come over, “is everything okay, Andrew?”
“Everything's great.” He's getting through his list quicker than he thought he would.
Killing people was something he figured would take him a while to get back into the groove of but he's been disposing of bodies left and right without much extra effort. Though, it helps that he feels incredibly motivated to kill, versus before where he was forced to kill for his mother Smurf.
This is easy. He'd do anything for you.
The next jerk off video Pope posts is…dark.
You didn't plan any of the dialogue. Usually you have a light script written up for Pope to follow along with but today, he just improvised.
He talks about how much he wants to fuck you, that he would do anything for you, including torture and kill people who are bad to you and dispose of their bodies so you don't have to see them ever again.
As long as you belong to him.
It's the most fucked up video he has made thus far.
And it sells like hotcakes.
People eat it up, loving that he's so crazed in it. He cums hard for the camera too, harder than he has in a long time.
Though, his audience has no idea it's because Pope was looking at you and that haunted expression on your face that he wishes he could see while he's buried inside of you.
That frightened expression never leaves your face.
Because you ask him, “were you being serious in that video?”
And Pope answers without flinching, “yes.”
You're laying beside him in bed. You decided to stay the night after editing and posting that video because it's been a while and you've missed sleeping next to him.
But now you're…scared.
More scared than you've ever been.
Because you saw what looked like a fingernail in the bathtub. A whole fingernail, caught under the stopper. Like it couldn't get washed away fast enough.
His bathroom reeked of bleach and other chemicals.
But you have no reason to believe that Pope would actually kill people…
“That was a pretty creative concept.” You try to make light of it but it falls flat.
Especially when Pope furrows his brows at you. “Concept?”
“Yeah, for the video.” You blink up at him, confused. “You were just acting, right?”
“Do you think I'd cum that hard if I was acting?” He chuckles at your horrified look. “You should know I'd kill for you.”
“Andrew, that's not funny.”
“It's not a joke, little one.” His grip around your waist tightens because you attempt to wriggle out of his hold but he won't let you. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I want to go home.” You tell him because you're actually super freaked out right now.
He has to be joking. There's no way…
You can't be here if he's being serious.
“You promised you'd stay the night.” Pope has worked so hard these last few weeks for you. He deserves a treat. He wants to fall asleep with you in his arms.
“Andrew, I want to go home.” You push at his arms but he won't budge. “Andrew, please!”
Pope is tired of this. Of you fighting him and his needs.
He knows you want him too.
You'll appreciate what he's done for you someday.
Even if you're afraid of it right now.
You shriek when Pope pins you down on the bed, his body weight making it impossible for you to move. You feel how hard his cock is, rubbing up against your lower belly, making it known what he wants to do to you.
“I'm going to fuck you and you're going to enjoy it.” He's done waiting.
“No!” You shout at him, shoving at his chest. “I want to go home!”
“This is your home!” He shouts back at you, his words silencing you completely as he exclaims, “you loved it here, you loved being with me! Until those stupid motherfuckers put it in your head that you weren't good enough for me. It's okay though. I took care of them. They won't bother you anymore, little one.”
“You…what?” You're going to pretend you didn't just hear that.
But then Pope makes it very clear what he's done, so you can't avoid it any longer. “I killed anyone I could who said anything mean about you.”
And now you're left with that shocked look on your face that has his cock throbbing against your belly.
“Thankfully, a lot of them were local.” He continues detailing what he's done for you. “I cleaned up the vermin. You're welcome.”
“You're…you're sick.” You think back through the last few months.
Has Pope been taking his pills?
He hasn't. Because why does he need to when you'll accept him as he is?
You love all of him, don't you?
Don't you?
“Andrew, you need to get off of me.” You push at his shoulders but again, he doesn't dare move.
“Why?” He likes being on top of you. It's one of his favorite places to be.
“Why?” You repeat back to him, baffled that he doesn't get why you're afraid of him. “You just told me you killed people.”
“So?” He doesn't know what the big deal is.
Pope grew up around killers. He grew up killing people. This isn't anything new to him. Just a part of himself that he revived for your sake.
You seem ungrateful though…
“You can't just murder people for being mean to me!” You scream at him, pounding your fists against his hard chest. “Get off of me!”
“I can and I will.” He snatches your wrists and holds them above your head. “I'd do it again and again if you needed me to.”
“I don't need you to kill people for me…” You can't move at all. He has you locked down tight right now.
“That's how I know you're perfect for me.” He leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “You would never make me do what needs to be done. You care so much about me.”
You are in complete disbelief.
Of course you care about Pope but…do you care enough about him to let him murder people?
People who specifically were rude and nasty to you?
Do they even deserve to live?
You shake that deadly thought away. No, that's wrong. You shouldn't be happy that Pope killed those assholes for you.
You shouldn't encourage this behavior.
You shouldn't feel so…good that he would do that for you.
This is fucked up, beyond fucked up.
It's your wildest fantasy come true.
But some fantasies should stay fantasies…
Because if you indulge in any more darkness, you'll surely never find your way out.
Is that really a bad thing?
Can't you just…enjoy being his?
Pope wouldn't do this for just anyone. You're obviously special to him. You are fully aware of that now.
And it makes you sick how much you like it.
“Andrew, we can't be together.” You want to see how crazed he can get about you. “I don't want to be with you anymore.”
Something fucking snaps in Pope when you say that.
He lets out a low, menacing growl. Like you've triggered the beast in him that he's been trying his whole life to keep caged.
“You think you get to run from me, little one? You think you have a choice here?” He starts laughing maniacally and your entire body freezes up. “I don't give a fuck what you think. You're mine whether you want to be or not.”
Then, Pope gets off of you. He stands up, at the edge of the bed, and looks at you staring up at him with wide eyes, so full of that delicious fear.
“I'll give you until I'm done setting up.” He's being generous. You won't get very far. “But just know, the moment I catch you, I'm raping you on camera.”
Your chest tightens. Every breath you take is a struggle. Your body is trembling all over.
The thrill is unlike anything you've ever felt before.
Pope ignores the fact that you're still laying in bed, stunned. He focuses on getting all the cameras set up.
Why would he care if you decide not to run? Makes his life easier if you don't.
You scramble to your feet when you see him pull out several toys, including a butt plug, so he can clean them and get them ready.
That's when you start to actually panic.
Because you told Pope you don't want to do any kind of anal play until you've gotten used to sex.
But it looks like he has stopped giving a fuck about what you want.
He's going to take both of your virginities, right here, right now.
Live on camera.
You shriek when he tries to grab you. You duck under his arms and sprint out of the room. You should've ran sooner. He's so much faster than you are.
You barely make it to the front door before Pope slams you against it. The wind is knocked out of you immediately which is why you can't fight back when he grabs you by the hair and drags you back towards his bedroom. You have no strength left. Or rather, he is so much stronger than you.
He tosses you onto the bed without breaking a sweat and he does it again and again, each time you try to get out of it. You're immediately thrown right back down.
“Stay put.” He commands but you don't listen, making him click his tongue in irritation. “This would be easier if you stopped struggling. I can make you feel really good.”
“I don't want to.” You shake your head at him, trying again to get off the bed but this time Pope is done with fucking around.
He grabs you by the throat and holds you down onto the bed. You flail beneath him, kicking at him, screaming at him but the words don't come out.
The only words that can be heard are his, “you know I could just kill you.”
You still completely at that. He smiles down at you, caressing your face with his free hand. It's not comforting. It's so fucking scary. He's so fucking crazy…
“What will it be, little one?” He grips your throat with both his hands now, tightening his hold, making you choke for the cameras. “Do you want to die or do you want to get fucked?”
He lets go of your throat for just a moment so you can tell him, panic in your quiet murmur, “I don't want to die…”
“Good girl.” Pope praises you for making the right choice, giving you a light kiss on the temple. “You're going to let me take your virginity, then?”
You nod reluctantly.
“Including your ass?” He wants the camera to catch you consenting to this, even if it's obviously coerced.
“Please, Andrew, not my—” His hands don't allow another word to leave your lips, gripping your neck so hard that your eyes feel like they might pop out of your skull.
“Don't be a bad girl.” He shakes his head at you, full of disappointment. “Tell me the right answer.”
He loosens his hold and waits for you to tell him what he wants to hear.
Heat flashes in his gaze when you answer, “no.”
“No?” His lips curve into a big smile, a smile so wide that anyone could tell it's an evil one.
“I don't want this.” You tell him and you're unsure if you're acting or not. It's a little bit of both… “You're going to rape me. I didn't sign up for this.”
“Oh?” He moves his hands to the side of your head, leaning down until you can feel every word he breathes out on your lips, “what did you sign up for, then?”
Pope isn't expecting you to cup his face with your hands. Nor is he expecting for you to rest your forehead against his before kissing him on the lips.
He has missed the feel of your lips on his.
It feels like it's been too long since the last time the two of you kissed.
“You.” You whisper to him, so softly so the cameras can't hear it. “I love you, Andrew.”
“Are you being serious?" He won't let you live if you're fucking with him right now.
You nod, smiling up at him. “I love everything about you.”
“I was about to rape you.” He wants you to realize what you almost made him do.
“I was going to let you.” You nuzzle his nose playfully before telling him, “you still can.”
“Don't push me.” He refuses to let you tempt him any further.
But you entice him too much. “I want you to, Andrew. Take me like you've always wanted to.”
His breaths grow heavy, desire clouding his judgment. “We're going to have to cut this part out of the video.”
“Want to kiss me a little first?” You say with a lovely grin.
“Fuck.” He finds you so adorable. “I love you so much.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. The two of you lay there, tongues tangled, hips grinding against each other until you're aching for him to fuck you already.
When Pope can't handle it anymore, he tells you, “we make love for us. Then we fuck for the camera.”
“I like that idea.” You giggle happily when he tugs off your clothes until you're bare beneath him. “My turn.”
You strip him and Pope knows then that you're the one for him. Because you're so gentle with him, with every touch. You treat him like he's precious to you. It's all he has ever wanted.
You're beautifully bashful when he starts kissing up and down the length of your body, his hands roaming your skin, wanting to memorize what you feel like.
“I hope you know the moment we fuck, we're never stopping.” He warns you because he's been waiting for this for too long. He's going to need to have his fill of you.
“Don't tease me with a good time, Andrew.” You spread your legs for him, dipping your hand between them to show him how wet you are. “Will you touch me? I've missed you.”
“You have?” Pope hadn't realized how desperate he was to hear you admit it out loud.
“I'm sorry I was being distant.” You feel really bad about it.
“It's okay.” He would've suffered as long as you needed him to. “Just don't do it again.”
“As long as you don't kill any more people.” Your words make him snap up to look at you.
“But what if they're mean and deserve to die?” He says between gritted teeth and you hold back a laugh.
Pope can be like a vicious puppy sometimes. It's so cute.
“I don't want the love of my life going to prison over a few internet trolls.”
He grumbles. “Fine. Then I'll take out my frustration on your pussy.”
You gasp when he dives between your legs without warning, his tongue dipping into you immediately. You squirm when the tip of his tongue starts flicking that spot inside of you that has you begging him to stop or you'll burst.
“Wait, slow down—Andrew!” You push at his head, trying to get him to stop because your orgasm is building too quickly. “Stop! I'm going to cum, I'm going to—”
Your orgasm hits you right then and Pope has a little too much fun licking it up, the sounds surely getting captured on camera.
“Cum as much as you want, little one.” He says as he thrusts two fingers inside of you, curling them right where his tongue just was, sending shivers through you. “Show me how good I make you feel.”
You grab a hold of his hair when Pope starts sucking on your clit while his fingers pounds into you. You're trying not to be too vocal. You know the audience doesn't like it. But Pope likes it, so he makes you cum so hard that you can't hold back your voice.
And he does that over and over again until you're begging and crying for him to give you a break.
“I can't cum anymore, Andrew.” You won't survive if he makes you cum again.
You're so overstimulated…
Pope lets out a sigh. “Fine, we'll take a break.”
Though, a break in his mind really just means he's going to take his time marking every inch of your skin with his teeth. You don't know if this is any better than cumming your brains out. Now you're sensitive all over. Everywhere he touches sends sparks to your core.
Pope's prepping you to cum hard on his cock. He wants your first time to be so good, you become addicted to fucking him.
So he has to pull out every trick in the book.
Edging you until you're dripping wet and aching for something deep inside of you.
“Finally ready for my cock?” He asks, smirking at the desperation in your eyes.
“Please.” You want him so badly.
Pope settles his hips against yours. He grabs his cock, dragging it up and down the length of your wet slit, coating himself in your slick.
“Deep breaths, little one.” He instructs as he pushes the tip of his cock against your entrance. “You're about to take a porn star's cock for your first time. You'll need to relax.”
Easier said than done because it feels like he's splitting you in two from just the tip of his cock pushing past your entrance. You're gripping onto the sheets for dear life as he slips more of himself into you slowly.
“Too much.” You cry out, shaking your head, feeling overwhelmed. “You're too big.”
Your words cause his cock to twitch inside of you which only makes you wriggle even more. It's so intense, the pressure of being pried out like this.
“Focus on me.” Pope leans down to kiss you, distracting you with his soft lips and loving words. “You're doing so well. Your pussy feels so good.”
“Yeah?” You like that he feels good too. “Do you like my tight virgin pussy?”
He growls low. “I love it.”
His cock barely fits inside of you. He'll need to fuck you a bit to loosen you up. So, he grabs your hips and looks at you with so much need in his eyes.
“I'm going to fuck you now.” He gives you a moment to prepare yourself. “Until you're covered in my cum.”
You shake your head. “I want you to cum inside of me. Pump a baby into me, Andrew.”
The moment you say that, it's like any remaining rationality Pope had left completely crumbles.
He pins you down by your shoulders and just starts ramming into you. You've never felt such forceful thrusts before that your body doesn't even know how to react.
You just cum. That's all you can do.
“Oh god—” You grab a hold of his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin as he pounds you into his mattress. “Too rough, you're being too—!”
His hands slide to your throat and the moment he cuts off your air, you squirt on his cock and he laughs. “Someone likes it rough.”
You're clawing at him now, drawing blood, unable to handle the orgasms he's pulling out of you. Your vision is going blurry. You can't think straight.
And you see stars when he whispers in your ear, “how does it feel to get raped for your first time?”
Your body convulses under him in response and Pope loves how your pussy is clenching around him, milking his cock, begging for his cum. When he finally gives it to you and lets go of your throat, you're gasping for air, cumming your brains out on his cock pumping hot ropes of cum inside of you. You love how warm you feel, completely filled up with his release.
You don't want it to end.
You want to be wrung out like this for the rest of your life.
Pope pulls out of you and you expect it to be over but then you feel three of his fingers replace his cock. You're so sensitive that an orgasm washes over you just from him idly stroking your insides. He's merely resting his fingers inside of you, to keep you plugged up, but you're cumming on them too easily, drenching his hand.
“You're spilling my cum, little one.” He thrusts as much as he can back inside of you. “I need you to hold it in.”
“It's hard…” Especially when he keeps curling his fingers on purpose.
“Who taught you to cum like a porn star?” He can't even count how many orgasms the cameras must've caught by now.
“You.” You answer honestly, earning yourself another orgasm when his fingers start fucking you faster. “Andrew!”
“Don't cum.” He thrusts his fingers deeper inside of you with every stroke. “If you cum, I'm going to rape you.”
You glance down. Pope is hard again already. Usually it takes longer but when he looks at you, his body is just ready to fuck.
Especially now that his cock has had a taste of your pussy.
He can't possibly quit now!
Your whole body tenses in a poor attempt to stop the orgasm that will inevitably shatter you. But Pope is ruthless with his fingers.
Then he tugs at your perky nipples with his free hand and you burst like a dam, cumming all over his fingers.
You don't get a second to collect yourself before Pope flips you onto your stomach and pounds every inch of his cock inside of your still spasming pussy. His weight keeps you held down to the bed as he fucks you like an animal desperately needing to breed. He wants you pregnant.
He needs you to have his baby.
You don't know how many times Pope cums inside of you. The batteries in the cameras all die at a certain point but he doesn't stop fucking you.
It's a compulsion at a certain point. The moment he's hard again, his cock is buried inside of you. Your pussy has molded to his shape. Your body yearns for his release.
The two of you don't stop fucking until you take a pregnancy test and it's positive.
Pope is the most excited he has ever been about anything.
And you're happy to see him like that.
So, you'll wait a bit longer before you tell him it's a false positive. You had to figure out how to create a false positive or he would've never let you leave his bed.
He surely won't once he finds out.
And you're looking forward to it.
a/n: you know this idea started as one of those crack ideas but then I just ended up writing so much for it, oops! I just fell in love with porn star!pope, he's such a lovely guy (who will be very angry when he finds out you aren't pregnant hehe the next part will be fun ~)
Summary: Your life took a complete turn the moment you made one single decision: to help a billionaire with something so trivial that only a psychopath like him would mistake it for love.
Titus has found a lovely new obsession to focus all his energy on now and you're unsure how you're going to make it out of this unscathed…
Word Count: 20.3k
A/N: I had this itch to write a slow burn, grumpy x sunshine fic with a splash of angst, yearning and fucked up manipulative behavior so this is what I cooked up.
I will note, you call him "sir" and he really likes it! Because I like it! Whoops!
For a full list of warnings, you can check out the fic on my AO3. Though this one is quite mild compared to my other fics so you can go in blind if you want to!
Oh, and of course, there will be porn! Hope it's a fun read ♡
You let out a little yawn in the elevator after you drop off your thirtieth delivery for the day. Usually you don't do this many, but the fine dining restaurant you normally work at cut your hours so you've been needing to work on the apps to make ends meet.
You've been up since the crack of dawn and now the sun has set. You're ready to go back to bed.
Your eyes shift to the man in the elevator with you. He definitely is dressed like he is meant to be here. It is a luxury high rise that has both a hotel and residences. You just dropped off food for some rich asshole who barely tipped. You wonder if he is one of those rich assholes.
You glance downwards and notice that there's a tiny tear in his dress pants. He looks like he's dressed to go to some fancy event. He probably shouldn't have a noticeable tear like that. People in his world would spot it.
So, you tap him on the shoulder, saying, “excuse me, sir.”
Titus Danforth turns to glare at you. Here we go again, he thinks to himself. You must know him from somewhere. Though, he doesn't know many people who wear cheap, wholesale clothing that is likely made of plastics.
You must want his money, then.
But you point to the hem of his dress pants and ask, “do you want me to fix that for you? There's a snag. You must've caught it on something.”
You pull out a small sewing kit from your bag, which you have since sometimes you have to mend your work clothes on the fly. It helps your coworkers too, since fine dining requires a certain level of pristine.
He blinks at you, surprised. It's such a tiny tear that he wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't said anything.
But his father would've definitely scolded him if he saw it.
There's no time to go back to his apartment and change. He needs to get to this fundraising gala right away. He spent a little too long fucking the help.
Titus looks up at the floor count. He knows there's a private floor that only certain members in the building have access to. He goes to scan his keycard and hits the thirteenth floor.
“We'll get out here and you can do it.” He shouldn't be accepting some stranger's help so he definitely can't be seen taking it.
For all he knows, you snagged his pants and this is some kind of ploy to get a pay out from him.
But he doesn't think that's it.
You must just be a good samaritan because the moment he sits down at one of the plush benches by the elevator, you are on your knees in front of him, sifting through the threads you have to find the one that matches his pants the best before you start sewing it back up.
Titus likes the look of you on your knees. You're very pretty. Much prettier than the maid he has been fucking.
You're so focused on mending his pants that you don't notice the way he's staring at you, like he could swallow you up with just his gaze.
You make a little small talk, completely oblivious to the desire in his eyes, “are you heading somewhere fun?”
“I wouldn't call being stuck in a room full of boring rich people fun.” He tells you and his heart pounds a little faster when you giggle.
That's a real laugh. Titus is used to hearing the dry, fake ones people give him, in a meager attempt to show him interest. You're genuinely amused.
“I totally get you.” You say back, still chuckling under your breath. “That's how I feel every time I go to work.”
“Do you usually deliver food to this building?” Titus doesn't know why he's asking. He shouldn't care. You're just a delivery girl.
But then you shake your head, your words intriguing him, “I usually serve at Opulence but they cut my hours recently. They hired this TikTok influencer and she's been driving in business so they've been giving her most of my shifts. I just deliver when I need to get by.”
“Opulence? The place that makes the cabrito asado?” Titus has eaten there a few times. His father loves that dish, since it's an herb-crusted, slow-roasted young goat on a bed of microgreens.
“Yeah, that's it! Though, I've never had it.” The restaurant owner doesn't provide free meals and the chefs are super stingy with their ingredients, since they're so expensive. Even the nice ones won't let any of you have a taste, besides that one influencer girl. She got to try everything to post about on her social media.
You're trying not to be envious but…you definitely wish you could do something like that. You can't afford the equipment, however. She has the latest phone model. Two of them actually, one for work and one for personal use. You're still using the phone you got on a deal a few years ago.
“You haven't eaten anything at the restaurant you serve at?”
You shake your head. “I can't afford anything on that menu. I can barely afford my rent as is—ah, shit, sorry, I keep complaining. Ignore me. You don't want to listen to some stranger yap.”
You do the final tie to secure the thread and cut the remaining with your compact scissors. You brush your hand over the fabric one last time then show him.
“Does it look good to you?”
Titus is impressed. It doesn't even look like there was a tear to begin with. “Have you done this a lot?”
“Oh, all the time! The owner is very particular about how they want us to look at all times. Even the littlest of snags will get you sent home and most of us can't afford—shit, sorry, I need to stop doing that! Bad habit…” You catch yourself before you complain about money again. You're sure a man like him doesn't even think about money.
Titus definitely doesn't. The idea of not being able to afford anything is a bit ridiculous to him. He could buy the world if he wanted to.
He could buy you the world if you wanted him to.
What a strange thought.
Why did that pop into his head?
Maybe because you get up and ask for nothing in return for helping him.
“All good?” You gesture to the elevator buttons. “Ready to go?”
“I should pay you for the help.” What the fuck is he saying? He has never offered to give anyone money before. At least not like this. He has offered money to people to get the fuck out of his way. Or to get something he wants.
Is that what this is? Is he doing this because he wants you?
You wave him off. “This cost nothing. Just a smile.”
You flash him a happy grin and he…can't help but smile back. Especially when you beam at him so brightly, like pure sunshine.
“I love ending my day by making someone smile.” You nudge him playfully as the elevator doors open then step inside.
Titus doesn't know what to make of that. Being touched so casually normally repulses him. But with you, he wishes you'd stay close to him.
“When do you work next? Maybe I can tip you then.” Again, he doesn't understand why he's saying any of this. The words just spill out.
“Hmmm.” You don't have your schedule yet. You should be getting it tomorrow, since it'll be the start of the week. “I won't know yet. If you want, you can call in and ask when I'm working. I just need to tell them your name so they know I'm okay with you knowing my schedule.”
Technically, it's not a good idea to let a customer know exactly when a server will be on shift. But since it is a fine dining restaurant, if a wealthy customer does want a specific server, the server just has to make note of the customers they don't mind sharing their schedule with.
“You don't know my name?” That's shocking to Titus. He is one of the wealthiest men on the planet.
“Oh shit, are you like super famous or something?” You scratch your head, trying to parse out who he could be. “My bad…I work so much that I barely have time to keep up with anything.”
“Titus.” He tells you. “Titus Danforth. And you are?”
You tell him your name and then give him another beautiful smile. “I will definitely look you up later so that if you do come into the restaurant, I will for sure know who you are, I promise!”
The elevator doors open so you head out first then turn around and wave goodbye to him.
“See you later, Titus!” You say his name so sweetly that…
He'll think about his name leaving your lips any time someone says his name from then on. Like when he's fucking that maid of his the next day and she's screaming his name and he's wondering what his name would sound like on your lips if you were bent over in front of him.
That might be the only reason he's able to finish today. He's been struggling this whole time to stay hard. His mind is so consumed by thoughts of you that he can't seem to cum unless he imagines it's you.
This can't be healthy. Though, he has never been mentally healthy before.
“I need you to get the fuck out.” He tells his maid the moment he pulls the condom off. “I don't want to see you again.”
“Titus—” She gasps when he wraps his hand around her throat, stopping her from speaking another word.
“I don't want to hear my name come out of your mouth ever again. Now, get the fuck out.” He tosses her towards the door. “You're fired.”
She scoffs and then heads out. He knows she'll likely sue him but he has the footage to prove it was all consensual. His lawyers will guarantee that he wins the case.
Titus grabs his phone, searching up the number for your restaurant. He debates calling.
Should he see you?
Why does he want to see you?
You're just some pretty girl who helped him out with a little thing. You definitely have looked him up. Your entire opinion of him has likely morphed once you realize how rich and powerful he is. You wouldn't want him for him. You probably want him for his money now that you know. And he definitely shouldn't want you.
But he calls anyway.
“This is Opulence, how can I help you?” The voice is so familiar. That's because it's your voice. You ended up being called in to fill for the hostess today.
“I'm looking to inquire about a server's schedule. How do I go about doing that?” Titus doesn't realize it's you until he tells you your name.
And you giggle that beautiful giggle that he is growing too fond of. “Oh my goodness, is this Titus? How are you! I didn't think you'd call in so soon. I haven't even looked you up yet. I was so tired after working that I—shit, sorry, I'm doing it again…babbling on and on.”
“It's alright. I don't mind.” What the fuck? Of course he minds. He hates it when people blab on and on.
Why is he acting like you're special?
Maybe because you are, when you tell him all cutely, “aw, you're so sweet. I knew I'd like you. I'll have to sneak you something good when you come in. I'm serving this Saturday if you want to stop by!”
“You aren't working all week?” Today is Sunday. Is your next shift really Saturday?
“Ah, yeah. It's okay. I'll be alright. Saturdays are typically good days so I should make a decent amount!” You are wildly optimistic, despite the struggle to make ends meet. “Should I book you a reservation or do you want to just pop in? I'll try to leave a table standing for you if you want!”
“You would do that?”
“Of course! How about I do that and if you show up, you show up! If not, the restaurant will live with one less table to serve. They make plenty of money as is.”
Titus doesn't get you at all. You don't know who he is but you're giving him the five star treatment regardless.
Would you do this for anyone?
He doesn't like thinking that you would. That he isn't special in any way. That you're only doing this because you're just a nice person in general.
He wants you to only be nice to him. He wants to monopolize your attention.
“When do you get off work?” He asks.
“I close on Saturday, so last reservation is at 9:30PM.” It goes completely over your head that he's asking when you're done with work. Other people would take that as a flirtation. You're too innocent to think of it as anything but a simple question.
“Then book me a table at 9:30PM.” He decides that's when he'll see you, so he has the chance to see you after work too.
Even though Titus is unsure if that's a good idea.
“Alright! Just you or are you bringing someone special?” You're only asking because you need to know how many people to put down on the reservation.
But Titus thinks you're asking because you want to know if he's single. “Just me. I don't have anyone special.”
“Well then, we definitely should fix that.” You say to him, chuckling. “You're way too handsome to not have someone to spoil. I can ask around to see if any of my regulars are single. They're all around your age, super rich too! I can play matchmaker for you.”
He doesn't want anyone special. He just wants you. But you aren't even putting yourself on the menu. You don't even consider yourself someone he would be interested in. Probably because you're so much younger than him and in a completely different tax bracket…
“Do you have anyone special?” The question leaves his lips and he regrets asking. It's too forward.
But again, you're totally oblivious to it, since you're so used to customers asking you all sorts of personal questions. You don't see it as anything out of the ordinary. “Oh no. I've never even dated anyone before. Too busy working, you know!”
Titus should not be happy to hear that but he is. He is very happy to know that you've never dated anyone before. Because that means there's a chance you've never been with anyone ever before.
And now he's invested in you.
His lovely new obsession.
“Maybe we can change that. I'll see you on Saturday.” He says, smirking into the phone.
You don't notice anything strange in his wording and just say back, “see you then, Titus!”
You hang up the work phone and go back to prepping the restaurant to be open. The hostess always comes in early in case people call in to make same day reservations, so you're glad you came in and caught Titus's call. You really need to look him up.
You make plans to do so when you get home but then you get a notice from your landlord saying that you have a week to move out since their kid flunked out of college and needs the room back.
There goes your cheap rent…
You then spend the rest of the week stuffing everything you can into your car and throwing out everything else. Thankfully the room was furnished so you didn't have any furniture to pack but…now everything you own is in your car.
You've been calling different listings for places to live but no place at the same price point as your old place stays available for long enough. By the time Saturday rolls around, you're still unhoused and living out of your car.
You have to buy a gym membership so you can shower and get ready for work. There's no way you can show up looking like you've been sleeping upright for the last few days.
You feel like shit but you still put on your best smile when you get to work. You could use the tips for your deposit.
But tonight, no one seems to want to tip you, specifically.
You didn't realize they booked you with that influencer girl, so most tables are requesting her. Which is totally fine, it makes sense that people would want to come to see someone they follow online.
You have a handful of regulars who tip you alright so you know you'll make it through this shift with some money in your pocket. Less than you'd hope, but enough to be okay.
That's about to change real quick.
Because the owner of the restaurant comes and grabs you, yanking you off the floor to ask you, “what the hell is Titus Danforth doing here?”
“Oh, he's here already?” You look at your watch. It's fifteen minutes before his reservation. You didn't realize he was an early bird or you would've had his table ready sooner.
“What do you mean “oh, he's here already"? You knew he was coming in?”
“Yeah. I booked his reservation.”
“You booked…” The owner looks like they're about to throw a fit. “Why didn't you tell me you booked a reservation for Titus Danforth? The books only had his initials!”
“That's…what we always do?” You're not supposed to put full names down, in case someone hacks in and sees an A-list celebrity has a reservation and then tries to come in at the same time.
“Do you not know who he is?”
You shake your head. You have been so busy all week that you haven't gotten to looking him up just yet. He must be a big deal if the owner is going nuts over him being here.
“He is one of the wealthiest men on the fucking planet and you reserved him a standard table.” The owner pinches their brow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me?” You didn't realize part of your job description was to research every wealthy person on the planet in case they show up here. Nor did you realize that being verbally abused over and over was suddenly an okay practice to do. “Look, I'm sorry, but—”
“Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” They point to the staff room, which has the private entrance/exit so customers don't see you leaving or entering the building. “Get your shit and go. Thankfully we have an actually competent server to help Titus Danforth tonight. We don't need you anymore.”
You can't believe this. You're seriously getting fired because you didn't know who Titus is. This is actually ridiculous.
“You know I just got evicted, right?” You had told them when it happened, in hopes you'd get more hours.
“I don't give a fuck about your sob story. Just get out of my fucking restaurant now.” The owner shoves past you to go to the front of the house, presumably to talk to Titus.
You let out a sigh. You did want to see him. You brought him something you figured might make him smile.
So when you spot your now-ex coworker, the influencer, in the staff room on her break, you open your locker and grab it, giving it to her.
“Hey, you're going to serve a Titus Danforth in a bit. Could you give this to him for me? I wanted to give it to him myself but I just got fired so I got to go.”
“Oh shit. Is it because of Titus? Did he cuss you out or something?” Her words strike you as strange.
“No…? Does he do that?” She would know, since she's all over that online drama stuff.
“Oh yeah, all the fucking time. He gets people fired wherever he goes, like even over the tiniest little thing. I heard he's a fucking prick.” She takes your gift for Titus, looking at it. “Are you sure you want to give him something? Are you a fan of his? I know some billionaires have fans but I wouldn't pick him as my choice…”
“Just give it to him, please. Tell him it's from me and that I'm sorry I couldn't be here.”
“Alright.” She tucks it into her apron. “Good luck. Sorry you got fired.”
You shrug and wave goodbye as she heads out onto the floor. It does suck that you got fired but life happens.
What can you do about it but move on?
Titus can't seem to move on, though.
He hasn't spotted you at all since he got to the restaurant. He came early in hopes of just watching you work for a little prior to you serving him. He expected to see you.
But the person serving him isn't you.
The owner personally apologizes to him for not booking him a private booth but managed to get one situated for him, despite it being a busy Saturday night. Titus couldn't care less where he sat. He's here to see you and that's it.
But you aren't the one serving him for some reason.
So he asks the server where you are and she tells him, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Danforth. She was let go because she didn't know who you were and booked you at a standard table. The owner never wants their VIPs to ever be booked at a standard table. She should've known better.”
Titus scoffs. “What the fuck? I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her. I have come here maybe twice with my father. He's the VIP. I'm just a regular customer. She booked me correctly.”
“You're a Danforth, sir.” Titus does not like the sound of the word sir coming out of anyone's mouth but yours.
“Where is she?” Titus looks around. “Did she leave already?”
“Yes, I think so. She probably finished packing up her stuff and left. She did tell me to give you this, though. And to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't be here.” The server hands him a little box.
He opens it. It's…a small sewing kit. The same one like you had in your bag.
With a cute note attached saying: For any future repairs ♡
You had planned to tell Titus that you'd show him a few different ways to sew up a snag, to go with the gift, but you can't now obviously. You probably will never see him again.
You put all your work stuff with the rest of your things in your car, sighing. You didn't think you'd be off so early, so now you have to figure out where to park. Most places aren't free to park until 10PM so you could wait in your work parking lot until then but you don't really want to stick around a place that fired you…
But then, you look up at the sky and decide it's okay to stay for a little. You'll miss working here. It's just a few miles out of the city, in a beautiful part where plenty of wealthy people live, with barely any light pollution.
There's so many stars out tonight.
You sit up on the hood of your car, staring up at the night sky from this vantage point one last time. You're so engrossed by the sight of the stars that you don't notice a figure walking up to you until a shadow engulfs you.
You turn your head to see… “Titus?”
How did he find the employee parking lot?
It's quite an uphill trek from the restaurant, which is on purpose since the restaurant valet would prefer to not have any “ugly” cars parked in that lot.
Titus just stares at you, at how pretty you look in the light of the stars and the moon. How they seem to add an extra sparkle in your eyes. How he is so grateful he caught up to you before you left.
There was no way he was going to wait any longer to see you again.
He wasn't going to let some fucking stupid restaurant owner get in his way.
“I heard you got fired.” He says to you, noticing how cleaned up you look in your work attire compared to the casual clothes from before. “I didn't end up staying since you weren't there.”
“Aw, you should've at least enjoyed the food.” You feel bad he just left.
“Did you like working at that restaurant?” He asks because he just bought it and if you wanted to, you come back to work there. He won't tell you he bought it, of course, but he would get you your job back.
But it doesn't seem like you want to, from the way you shrug. “It was nice while it lasted. Maybe this is the universe telling me I need to be somewhere else.”
“What do you mean?”
You pat the hood of your car, inviting him to sit with you. He would never normally do this. Especially on an old car like yours. But he does, for some reason.
For you. To be next to you.
Titus sits beside you in his designer clothes and you giggle, pulling your knees up to your chest, leaning your head against them as you look at him. “We really are from two different worlds, aren't we?”
“Are you going to move?” He noticed all your things packed in your car.
“I don't know.” You look back up at the stars. “I don't have a place to stay right now. I don't have a job. I don't have anything besides what I got right here.”
Again, he just stares at you. But this time, it's because he has never met anyone like you before. He has met people who are desperate, who would do anything to get out of whatever hole they dug themselves into.
But, despite whatever life has thrown at you, you don't show any signs of that same desperation.
You actually seem content to just look at the stars in the sky, basking in the moonlight, enjoying the moment, ignoring the reality of your situation for a second.
“Do you like stargazing?” You turn your head towards Titus again.
“I don't really look up.”
You chuckle at that. “I guess when you're one of the richest men on the planet, you only look down, right?”
“So you looked me up?” Titus figured you would eventually.
But you shake your head. “I didn't have any time to. Had to pack all my stuff into my car this week since I got evicted. I just heard that from the owner. Sorry, bad joke.”
“What else did you hear about me then?” He wants to know what you know.
“My ex-coworker said you're a fucking prick.” You reply, followed by another cute laugh. “I wonder what you must've done to give the internet that impression.”
“You don't think I'm a prick?” He would understand if you did. He is a fucking prick. The worst of the worst.
But you don't judge people based on the words of others. Maybe that is naive of you but you like to believe most people are good people. Though you have no clue who you're sitting next to right now…
“Do you want me to think you're a prick?” You nudge him playfully like you had before. “I can do that if you want.”
“How can you be so…normal around me? After learning who I am?” Titus hasn't noticed any change in your behavior.
You're acting exactly like you had when you first met him.
“Am I supposed to act a certain way around a man with money?” You tilt your head at him, feigning befuddlement. “Should I get on my hands and knees and beg you for a crumb of your wealth, sir?”
Yes. Titus wants to say but then you laugh, obviously having said what you said as a joke, so he bites his tongue. But it's hard not to imagine you on your hands and knees, with his cock buried inside of you from behind, moaning beneath him.
He needs to figure out how to curb his desire for you. This is getting out of hand.
Especially when you nudge him again and point at the sky. “Look, or you'll miss it!”
Titus looks up and a shooting star blazes across the sky, drawing a line of light for just a moment before disappearing.
“Did you wish for anything?” You ask him, still displaying that brilliant smile he's growing to love.
“No. Did you?” Titus doesn't make wishes. He can get whatever he wants.
Except you and your free spirit. “I wished for a sign from the universe to tell me where to go next.”
You're like a pretty bird, ready to soar towards your next adventure. You never stay in one place for too long.
Titus won't have that. He needs to cage you. To keep you.
So, he says to you, “do you want to work for me?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Doing what? Do you own a restaurant I can serve at?”
He literally owns the place that fired you but…he won't tell you that now.
Instead, he tells you, “I recently fired my personal assistant so I'm looking for a new one. You'd get your own room in my apartment and you can buy food and other necessities on my card.”
“What does a personal assistant for Titus Danforth do?” You lean your head against your knees, looking up at him. “Am I writing emails all day or…?”
“Just whatever I need help getting done for the day.” Like getting off. He really wants to get off. He hasn't cum since he fired that maid. He wants to cum inside of you.
Maybe even without a condom.
You don't seem to notice the lust in his gaze at all. Probably because no one has ever looked at you like that before.
“You should get someone with actual personal assistant experience.” You definitely aren't the right fit. You've mainly worked in restaurants, minus that singular stint you did at a retail store in your teens. “Also, you definitely shouldn't hire someone you've only known for like an hour.”
You chuckle, the sound so intoxicating to him. Little do you know, you have been on his mind every second of every day since the moment you left his sight. He tried his best not to let his mind wander to you but it always did.
“I was following your lead. The universe brought you to me when I needed a personal assistant and the universe brought me to you when you needed a job. Is that not a sign?” He manipulates your wish and uses it against you.
“I guess you're right.” You tap your finger against your lips, which makes Titus stare very closely at them, wishing he could kiss you. “But still, you barely know me.”
“You barely know me.” He counters and that makes you laugh again.
“Touché!” You lean against him a little as you giggle then move away. “Alright, why not! If I'm horrible, you can always fire me. I heard you're very good at it.”
Titus will never get used to the casual touches you do. You are so relaxed around him. You should be more guarded.
You have no idea what he has in store for you now that he has you in his grasp…
You don't get what Titus's last personal assistant must have done to get fired. This has got to be the easiest job you've ever had. And the benefits are incredible!
Titus gave you a super nice car, completely paid off, since he doesn't want his personal assistant to be driving something dingy. You have all brand new, designer clothes in your closet that fit you perfectly and match your style. He apparently had people come over once you moved your things in to sift through your closet and figure out what you would like so that you had clothes to wear when you went out with him.
You go out with Titus a lot. Mostly to restaurants he's scoping out, thinking of buying or investing in. You and him eat and drink and laugh and chat so much that you're shocked this is even considered work.
Your paycheck is also enormous too and he even helped you set up a high yield savings account at the bank his family runs with a very good rate.
You're making more money now than you have your entire life.
You don't have anything to use it on, either. Titus pays for everything, always. You try to pay sometimes, for groceries or for household goods, but then he just adds the money to your paycheck when you do, effectively zeroing it back out. You get that he is obscenely wealthy but you don't want him to always have to pay.
“It's an insult when you try to pay for me.” Titus tells you as he drives the two of you from the airport to a resort on the tropical island he's thinking of investing in.
“This rental car cost like a tenth of my check. You could've let me pay for it.” You pout at him and he shakes his head at you.
“A tenth of your check is not even a penny to me.” He will not have you spending any money when he has plenty.
“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I'm in the presence of an almost trillionaire. My apologies, sir.” You exaggerate a bow then giggle.
It has been months since Titus hired you to be his “personal assistant” and he still hasn't touched you. He has no idea how he is keeping it together, especially when you laugh so beautifully like that all the time and jokingly call him sir.
You are so playful and so cute that he just wants to eat you up.
But you are horribly oblivious to any and all of his advances.
You two go out to eat and you think it's just work. You two stay in a hotel suite together and you think it's just work. You two go on vacations together and you really, truly, seriously think this is just a work excursion.
That is totally why Titus paid for the all inclusive resort package for the two of you that includes a private pool attached to the room.
Though this time, he made sure there was only one bed. The last few times, the hotels and resorts you've been to have had other rooms available to swap to, so you and Titus have never had to sleep in the same bed.
That changes today. He booked out all of the available rooms to ensure you had to sleep in the same bed as him. You can't avoid him now.
“Are you sure this is okay?” You stare at the king sized bed in the very nice room. “I can sleep on the floor. Or the tub. I've done that before when I've crashed at people's places.”
“I'm not letting you sleep in a tub.” The idea makes him grimace.
“I'm surprised there isn't like a couch or something.” You would assume a fancy resort like this would have more furniture in the room but there's really only the bed and the desk and you can't sleep in a desk chair for a week.
Titus made sure there was no alternate sleeping places. They took the couch out and rearranged the furniture to make it look like this is what the room should look like. And Titus told you that you shouldn't ever look up anywhere you and him go since he wants you to experience it blind to get the best feel for the place. You listen because he's your boss.
Now you're going to be sharing a bed with your boss…
“There really weren't any other rooms?” It's a huge resort. Though, it does look like there's some kind of convention going on.
It's packed on the island right now!
“Is the idea of sleeping with me that horrible?” Titus tries to be playful with this question but there's a bite to his tone he can't hide.
You, again, are oblivious to it. “No, not at all. I just feel bad because you probably don't want to sleep with me.”
“I don't mind.” He wants to desperately.
“Hopefully I'm not a weird sleeper.”
“You've never slept with someone before?” He finally has a chance to casually ask this question.
“I've shared a bed with friends on trips and stuff like that to save money.” Again, it goes over your head that he's not referring to real sleeping. “They've never complained but like what if I kick you in my sleep? I would feel so bad!”
“That should be the least of your worries.” You'll be lucky if you have the opportunity to actually sleep.
“I know. If you don't think it's a big deal, then I shouldn't worry about it.” You appreciate that he's looking out for you.
Titus has no idea how you got to your age and you're so fucking oblivious to the fact that he wants to pin you down on this bed and fuck the brains out of you.
Maybe it's because you don't see him as a man. You only see him as your boss. You haven't put it together in your mind that he should be someone you should be careful around.
But you aren't careful at all.
You casually touch his arm when you're walking past him so you don't accidentally bump into him on the way to the closet to unpack your things. You place your hands on him to straighten out his clothes without warning. You nuzzle your cheek against his shoulder then flash him a big smile whenever you feel like bothering him with an ask of something kind.
Like, “can we get smoothie bowls? Please!”
“Please what?” He pokes your nose and you laugh, knowing what he's looking for.
“Please, sir. Can we get smoothie bowls?” You bat your eyelashes at him, like you always do.
It takes everything in his soul not to grab you and kiss you. He opts to clench his fist tight and gives you an even tighter lipped smile in response.
“Sure.” His heart races at how happy you look.
“Great, I'm starving and that place looked so good.”
It's one of the restaurants in the resort. A cute hut that makes smoothie bowls. It should be included in the resort package, though Titus wouldn't care how much it cost regardless.
As long as he gets to see you all giddy to eat a colorful bowl of fruit layered on top of a smoothie, he would pay anything.
“You know, you haven't called Pepper back.” You manage Titus's personal cellphone and his father recently sent him a bunch of potential matches for marriage.
Titus went out with one of them as a formality but hated being there. It meant he wasn't with you that day and he hates not being with you. Everyone else in his world is dull and power-hungry.
You're a breath of fresh air.
Except when you push him away from you. “She seemed really nice. She sent the yummiest fruit basket to the apartment. I was just thinking about it since these fruits are just as yummy.”
Titus digs his spoon into the smoothie bowl the two of you are sharing because he didn't want to get his own and you offered to share yours with him so he could try it. The fruits are good, in season, ripe, sweet. Like how he imagines you must taste.
“You do realize if I get married, you'd be out of a job.” Titus is harsher with his words than he intends but he can't hide his annoyance that you don't view him as someone of interest. You never look flustered around him.
Not even when he pulls you towards him by wrapping his arms around your waist so that someone doesn't bump into you as they run by. His hands linger at your sides. You don't seem startled at all that he's touching you.
“Oh my goodness, that person almost rammed into me!” You catch your breath, your heart racing. “Thanks, Titus.”
You pat him gently on the chest, then look up at his face. He almost flinches when you reach up and cup his jaw with your hand. He almost expects you to lean up and kiss him.
But instead, you wipe a bit of smoothie off the corner of his lip and then proceed to lick it off your thumb. “You had a little drip. Can't have you walking around with—”
Titus can't stand it anymore and just kisses you. His arms hook you in closer to him, locking you to his chest, before his lips crash down onto yours.
You don't know what's going on.
You've never been kissed before.
Is this a kiss? Why is Titus kissing you?
His lips are so soft against yours. You don't know what to do.
Should you kiss him back? But he's your boss…
A weird feeling pangs in your chest. The one you've been avoiding. Ignoring, because you figured it was just silly to imagine that he likes you.
Now that you're getting some proof that he does, maybe even just physically, you're suddenly afraid that everything is going to change. And you don't want things to change. You liked how everything was.
“Titus…” You breathe out against his lips when he finally lets you swallow air again.
You don't have any words to say. You can't form the sentence you want to speak aloud. Because you should tell him not to do that again. That he's your boss and you're his assistant.
But instead, you ask him, “is this why you fired your last assistant?”
Your words catch him by surprise. He wasn't expecting you to ask that of all things right after he kissed you for the first time.
“What are you talking about?” His head is all over the place, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to kiss you again but you're looking at him with such devastation in your eyes. And he can't help but like the look of it.
Because is this not that same envy you had for that influencer?
“Did your last assistant…let you kiss them? Was that in their job description…” Your stomach is doing somersaults and you feel nauseous from the fear that everything is going to change forever. “Because I-I don't know if I can do that if it is.”
“You don't want to kiss me?” Fury causes Titus to dig his nails further into his fist, his palm bleeding.
There was always a chance you didn't like him. That your sweetness was just a facade.
Is that what you're showing him now? That you weren't the genuinely aloof, adorable girl he wants so badly to fuck up?
You glance down at his fist, at the blood dripping from it. “Titus, your hand!”
He watches as you grab a hold of his hand, opening his fist up, seeing the way his nails had dug into his palm.
“Oh no, shit, I knew we should've gotten manicures before we flew here.”
The edges of his nails are all sharp since it's been a while. You were planning on booking one of the resorts’ manicurists to come to the room. You should've thought of this sooner.
You quickly grab some napkins and apply pressure to the cut. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“I just kissed you and you give more of a fuck about my hand?” He yanks his hand out of your hold. “Are you fucking serious?”
Your throat is closing up. This reminds you of when the owner of the restaurant yelled at you. Only this time, it's Titus. And seeing him angry with you scares you to the point where you can't control the tears that are blurring your vision.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” You try to find some words to say but none of them will come out. You're so nervous all of a sudden.
Titus has never seen you like this before. Flustered, scared, anxious, delicious. He wants more of this side of you. The one that you've been hiding under that confident mask of yours.
The girl underneath who wants nothing more than to be spoiled rotten.
Without letting you say anything else, Titus scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the room. You cling onto him, shocked that he's carrying you so easily.
Though, should you be shocked?
You have seen him practically naked before, wearing only his boxers around the apartment. You know he works out because he has a gym set up. You have watched him exercise before.
But for some reason, the thought of him without any clothes on is making your heart flip flop on your chest. You've never felt whatever feeling is stirring inside of you.
Is this…lust?
Titus opens the door to the room and then proceeds to toss you onto the bed. You scramble to sit up, backing up until your back is against the headboard. He climbs onto the bed like a predator stalking its prey until he has you trapped beneath him.
Your heart is going to leap out of your chest at this point. You've never seen Titus look so…hungry before. Like he wants to devour you whole.
“I don't care to wait anymore.” He tells you, looking you up and down like he's planning out how to feast on you. “I don't care if you scream. I don't care if you fight back. I fucking don't care anymore. I'm done waiting for you.”
“Wait, wait, Titus—” You can't stop him from kissing you, his lips sealing over yours, stealing your breath away when he slips his tongue into your mouth. The warmth of it mixing with yours makes you dizzy.
You didn't realize kissing could feel so…hot. You taste the smoothie bowl, that sweet fruit flavor on his tongue. You like it a lot. You like kissing him a lot.
That's why you have to stop him. You can't be doing this. He can't be doing this. He's about to marry someone else. His father will make sure of that. And then you'll just have been some blip in his memory.
That's all you'll be.
And you don't want that.
You want to be able to remember your time with Titus fondly.
“Please, Titus, let me talk.” You beg against his lips.
“I'm not going to stop so don't waste your breath.” He goes to kiss down your jaw, to the column of your neck, placing a bite right in the center that stings and shoots a tingle down to your core, something you've never felt before.
“I don't want you to stop.” Your words flip a switch in his head and he lifts up from your neck to look at you, confused.
That wasn't what he was expecting. Nor was he expecting the tears that are welling up in your eyes. They aren't from fear.
They're…from sadness.
Longing to be specific.
Yearning, more like it.
“But you need to know if we do this, you're going to break my heart.” You go to wipe the tears that spill from your eyes with your hands. “So if you want to do this, we can. But it will hurt me more than you will ever know.”
“Why?” He doesn't understand.
How can he break your heart when he doesn't even have it yet?
You cup his face, pulling him up towards you so you can lay your forehead against his, before you tell him, “because I know I'm just one of many people you've done this with. You like me now, sure, but there's no guarantee that'll last. And you can't promise me it will. I won't believe you. But…”
You let out a sigh, before you lean in and press a kiss on his lips. He's so stunned to feel you kiss him.
He's even more stunned when you tell him, “I don't mind if you break my heart. I just want you to be aware that you will.”
You give him a soft smile, like you always do, and it burns a hole in his chest.
“You aren't one of many.” He knows that to be a fact. He has never wanted to spend time with anyone like he has with you.
“Then tell me about the person before me. Did you kiss them too?” You know the answer from the look on his face but you want him to say it.
“I didn't have a personal assistant before you.” That's the honest truth.
But you know it's not the full truth. “Who did you have before me?”
“She was just a maid.”
“Will I be “just a personal assistant” one day?” Your words make him ache in ways he never thought possible.
“No.” He shakes his head. He doesn't want you to just be a personal assistant to him.
He wants you.
“Did you break her heart?”
“We just fucked. That's it. I didn't feel anything for her.” The words slip from his lips and you catch them.
“You feel something for me?” So this isn't just physical. What is it then?
“You have to understand.” Titus won't hold himself back anymore. “You are never going to be able to leave me. I would rather kill you than let anyone else have you.”
“Then kill me.” You pull his hands up to wrap around your throat, wanting him to squeeze. “Because I'd rather die than know one day, you'll leave me for someone else. For another pretty girl who caught your eye. I'd rather die than witness someone else having you after I've gotten a taste.”
“Then why did you push me towards Pepper?”
“That was before I knew you felt the same way about me that I do about you.”
You can't help yourself. You lean in and kiss him again, just so you can remember the feeling of his lips on yours before you die. Those soft lips. How you yearn to feel them all over your skin.
But the moment you do, your heart will surely shatter.
“I don't want anyone else but you.” He says so clearly that you almost believe him.
“Maybe for right now.” You brush your nose against his, that playfulness still shining through even in your despair. “But you should be honest with yourself. You don't want a relationship with me. I know you don't.”
You don't know how to explain it. But you're sure Titus doesn't want you to be his girlfriend. Or his wife.
He just wants you to be his.
And you can do that.
You can be his.
But it will hurt you tremendously in the process.
Is he willing to do that to you?
Titus moves his hands off of your neck and then gets up from the bed, straightening himself out. Then, he goes to the phone at the desk, dialing the front desk.
“I need another room.” He says to the receptionist, who is fully aware of all the rooms he has booked. “Either one that connects or a suite with two bedrooms. Just pick one and send the keycards here.”
“Right away, Mr. Danforth.” They hang up and before you have time to process what's happening, there's a knock on the door.
Titus grabs the new keycards and goes to pack your things up back into your suitcase and then he does his own. You're sitting there, stunned.
Because you realize he wanted to sleep next to you. That's why he booked this room in particular. There were rooms available. But he wanted to share a bed with you, so he convinced you there weren't.
And now, he doesn't anymore.
Because hurting you is something he can't do, for some reason.
He liked seeing you shy and flustered but hurt…that didn't spark what he thought it would inside of him. What it usually does inside of him.
When he gathers everything, he tells you, “come on, let's go to our new rooms.”
“Titus…” You're speechless for once. You normally have a quip of some kind but…you don't right now.
“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. You can't mean anything to me and I would be a fucking idiot to think you could. I was just thinking with my cock. It won't happen again.” Titus gestures for you to take your bags. “Now come on, we have a resort to check out. Let's get to work.”
And that's all it is.
Work.
Because that's all it will ever be, right?
“A little birdie told me something interesting.” Ursula smiles that wicked grin of hers at Titus, while they're having brunch at the Danforth Resort together. “You haven't fucked your personal assistant yet. It's been over a year. I find that impressive, Titus.”
“Who the fuck would tell you something like that?” He rolls his eyes at her.
She's telling the truth, though. He hasn't fucked you. He hasn't even kissed you since that time.
“Your housekeepers will do anything for a little extra cash.” She only had to add a bit more to their checks to get them to spill the details about you and Titus. “From what I hear, your personal assistant is more like a roommate you pay. And you don't even fuck her. That's just weird.”
“It's weird that you give a fuck about who I'm fucking.”
Ursula shrugs. “I give more of a fuck that you've been acting like an asshole because you're all pent up. Just go fuck one of the people you have on speed dial and get it over with already.”
“Okay, I will.” He leaves the table then, done with this brunch.
But he doesn't go to one of the many fuckbuddies he has.
He just goes straight home to you.
Because he doesn't want to fuck anyone.
It's like there's something wrong with him. If he isn't thinking about you, he can't get hard. His body won't let him fuck anyone else.
But maybe that's his heart getting in the way.
You and him have found that rhythm from before again, albeit with a slight change. You do get flustered whenever he touches you now. And you don't touch him as casually as you used to anymore. He likes that you're finally seeing him as a man. But he hates that you no longer feel relaxed around him.
You apologize a lot more now. You aren't as playful because you're nervous you'll say something you shouldn't.
It's killing him inside.
Especially on days like today, where you seem like you're back to the way you were before, smiling at him when he gets home, “welcome back! How was brunch?”
“Horrible.” He pulls off his dress shirt, tossing it into the hamper.
You hand him one of the softer shirts he wears at home and he slips it on. He catches the way your eyes linger on his body for a second before you shake your head, like you're trying to shake away the thoughts you were having.
You distract yourself by asking, “did you bring me that pastry?”
“Fuck, I forgot.” He was in a rush to leave.
Usually when he goes to brunch with Ursula at the Danforth Resort, you would beg him to get this one pastry for you since it's a specialty dessert there. He always got it for you, so he could watch you happily devour it.
“Oh it's okay!” You wave him off. “No big deal. I will just dream about it until next time.”
“We can go right now.”
You look at him like he's gone crazy. “You just drove back. It's alright. I don't mind waiting.”
Waiting. Titus hates that fucking word.
He hates waiting. He hates it so much. He hates that he has to wait and wait and wait until everything falls into place so that he can have even the slightest chance of being with you. Of making you his, forever.
You seem content to wait but he doesn't know for how long.
He knows you've been looking for another job.
He knows you've been talking with other men.
Sure, they're "just friends” of yours but…he can't stand it.
He can't take another day of waiting for you to be his.
He needs this to work.
Titus cannot live without you.
So, he waits for everything to align exactly the way he needs it to.
Then, he will make you his.
But plans never do go the way he thinks.
Because you've caught the eye of a certain member of the High Council.
“Ignacio?” You see him at one of the events Titus brings you to and he comes rushing up to you, giving you a big hug.
Something that makes Titus's jaw tighten.
“Now where have you been, mi cielito?” He swings you around, making you giggle. “I have missed having you serve me. Opulence has declined since you left.”
“I got fired.” You tell him as he sets you down.
“They fired you? But doesn't Titus—”
When Ignacio meets Titus's deadly glare, he doesn't say another word.
Instead, he clears his throat and goes, “well, regardless, they were sorely mistaken in choosing to let you go.”
“If I knew you'd be here, I would've brought you something.” You used to bring him cute little charms for his guns.
“What are you doing here? I heard Titus had a personal assistant but I had no idea it would be you. How did you two meet?”
“It's a funny story.” You say with that soft giggle of yours.
Titus is learning right now that you show that side of yourself to others. Not just him. Ignacio seems well versed in how precious you can be, his eyes roaming your body. He must like how gorgeous you look in the designer dress Titus picked out for you for this event.
“Would you like a drink? I'd love to hear about it.” As much as Ignacio wouldn't want to light any fury in Titus, he has missed the chats you two used to have so he is willing to risk it.
Titus opens his mouth to answer for you but then you go, “oh sure! Titus, you don't mind right? I'll be right back!”
Of course he minds. Of course he fucking minds. You're not supposed to want to spend time with anyone except for him.
And yet you're choosing Ignacio? Over him?
He can't stop you from walking away. He can't stop you from smiling at Ignacio as you hook your arm in his, doing that affectionate cheek rub against his shoulder, making Ignacio pinch your nose in response. You laugh so beautifully as the two of you chat about something Titus is too far away to hear.
Ignacio touches you so casually, like the two of you have a deeper relationship. But you told Titus you never dated before.
But you never told him if you ever fucked someone before.
From the way Ignacio is holding your hip with one hand and his drink in the other, Titus can't help but imagine that you aren't the innocent girl he thought you were. Especially when you smile all bashfully before placing your hand against Ignacio's chest, using your finger to draw little circles over where his heart is.
“I think your boss wants me dead.” Ignacio whispers to you. “You shouldn't glance over there. You'll see quite the death glare.”
“He won't do anything to you, don't worry.” You know Titus won't.
“I heard a rumor about you.” He has been meaning to ask, since now he knows you're Titus's personal assistant. “You haven't slept with him. Is that true?”
“Is that…surprising?”
Ignacio shrugs. “He is quite fond of the help, from what I hear. Fond of firing them too, when he's done with them.”
That you are well aware of. You've seen it before. Titus fired all of his housekeeping staff recently and hired brand new ones, who only come when you and him aren't at the apartment at all. You still don't know why he did that but you don't ask. It isn't your place to.
“If you need a job, I have many places you can work. Just give me a call anytime.” Ignacio puts his hand out and you give him your phone, letting him add his personal number to it. “I should let you go back to your boss now. Adiós, mi cielito.”
Ignacio kisses you on the temple before heading over to say hello to another set of patrons at the event. You make your way back to Titus, who has maintained his glare this whole time.
The question he asks you when you're back by his side startles you. “Have you fucked him?”
“What?” You raise an eyebrow at Titus, shocked he'd ask you something like that.
“I said, have you fucked Ignacio?” His tone grows harsher. “Answer me.”
“I have not fucked anyone.” You scoff, setting your drink down. You haven't even taken a sip and now you definitely don't want to.
Because you know the moment your inhibitions drop, you'll say something you really don't want to.
But then Titus goes, “I bet you want to fuck him.”
And you can't hold it in anymore. “Why do you care? I'm just the help. Though apparently you always fuck the help so maybe I'm not even that to you.”
You have never snapped at Titus like this before. That's why he has no idea what to say. He didn't think you had it in you to feel any kind of jealousy. You normally are so chill, even when he talks to other people.
Have you been harboring envy this whole time?
You hate to admit that. You hate when your mind trails to the fact that he has been with other people and that he will be with other people after you. That you aren't anything but this weird pastime of his for right now.
But that ends today.
You can't keep doing this.
You can't keep pretending like you can stay by his side and nothing has changed.
“I'm going to work for Ignacio.” You tell him straight up, even though you haven't formally agreed to anything. “So, you can go and hire some other person and fuck them because I do not want to be here when you inevitably do. I'm leaving to pack my things.”
But he doesn't let you leave. Not without him.
Titus grabs you by the arm and drags you out to the underground parking lot, where he has his car parked for the event.
“Let go of me!” You tug at him but he won't budge. “Titus!”
“Shut the fuck up!” He yells right in your face and you're so taken back that you can't speak. He has never yelled at you like that before.
It makes your heart race in ways you've never felt before.
He opens the backseat of his car and tosses you inside. Then, he gets in and shuts the door behind him, climbing on top of you.
You should've guessed what would happen next but you're still shocked when his lips come crashing down onto yours as his hands slide up your legs, hiking up your skirt. You gasp against his lips when he rips off your underwear, tossing it aside.
“Wait, wait—” Your pleas are silenced by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth to hold it hostage. You can't breathe. You're getting lightheaded.
It only gets worse when you feel his thumb trail down your bare pussy, a feeling you've never felt before. You squirm, shoving at him, trying to close your legs but he has your thighs pinned down with his knees.
You're trapped beneath him.
You're at his mercy.
You can't let him do this.
You'll never be able to leave if you do.
You pull his face off of you and he snarls like a rabid animal in response but you have to get your words out, “please don't do this. You don't want this. You don't want me. You know you don't.”
He lets out the most menacing laugh you've ever heard before he responds, “that's where you're wrong. All I have ever wanted was you. All I want is to do this with you. How dare you try to leave me. Don't fucking try to stop me now because you're never getting away from me.”
“For how long, though?” Your words freeze him in place. “Titus, I don't want to do this if you're just going to fuck someone else later. Let me go, please.”
“What will it take for you to believe that I only want you?” Because he can't let you go. He can't.
You're everything to him.
He'd rather die than ever let you go.
What will it take, though?
Horrible, sinful, ugly things cross your mind. Thoughts of you caging him as much as he wants to cage you.
You both falling into the trap that is one another.
“Stop right now and wait until I'm ready.” You lean up, pressing your forehead against his. “Because I will be ready. But I don't want our first time together to be in a car after a fight. Please, sir.”
You're playing dirty, pulling that out now. But it satisfies Titus enough to nod.
“I want to kiss and touch you whenever I want.” That is his only ask as part of this deal. “I will wait to fuck you as long as you promise you won't go.”
“Okay.” You press a kiss against his lips, one that he immediately leans into, savoring. You smile then breathe out, your warm breath like heaven on his lips, “I'm not going anywhere. I promise, sir.”
“No talking to other men. No looking for other jobs. You sleep in my bed from now on. You aren't allowed to think of leaving me.” He nips at your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in hard enough to make it bleed. “Got it?”
You lick your lips, tasting the iron, then you lean in, biting his lip until he bleeds, before you kiss him, mixing yours with his. Then, you tell him with a little brush of your nose against his, “as long as you do the same. You're mine, Titus.”
He lets out that dark chuckle of his, the one that he has been keeping in, the sinister laugh that is flooding his system with the darkness he has been dying to let out.
“I am going to fuck you up.” His devilish grin sends such a thrill through you.
“Only me, okay?” You don't want him to look at anyone else like this.
“Only you. You're my obsession.” His gaze trails down the length of your body and he groans at the sight of your pussy, his cock wanting to sink inside of you right now.
Titus settles for burying his face between your legs. You try to push him away, “Titus! What are you—”
“Keep your voice down.” He instructs, his hot breath tickling your clit. “Unless you want people to know I'm eating you out in my car right now.”
“Can't we wait until we're home?” Your words make him smile.
So, you consider his apartment home.
He likes that a lot.
“I'm done waiting.” He says right as he drags the length of his tongue along your folds, making your whole body shudder. His hand slides down to knead his cock through his pants, which is getting terribly hard at the sight of you trembling from his touch. “You taste exactly how I thought you would.”
“I've never done this before.” You're scared. It feels so intense, his tongue swirling around your clit, the stimulation shooting sparks straight to your core.
Tension is building inside of you, coiling in your lower stomach, threatening to burst.
“You've never cum before?” Titus grip his cock harder when you nod in response.
He will have to lock you up in the apartment from now on.
Because if you have never tasted pleasure before, if he is your first everything, how is he supposed to ever let you out of his sight?
He needs to corrupt you. He needs you begging for him to make you cum once you've grown addicted to it.
But first, he needs to show you how good it feels.
“Put your hands in my hair.” He commands and you listen, lacing your fingers through his curls. “Now listen carefully. Whenever I do something you like, you tug or I won't know, okay?”
“I don't want to hurt you.” You let out in a quiet little murmur that he finds so precious.
Because he wants to fuck you up even more now.
His sweet little innocent girl.
“That's not how you answer me.” He takes a bite out of your thigh as punishment, making you yelp from the sudden sting. “Do it right. Are you going to pull my hair when you feel good?
“Yes, sir.” You immediately tug when he dives back in, thrusting his tongue deep inside of you. You've never felt anything like this before. “Oh my—”
You can't breathe when his hand slides between your legs, his thumb swiping over your clit as his tongue ravishes your insides. You're pulling so hard on his hair, holding him there, the pleasure building so quickly that you're feeling like you're going to explode.
“Wait, wait, Titus, I'm going to—” You squirm when his fingers start playing with your clit, which is getting firmer from his touch, easier for him to rub methodically.
The tip of his tongue presses up against that spot right beneath your clit inside of you, teasing it back and forth, and your body gushes.
You bite down on your lip as hard as possible when your orgasm crashes through you, flooding every inch of your skin with an unfamiliar heat. It's like your core has been set ablaze, warmth pooling between your legs that Titus is lapping up with his tongue.
“Good job.” He praises you, seeing how hard you came for your first time. “You even squirted a little.”
“Sorry.” You feel so embarrassed.
“I hate it when you say sorry.” Titus leans back in, sealing his lips around your clit then starts sucking on it, pulling a scream from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
“Titus! Stop, I just came, you can't—” You cum again before you can get any more words out, your vision going blurry.
“Your clit is throbbing.” He flicks it with his tongue, your body convulsing in response. “That was your punishment for saying sorry. All I want to hear is “thank you for making me cum, sir”.”
He waits for you to say it. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ears right now that you're unsure if you heard him correctly.
But you say it perfectly, “thank you for making me cum, sir.”
“Good girl.” He pulls you towards him, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pokes your nose with his before telling you, “now we're going to go home and I'm going to do that again. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” You nod. Then, you don't stop yourself from giving him a peck on the lips.
And Titus knows, in that moment, that he wants to see this look on your face everyday.
With that heat in your gaze that will only ever be for him.
The drive home is unbelievably uncomfortable because you're so wet between your legs and every bump in the road tortures your swollen clit. Not having any underwear on makes it way worse.
Then there's the traffic. So much traffic.
It's going to take forever to get home.
Titus glances over at you and he can't help the smile that forms when he sees you squirming. He really likes seeing you all hot and bothered.
That's why he decides to have a little more fun. So he turns to you and says, “hold up your skirt.”
“What?” You don't know if you heard him right.
“I said hold up your skirt. Do it now.”
“Titus…” You glance around.
You know the windows of the car are tinted but you both are stuck in bumper to bumper traffic right now. There's cars on all sides of you. Someone is bound to see your bare pussy if they happen to look in.
“I'll punish you with something worse if you don't listen.” He makes his threat and you swallow. You're unsure if you can handle another one of his punishments…
“Okay, okay.” You grab the hem of your dress with both hands and lift it past your hips.
“Have you ever touched yourself before?” He asks, his eyes darting between the highway and your pussy, one hand still on the wheel, the other hand unzipping his pants. His cock is going to burst out if he doesn't give it some relief soon.
You confess. “Not really. I've never really been interested in sex until…now.”
If Titus could pull over right here and fuck you, he would. You gulp when he turns to look at you, his gaze more intense than you've ever seen it.
“Why don't you try right now?” He pulls his cock out of his pants and you see it for the first time.
Technically, you have seen the outline of his cock many times before, since Titus likes to, on occasion, walk around in just his boxer briefs at the apartment. There was one day that you saw the tip of his cock peeking out but you tore your eyes away before they lingered too long.
Now, your eyes are locked on it, on the way his large hand barely wraps around it as he strokes it up and down. Your mind is going fuzzy at the thought that he's this hard because of you. That his cock is leaking pre-cum because of you. That he's touching himself to the sight of you touching yourself, your fingers teasing your clit like he had earlier.
“Dip your fingers inside of your pussy then rub your clit. It'll feel better.” He instructs.
You do as he says, gathering some of your slick onto the pads of your fingers and sliding back up to your clit. You let out a moan when you start to swirl those methodical circles like Titus had. It does feel much better.
“Thank you, sir.” You tell him and he groans in response, gripping his cock harder. His other hand is gripping the steering wheel so hard that you can see the whites of his knuckles.
“Cum with me.” He's getting close.
And he cums when you reply, “yes, sir.”
His release hits the dashboard and the steering wheel. He hasn't cum that hard in months. He could cum again from the sight of his leather seats slick with your release. He wishes he was between your legs instead of stuck in traffic right now.
You quickly open the glove box, pulling out the car wipes you keep in there, since you occasionally clean Titus's car as one of your work tasks. You quickly clean up for him.
Then, when you're done, you look down at his throbbing cock and Titus catches you licking your lips.
Before he can say anything, you ask him, “can I clean you up?”
“What if someone sees?” He says playfully, smirking.
You feel a rush of heat spread through you. You don't know what you would do if someone saw you with him in your mouth while he's driving. But you definitely want to do it.
“It's okay.” You decide you don't care because, “you wouldn't let them live if they saw.”
Titus lets out that sinister laugh of his, amused by your words. “I always knew you were a smart girl.”
You unbuckles your seatbelt and proceed to bend over until your face is right above his cock.
“Come closer.” He urges you to get on your knees on the seat, pulling your body closer to him. Then, you jolt when his hand slides down the length of your back, pulling up your dress until your ass is exposed. Then, he sinks two fingers into your pussy from this angle without warning.
“Wait, Titus—” Now, if anyone looks through the passenger side window, they have a clear view of him fingering you.
“It's okay.” He smiles mischievously. “I'll kill anyone who dares to look, remember? Just focus on cleaning me up.”
You turn your attention back to his cock, which is surprisingly still hard. You don't know what to do, especially when his fingers are thrusting inside of you, spreading you open in ways you didn't know possible. They're terribly distracting, pushing you closer and closer to your next orgasm.
You drag your tongue along the tip of his cock, licking up any leftover cum that's still leaking out. He rewards you by curling his fingers inside of you, making your hips buck.
“Put me in your mouth and I'll make you cum real hard.” He teases that spot inside of you, your body trembling in response.
You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock then sink down, letting him fill your mouth. You can't fit him all the way in. You barely make it halfway. But that's enough for him to reward you.
“Suck and lick me clean while you cum.” He then starts to move his fingers side to side rapidly, sending you into a frenzy from the sudden roughness.
You cum uncontrollably, drenching your legs as you suck his cock, your tongue swirling around while you do. You moan with your full mouth when Titus pops his fingers out of you. You pull off of him and help settle him back inside his pants.
“Come here and kiss me.” He gestures for you to kiss him, since he needs to focus on the road still.
You press a kiss against his lips then sit back down, buckling in again. Then you turn to look at him, watching him lick his wet fingers clean. That makes heat pool at core again.
“Did that feel good?” He has both hands on the wheel again, now that the bumper to bumper traffic has stopped.
“Yes, sir.” You say bashfully, your cheeks growing warm.
You've never felt anything like this before. But you want to do it again. The pleasure is incredible. The thrill is addictive.
But a strange pain pricks you inside.
You try to ignore it but it picks at you the entire rest of the ride home.
Titus is so eager to kiss you the moment the two of you are home alone but when he goes to do so, you do not seem to match his energy. You kiss him back, sure, but not with the passion he had hoped.
“What's wrong?” He cups your face with his hands, feeling how fast your pulse is.
“I don't know.” You can't quite put words to what's bothering you.
Maybe you're just overwhelmed. So much has happened. It's going to take a while to adjust to the new rhythm of things.
But you have a feeling that isn't what's lingering in your heart.
“Titus.” You say his name when your eyes meet his.
He likes the sound of his name from your lips, but not when you sound so sad. It makes him feel something in the pit of his stomach he'd like not to feel.
“Have you done that with anyone before?” You know then what is tainting your heart.
It is that ugly envy again. The fear that you are just another one of his playthings. Or worse, a hole for him to fuck and throw away.
At least before, you were like a companion. Like a glorified pet. You didn't mind that because you knew no one else had ever been that for him before.
This, whatever relationship you are in now, is something else entirely and you are afraid you've just fallen into a position that can be filled by anyone.
You yearn to feel special but you don't know if Titus wants to make you feel special.
You're about to learn the truth.
When he picks you up and carries you into his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed. His sheets smell like him. Like the expensive soap in his shower and the cologne he likes to wear. It makes your heart ache.
Like his words do, “do you think I'd do that for anyone?”
Your throat is so dry all of a sudden. Swallowing your saliva brings no relief. You're so choked up from the fear.
You just mumble out, “I don't know.”
“I have never waited to fuck anyone in my life.” He climbs over you, trapping you beneath him. “If you were just a hole to me, I would've sunk my cock into you on your first day.”
“Then what am I to you?” You ask even though you know he can't give you an answer.
How can he? Titus could never marry you. Not with the kind of fucked up family he has.
So, what are you to him?
“Does it matter?” He doesn't want to put a label on this.
“I don't know.” You don't like answering like that but it's the truth. You don't know if or why it matters to you.
“You're mine. I'm yours. Isn't that enough?” He owns you and you own him. Mutual destruction.
“What if…” You whisper the next part because the nerves make your stomach twist, “I get greedy?”
“How greedy?” Titus likes this. This sudden turn.
At first, he was worried you'd try to run from this again and shove him away. But right now, you are pulling him in and not wanting to let him go.
“Have you…ever had a baby with anyone?” You ask because you're unsure. He could have children out there he has no clue about.
The chuckle that leaks from his lips sends shivers down your spine. “Are you planning to baby trap me?”
“You asked me how greedy…so I told you.” You may not be able to be his in any kind of official capacity but being the mother of his only child would put you on a pedestal that you can never be removed from.
“I've never fucked anyone without protection.” He refuses to stick his cock into anyone raw. There's too much risk.
There's no risk with you, his beautiful virgin who has never had anyone but him touch you.
“Are you going to wear a condom with me?” His answer to this question will tell you everything you need to know.
“The moment I get to sink my cock into your pussy, it's going in raw.” He smiles at how your expression shifts from that worry to delight. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir.” You pull him in for a kiss, sealing your words. “I would like that very much.”
“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” He's already raring to go again right now, his cock aching to be buried inside of you.
It's your turn to chuckle, letting him hear that laugh that is like music to his ears. “I didn't realize Mister Almost Trillionaire can't keep it in his pants. You want to fuck me that bad?”
“Desperately.” He finally allows himself to admit out loud.
“I don't want it to hurt.” You heard the first time always hurts.
“It won't.” Titus will prepare you well.
“Then, whenever you want, we can.” You press a little kiss on his cheek. “Just not tonight.”
He huffs out an annoyed breath. “What the fuck? Such a tease.”
“I want to sleep with you tonight. Just sleep. Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want. But tonight, I want to just lay and cuddle. Is that okay, sir?” You bat your eyelashes at him and he lets out a laugh in response.
“You know just how to push me.” He picks you back up into his arms. “You're getting in the shower with me. We're going to cuddle naked.”
“I'm okay with that.” You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his nice cologne. “As long as we get to cuddle. I've always wanted to cuddle.”
“Is that the greed spilling out?” He asks as he opens the door to his lavish bathroom.
“Can I be more greedy?” You rub your cheek against his shoulder like you used to once he sets you back on your feet. “Please, sir?”
“What do you want?” He should not let you influence him so easily but it's hard when you're acting so cute.
“A hug.” You open your arms, since you and Titus have never hugged before.
He doesn't even think he has ever hugged anyone. Not like actually. He doesn't like casual touching after all. You've never tried to hug him.
But you want to now.
Titus steps forward, wrapping his arms around you and you smile all giddy, rubbing your face against his chest as you squeeze him with your arms. His heart is racing in his chest. He didn't know it was possible to find someone so adorable before.
“Now pick me up.” You beam a big smile at him as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Come on, please!”
He glares at you. You are getting bold. But he listens, picking you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. You giggle so beautifully, laying your head against his shoulder.
“I've always wanted to do this.” You pepper his neck with kisses before trailing up to his lips, giving him a little affectionate peck there. “Thank you, Titus.”
Oh, he's fucked. He's actually so fucked. Because he thought he would be the one fucking you up.
But here you are, being the brightest ball of sunshine he has ever experienced, melting his icy soul with a warmth he has never ever thought possible.
He might just fall in love with you…
Much to your surprise, Titus does not fuck you the next day. Actually, he doesn't even touch you, at least not sexually. He grabs a hold of your hand to tug you towards him for a hug. He kisses you. He cuddles you in bed or on the couch. But nothing more than that.
You don't ask why. You like these more intimate moments. But it's making it harder and harder not to fall in love with him.
You know it's silly, though, to think you could ever be his love. Everyone around Titus believes he's incapable of love.
Do you believe that?
You're…unsure about that.
If anything, you think he is very capable of love but he would never admit it. He would never tell anyone that he has all your favorite things memorized. He would never let anyone find out that he knows everything there is to know about you, like what makes you laugh or how much he loves your laugh.
Or how much he loves you.
He loves you.
He does.
He realizes that on the private jet ride to another resort, this time tucked away in the mountains, with a private hot spring in each of the luxury cabins.
You're going over the itinerary you put together, since you're very excited to go on a little vacation now that you and Titus are being more affectionate. Since it's in a more secluded place with little to no reception, he feels safe about just being himself. It's a resort meant for relaxation and restoration so no phone use allowed anyways.
And he knows he loves you because he's excited to spend quality time focused solely on you.
Because that must be what love is, right?
To want someone all the time, to want to be with them all the time.
“What are you most excited about, Titus?” You ask him once you finish reading off your list.
He can't really tell you that he's excited to fuck you every night this week until you're unable to walk so he just says, “it'll be nice to soak in the hot spring.”
You giggle, nodding in agreement. “Me too. I like that it's private so we can cuddle out in the open.”
Or fuck. He really needs to fuck you.
He can't wait any longer.
Titus hasn't touched you since that day. He doesn't really know why. He just figured he wanted to enjoy being affectionate with you for a bit. The kisses, the hugs, the cuddling, they all have been better than he thought. He never realizes it could be like this with someone. He feels so at ease around you. You make it easy to be himself.
You aren't afraid of his darker tendencies at all. You don't mind that he glares at the concierge for staring at you for a little too long. You aren't repulsed by his need to keep you close to him now that he is allowed to keep an arm around you at all times.
You quite enjoy being the object of his obsession. You have never felt so special before.
You wish this could last forever.
So, you have a little gift for Titus. One that took a lot of maneuvering to hide from him, since he hasn't let you out of his sight for very long these last few days.
You aren't sure when you want to give it to him but when the two of you step into the beautiful hotel room, you decide the sooner the better. You want to see him wear it right away.
“Titus, I have something for you.” You open your suitcase and pull out a flat velvet box you had been hiding from him.
He stares at it, not knowing how the hell you managed to buy something without him knowing. You are a sneaky girl, aren't you?
“What the fuck? Who did you bribe to buy that for you?” That must've been it.
“I'm not telling!” You knew he'd think that. “Just open it!”
You hand him the box and he scoffs. He can't believe you got him a gift. He should've gotten you something. He definitely will now. He can't have you get the last laugh.
But he hears your beautiful giggle when he opens it and shock colors his features.
Inside the box is a necklace delicately woven with thick black thread. In the center is a cute note attached that says: to the threads that bind us ♡
Then, you show him the matching necklace you're wearing around your neck.
And he has never kissed you so quickly before.
You smile against his lips, saying in between kisses, “I assume you like it.”
“Did you make this?” You must've. That's the only way you could've snuck it by him.
You nod. “It's a super high quality thread, waterproof, last longing, the works. You saw me order it. You probably thought it was just for my sewing stuff.”
Titus definitely remembers you ordering it but he assumed it was just a restock of whatever threads you already had. He had no clue you were making something in secret.
“Sneaky.” He chuckles, and he finds it strange how authentic it is.
He hasn't laughed like that in a long time. Without fear of being seen as weak. It's a real, deep from the soul kind of laugh. One of happiness.
Maybe that's why the words leave his lips, “I love you.”
Because maybe, deep down, he wants to sabotage this. He wants you to rip out his heart and stomp on it so that he can never trust anyone ever again enough to show weakness. Because that would make him a Danforth.
But you blink back tears of joy and say to him, “I love you too, Titus.”
And in that moment, he realizes he isn't a Danforth.
He's just Titus.
And Titus is in love with you.
“I want to marry you.” His words catch you by surprise.
“What?” You never thought he'd ever say that. “Your father would…”
“I know.” He knows it's not possible, but not for the reasons you think.
Titus loves you too much to subject you to the trials of what it means to become a part of his family. The dirty, dark, fucked up secret he's keeping. The one he will tell you about one day, but not today.
Today, he wants to tell you, “I just wanted you to know that I want to. And I hope that's enough.”
You smile that lovely smile that has his heart racing. “More than enough. I want to marry you too.”
You untie the necklace and Titus holds still while you secure the knot around his neck. The two of you may never wear rings, but you will always be bound together.
“Now, can I please fuck you?” Titus cannot hold back anymore.
You giggle and then playfully say, “what would you do if I said no?”
“I might just pin you down and take you anyways.” It's a real threat because he is done with waiting.
“Can you wait just a little longer?” You bat your eyelashes at him, making him groan. “Just until we've unpacked and soaked in the hot spring once. Then, I'm all yours. But I know if we dive right in, we're not leaving that bed and I'd like to enjoy the amenities a bit before the love of my life fucks me silly.”
“The love of your life.” Titus grabs you and kisses you right then and there, the hunger in his kisses very apparent. “How the fuck do you expect me to keep it together?”
“I don't know, sir.” You giggle, brushing your nose against his cutely. “I guess you just have to figure it out.”
He growls, low, angry, menacingly. “You're on thin ice, love.”
“I can't wait to fall in then.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for another kiss that he instantly melts into.
Titus hates that you take your sweet ass time unpacking. He knows you're doing it on purpose too. Like you're just sitting there, sorting your toiletries. You've never done that before.
He knows you're just doing it to stall because you like riling him up. You will grow to regret testing him like this.
But he is patient. He is waiting so patiently because he knows the moment you're in bed with him, his cock is not leaving your pussy for the next week.
Maybe the next month.
Maybe the next year.
He could reserve this place for that long if he wanted to.
Maybe he will. Why not?
He's one of the richest men in the world.
He can spend his money however he wants.
“Are you coming in or not?” You call out to Titus, who is obviously lost in his own thoughts. You know you've teased him to the breaking point now.
Which is why you pull off all your clothes while he's watching before getting into the hot spring.
Titus practically rips his clothes off to join you and you laugh so hard when he grabs you and pulls you onto his lap the moment he gets into the water. He is desperate to touch your skin to his skin like this, his cock throbbing against your lower stomach.
“I could fuck you right now.” He whispers into your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You're making it very difficult not to.”
“You promised me you would make sure it wouldn't hurt.” You don't want him to rush this.
“It won't hurt.” He's going to make you cum plenty before his cock does.
You hug him and then say into the crook of his neck, “I am a little scared…”
And, for some reason, Titus holds onto you a little tighter when you say that.
“What are you scared of?” He starts rubbing small circles on your back, trying to comfort you.
He has never comforted someone before. But he wants to for you.
“You might be too big.” You feel a little flustered saying that out loud. “Like, are you really going to fit?”
He groans then slaps your ass, making you shriek. “You scared the fuck out of me! That's what you're worried about?”
“It's a valid worry.” You squint at him. “Have you ever taken a cock that big?”
“I never take it.” He says with a smirk and you chuckle then smack his chest.
“See! You don't get it. It's intimidating…” You glance downwards, highly aware of how deep his cock would go inside of you when it does.
“It will be fine.” He leans in, kissing you on the cheek. “I promise, love.”
“I trust you, sir.” You lay your head back on his shoulder.
“You'll end up enjoying how big I am.” He'll get you to crave being filled up with his cock.
“I hope so.” Your words make his cock twitch. “It felt really good to cum. I bet it'll be even better to cum together.”
“You're killing me.” He grunts against your skin, digging his teeth into your shoulder because he needs some kind of relief. “I want to fuck you so badly.”
“Hopefully it's worth the wait.” You are a tad bit worried about being boring in bed. You're sure Titus has preferences you can't quite live up to yet.
“You are worth the wait.” Titus pulls you in closer, kissing you softly. It's the softest kiss he has ever done. So gentle, so sweet. “I don't want to be anywhere but right here with you.”
“Who knew you were such a romantic?” You giggle, hugging him tighter. “I love you so much, Titus.”
Now, he is officially done waiting.
Titus lifts you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauls the two of you out of the hot spring and back inside. He doesn't care how dripping wet he is.
He just needs you sprawled out on the bed in front of him as soon as possible.
He drops you onto the bed, climbing on top of you. You look up at him, and he knows that look in your eye is full of love.
“You have no fucking clue how much I've wanted you under me like this.” Titus stares down at your naked body beneath him, reveling in the sight of how shy and flustered you are. “You're so pretty.”
“Have you always been a flirt?” You giggle and he starts plastering your body with kisses, trying to draw more of that lovely sound from you. “That tickles!”
“Have you always been this cute?” His words warm your heart so much.
“I love you like this.” You tell him, seeing how relaxed he looks, the tension gone from his features. You brush your fingertips along his jaw until you cup his face. “Can we stay like this forever?”
Titus nods, pressing a kiss into your palm to seal his promise. Then, he starts to kiss down the length of your arm, until he reaches your shoulder. From there, he trails lower, to your chest. You bite back a sound when he drags his tongue over each of your nipples, which have perked up already.
“I've been waiting to do that and this.” He says before he takes one of them between his teeth, nibbling just enough to send shivers all over you. “Feel good?”
You nod. “Yes, sir.”
“It'll feel better with my fingers inside of you.” He nudges you to lay on your side, facing him. He spreads your legs, his hand slipping between them, groaning when he feels how wet you are for him already. “Is this for me?”
“Only for you, sir.” You wrap your arms around his neck, lacing your fingers into his hair, tugging it when he slowly thrusts a finger inside of you. That encourages him to add another, spreading you wide, helping you adjust to the size.
He latches back onto your breasts, playing with your sensitive nipples, swirling around the hard peaks as his fingers curl inside of you, looking for just the right spot to thrust against. You tug his hair when he finds it and moan when he starts to tease it, making you grind your hips against his hand.
“You better do that on my cock.” Titus is barely keeping it together. He wants to be inside of you already. But he promised he wouldn't let it hurt.
So, he needs to make you cum a few times.
You're getting close to your first orgasm already, the dual stimulation inching you closer and closer. Then, when Titus starts to palm your clit, you let go completely, letting the first wave of pleasure take over you.
He keeps his fingers buried inside of you, but starts to kiss down the length of your body. You know what's about to happen next, your hands still in his hair, ready to tug when his lips seal over your clit.
The burst of pleasure distracts you from him adding in another finger, the pressure building inside of you. You're clamping down on his fingers so hard. He wishes it was his cock instead. But he needs you to loosen up a bit more. You won't be able to take him if you're this tight.
“Relax, love.” His hand rests on your lower stomach, rubbing it gently. “You can take it. Just breathe. Focus on your clit.”
Easy for him to say. He isn't the one being pried open. But you close your eyes, tuning your attention to the softness of his tongue and the warmth of his hand on your skin. He eases his fingers deeper inside of you, until he's brushing up against a spot so deep, you start to squirm, tugging at his hair.
“Right here?” He curls his fingers and you squirt in response, finally loosening up, gasping for air.
That was more intense than the last orgasm. And Titus is tempted to tease you more, to thrust his fingers relentlessly right there, to see you convulsing and screaming. But then he sees that adorably flustered look on your face. He wants to enjoy that a little bit longer.
“Now imagine the tip of my cock grinding right here.” He pushes against that spot again, making your lower body shake so much that he has to hold you still with his other hand pinning you down by your stomach. “You'll be cumming like crazy.”
“I don't know if I can handle that.” You feel like you could pass out right now.
“You can. You will. Just enjoy it.” Titus starts to thrust his fingers in and out at a slow pace, letting you get used to the motion.
It feels better than you thought it would, the friction growing more and more intoxicating. You're going to burst at the seams again the moment he curls his fingers. He knows you will.
So, he doesn't. And you don't know how to react to the edging. You've never experienced it before, to be taken so close to the edge but then not all the way. He slows before you can cum then once you've rested enough, picks back up until you're close again.
“Titus, please.” You want to cum, your hips desperately grinding against his fingers but he won't let you.
“Ask properly.” He finally lets out that sadistic smile he has been dying to let free.
He loves seeing you like this. Your skin hot, your breaths heavy, your pussy aching to cum.
“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead exactly the way you figure he'd want you to.
And Titus rewards you well.
Maybe a little too well.
You're screaming his name when his fingers starts to fuck you without any care for how hard you're cumming on them. You try to pull away from him, to run from the sudden onslaught of pleasure but he's holding you steady, not letting you go.
Instead, Titus leans down, his lips sealing over your clit again, and when he lightly sucks on it, you're seeing stars in your vision, the orgasms compounding exponentially.
You don't know if you ever stop cumming. You definitely have soaked the sheets, along with his face. He licks it up happily, like it's his reward for making you cum so much.
You feel a little empty when he pulls his fingers out of you. You feel even more empty when he gets up from bed.
“Where are you going?” You try not to sound too sad but you can't control it.
“Just grabbing some water.” He cracks open one of the water bottles the place provides and brings it back to you, climbing back into bed. “I wasn't going to leave you.”
You didn't think he was but it definitely feels strange, coming down from the high of an orgasm. It's like it sinks all your other feelings down too.
“Come here, love.” He sits up in bed, patting his lap.
You straddle his lap, taking the water bottle he hands you and sipping it. You definitely needed to quench your thirst. Titus wraps his arms around you, pulling you right up against his chest.
Then, he goes, “help me with the water. My hands are full.”
You chuckle, finding this a little silly but you lift the water bottle to his lips and help him drink. You set the empty bottle aside so you can wrap your arms around his neck, laying your head against his chest, just hugging him for a bit.
He rubs your back, trying to soothe any worries you may have had. Thoughts you shouldn't be having cross your mind and he catches the light sigh you breathe into his skin.
“We don't have to have sex tonight.” Titus might actually fucking die if he has to wait any longer but he doesn't want you to be scared.
He wants you to fully enjoy it with him.
But can you, when you keep thinking about…
“Does it bother you that I'm inexperienced?” A part of you is afraid that taking things so slow is a burden. It is, but that's not because of you. That's only because Titus wants to fuck you so badly that taking things slow is killing him.
But he's okay with the slow death.
Because he knows the pay off will be well worth it. “I like that you are.”
“Really?” You don't think Titus would lie to you. At least not right now.
“I like knowing that I'm going to be the only person who ever gets to touch you.” You truly are his in that sense.
“I wish I could say the same about you.” You feel selfish saying that, but you let it out anyways. “I feel strange when I think about you touching other people like you have to me.”
“I haven't touched them like I have with you.” That's the truth.
“What do you mean?” You can't imagine that's right.
“Do you really think I'd go down on just anyone?”
“Well…yeah…”
He glares at you. “And here I thought you didn't judge me.”
“I'm not judging you! I just figured you must like doing it since you're so good at it.” He had to learn from somewhere, right?
“You think I'm good at it?” He pulls you in closer. “Did I make you feel good?”
“Obviously.” You are not going to stroke his ego any more than this. “That's why I feel like…if you made someone else feel like that too, I…”
“If they came on my cock, then they came on my cock. I wasn't fucking them to make them cum. I was fucking them to make myself cum.” Which is fucked up to say out loud but Titus is fucked up and you know that so there's no point in pretending he isn't. “But with you, I want to make you cum. A lot. Especially with my cock.”
“So, that was all for me? You've never done that with anyone else before?” You hate asking but you want the confirmation.
“You're the only one I've ever wanted to touch. You're the only one I've held naked.”
“What?” That surprises you.
“I despise being touched, especially skin on skin.” His words seem a bit ridiculous considering the fact that you're naked, pressed up against him right now while he's completely naked too. “But I like touching you. Only you, love.”
“Is it bad that I like that?” You want things that are for you and you only.
“Is it bad that I really wanted to make you beg to cum?” He refers to earlier.
“Yes.” You take a bite out of his neck as punishment for that. “That was mean.”
“You liked it.” He smirks, pulling you in for a kiss.
You smile against his lips. You can't help it. You love kissing Titus so you deepen the kiss, your tongue tangling with his, enjoying his lips on yours for a bit longer.
He lays you onto your back, never breaking the kiss as he settles himself between your legs. You can feel his cock throbbing against your stomach.
“We don't have to.” He breathes out onto your lips. “If you're scared.”
You look down, contemplating how daunting the thought of fitting him inside of you will ultimately be. But you want to have sex with him. You want to feel that close with him.
But you need him to promise first. “The moment you fuck me, you aren't allowed to fuck anyone else ever again. I'll kill you if you do.”
“My sunshine has a dark side.” He likes this version of you. The possessive you.
“You're a bad influence.” You say with a big smile.
“Definitely.” He nods firmly. “Because if you even think about fucking anyone else, you're never leaving my bed.”
“I like being in your bed.” You confess. These last few days sleeping beside him have been so wonderful. “Can I stay there forever anyways?”
“You don't have to ask. You're obligated to because there won't be a day that goes by where I'm not going to be fucking you.” Titus has waited long enough.
From this moment forward, your pussy will keep his cock warm forever.
And you can't wait anymore either. “Then I'm ready.”
You expect to feel Titus's cock but he slips three fingers back inside of you, just to make sure. You wriggle a bit when he thrusts them in deep again and before you can say another word about how he's curling them, his lips press against yours.
You've never cum while kissing him before, the rush making you all lightheaded from the breathlessness. His fingers don't stop moving, fucking you through your orgasm, making another one build all too quickly. But he pulls out before you can cum again.
And this time, he lines up his cock, the tip of it pushing against your entrance.
“Now you're ready.” He says with a smile against your lips. “Deep breath for me, love.”
You listen, taking in a deep breath as he sinks the tip of his cock inside of you. Titus lays his forehead against yours, groaning at the feeling of how warm and wet you are wrapped up around him. He isn't even fully inside of you yet but he knows there's nowhere else he wants to be from now on.
You were expecting some pain but it's mostly that pressure that Titus has familiarized you with using his fingers. He helps keep your mind off the increasing pressure with his lips on yours and his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples as he sinks another inch of himself inside of you. You tug at his hair, wanting him to keep going, basking in the grin he gives you in response.
He's about halfway seated inside of you when he pulls off your lips to say, “I'm going to start moving now. You know what to do if something feels good.”
“Yes, sir.” You nudge him playfully with your nose and he nips at it with his teeth, his cock throbbing inside of you at your words. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Titus is so madly in love with you.
Because that's the only reason he's going so slow. If he had his way, he'd be pounding into you, forcing your pussy to take him instead of easing it into things. One day, he'll have his fun.
But today, he'll make love. He has always, secretly, wanted to fall in love. Maybe that's why when the opportunity presented itself, it wasn't difficult for him to dive right into you.
You're everything he isn't. The light in his darkness.
The love of his life, looking so beautiful as he slowly starts to move, finding a rhythm that adds a bit more of himself inside of you with each thrust. You tug at his hair when the tip of his cock teases the swallower spot closer to your entrance, so he makes sure to spend some time there before thrusting as far in as he can go.
“I'm going to cum if you keep doing that.” Your words don't dissuade him.
Actually, it encourages him to pull his cock completely out of you, the sudden pop pushing you over the edge, your orgasm overwhelming you instantly. He likes the sight of your body shivering all over from the pleasure. He likes it even better knowing it's because of his cock.
He goes to sink back in but you shake your head, saying, “wait, wait, I need a second.”
“No, you don't.” He knows you're just afraid to cum again so soon.
You are, because you cum the moment he thrusts back inside and then pulls completely out again, wetness pooling between your legs. That makes it much easier for Titus to slide back inside all the way, filling you deeper than he has before.
“I'm right here.” He presses down against your lower stomach, kneading where your womb is, the tip of his cock pushing right up against it. “How does it feel?”
“Too good.” You admit, feeling so shy at how easily he's making you unravel. “I'm going to cum again if you move.”
“You're very sensitive.” He's happy you are. He's going to drown you in pleasure.
“It's because of you, sir.” You pull him down to kiss you then you place a kiss against his cheek with such much affection. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
“You're going to make me cum if you keep acting so cute, love.” He peppers your face with lovely kisses, making you giggle.
“Cum with me?” You really want him to.
“Always.” He wants to cum feeling you clenching tightly around him from your orgasm.
So, he slides his hands down, grabbing a hold of your hips, and then starts to finally fuck you. You're not expecting to feel so much but his cock is rubbing up against every inch of your pussy with every stroke. It's going to be hard to hold your orgasm.
He feels the same. Now that he's wrapped so perfectly inside of you, he's getting close. He'll have to pace himself better next time.
But for right now, he is content to cum if it means you will too.
Your whole body tenses when he starts thrusting into you a bit faster, the sound of him slamming his cock inside of you filling the air. You tug him down so you can crash your lips against his, wanting to be kissing him when you both cum. His tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing your breath away, making you dizzy from how good everything feels all together.
You cum the moment warmth spills inside of you, unfamiliar but so very nice. Because you know Titus has never done this before.
And he desperately wants to do it again.
“Can I flip you over?” He asks, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you.
“Don't you need a break?” You figured at his age, also being a man, don't they need time between?
“I need this. I need you. Please, love.” He just wants to pound you into the next oblivion.
You nod, letting him slip out of you before you flip over, getting on your hands and knees. Titus kisses a line down your spine, the sight of you like this better than when he would fantasize about it.
“My beautiful love.” He groans seeing the sight of your swollen pussy from him fucking you. “I'm going to fuck you up now. I'm not stopping, no matter what.”
Your toes curl at the thrill that sparks through you. “Go ahead, sir. I'm all yours.”
He growls, unable to keep the animalistic side of him any longer. “You are all mine. The very object of my obsession. I'm going to enjoy this.”
Your eyes roll into the back of your head when he thrusts into you from this angle, fitting so much more of himself than before. You're cumming already, your legs growing weak from the shivers. He smacks your ass, adding to the shakes.
“You won't last long if you cum that easily.” He makes it very difficult not to cum, though.
Titus doesn't ease you in this time. He pulls completely out of you then rams the entire length of his cock deep inside of you. Over and over, until you're squirting on his cock with every forceful thrust. You're digging your nails into the sheets, leaning your upper body down against the soft pillows to cushion how hard he's fucking you all of a sudden.
“Titus, it's too much, I can't—” He answers your pleads by sliding his hand between your legs and rubbing your clit with the same intensity as he's fucking you, pulling gasp after gasp from your lips.
You're going to pass out from the orgasms, your mind going hazing from the constant release.
“You're going to kill me.” You can't possibly keep cumming like this. You'll lose your mind if you do. “You need to stop—”
“It's okay, love. You can take it.” He feels you drench his fingertips when he says that, still abusing your clit. “Just let it happen. Cum your brains out.”
You opt then to just bite the pillow beneath you, muffling your screams as he pounds into you ruthlessly, his fingers rubbing your swollen clit raw. The pleasure is endless, sweeping over you in intense waves.
There's nothing in your mind except for Titus. He's consumed you completely. You call out his name as you cum again and again.
This is everything he has been dreaming about. You, lost in the euphoria, giving into him. You'll never leave him now that you've had a taste of what he can do for you.
“I love you.” He loops on repeat as his thrusts get quicker, his orgasm inching closer.
Your words in response are completely incoherent, just cute little mumbles. You're so far gone, which pulls the most evil laugh out of Titus.
You're an absolute mess by the time he finally cums inside of you, your body unable to hold yourself up anymore. He pulls out of you, letting you collapse onto your side and then he plops down behind you, wrapping his arms around you, spooning you. He places warm kisses along your shoulder blades, rubbing your lower belly as you come down from your intense high. You moan a little when his fingers press in, making you well aware of how full you are inside.
“Maybe we should get you some birth control.” He says, nipping at your earlobe. “I want to enjoy fucking you a bit longer before I put a baby inside of you.”
“I have the arm implant.” Your words make him still.
“What?”
You chuckle, flipping over to look at him, “you didn't think I'd let you fuck me that raw the first time, did you?”
“You sneaky little girl.” He takes a bite out of your neck in protest, marking you quite obviously. “How dare you hide that from me.”
“I didn't hide it. I just…omitted the truth?” You smirk, showing him that you aren't just a bundle of sunshine.
You trapped him just as much as he trapped you.
Truly his equal, in every way.
“You know I'm going to have to punish you for that, love.” He will have to think up something good. Maybe tying you down and edging you until you're crying and begging to be fucked.
“I look forward to it, sir.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for a kiss. Then, you breathe out with all the warmth in your afterglow, “I love you, Titus.”
“You're lucky I love you, or I would be very fucking pissed right now.” He can't believe you hid that from him.
“Mmm, maybe I like you angry.” You nuzzle his nose with yours. “You're never angry with me. It's a nice change of pace.”
He glares at you. “You might be the only person in the world who wants to piss me off.”
“And you love it!” You wrap your arms around him, hugging him.
“Yes. I do love it.” He lets out a sigh of defeat, smiling as he hugs you back, loving that the two of you can cuddle like this.
He has truly met his match.
Because you're as obsessed with him as he is with you.
A/N: Are y’all impressed at my willpower? I wanted to challenge myself and not have them fuck right away and oh my goodness was that a challenge! I love writing smut so much (so of course I had to still add lots of naughty smut haha) but I was craving a lovey dovey, cutesy, fucked up slow burn after my last fic so I hope you all enjoyed this read! ♡
summary: you’re a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that you’re both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.
pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader
word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit
content contains: 18+ content— smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention 😛, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff
authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state… imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.
you've never really liked highways.
they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.
it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.
it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.
the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.
but you remember. you always remember.
the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.
there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.
they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.
"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."
the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."
"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."
the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."
"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."
you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.
"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"
you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.
"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."
"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."
you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.
the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"
you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"
"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."
the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."
the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"
you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.
"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."
the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."
you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.
and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.
your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.
"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.
you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.
the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"
you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."
the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"
the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."
and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.
you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.
gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.
you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.
you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.
your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"
"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."
the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"
"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.
you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.
the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.
somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.
you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.
the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.
the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.
the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.
"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"
"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"
trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.
"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."
you dont like the way he says it.
"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"
"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"
you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."
his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.
"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."
he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.
click. click. click. then—
blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.
it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.
there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.
but a grating voice brings you out of your head.
"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."
"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.
"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"
"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.
he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."
trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.
you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.
the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.
"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."
your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"
"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"
"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."
you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.
trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"
"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.
trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.
"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"
"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."
the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.
"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."
the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.
the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.
with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.
the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.
the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."
you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.
as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.
the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.
the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.
a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.
the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.
you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.
you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.
sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.
some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.
you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.
you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.
eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.
the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.
your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.
you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.
you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.
it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.
your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.
the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.
the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.
he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.
the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.
its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.
you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.
there isn't much to look at.
the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.
it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.
the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.
you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.
"thing hasn't been used in years."
you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.
"i figured." you mutter.
you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.
"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."
you nod even though you don't really care.
trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.
you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."
"at the pool?"
"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."
you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.
"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."
"okay."
"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."
"i'll manage."
"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."
your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."
trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.
"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."
you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.
trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.
"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"
you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—
"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.
you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.
the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.
"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."
the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."
the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.
trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.
"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"
but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.
through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.
you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.
until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.
you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.
you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.
although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.
and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.
the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.
the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.
you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.
most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.
the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.
you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.
but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.
it's the trucker.
he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.
and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.
so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.
but he doesn't.
the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.
he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.
eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.
he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.
his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.
he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.
"i don't bite." he simply says.
you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.
you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.
every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.
you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.
you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.
eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.
"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.
there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.
"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."
he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.
"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."
he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.
your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.
you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.
"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."
there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.
"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."
you blink. "where are you headed?"
he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.
"california. america's very own golden state."
his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.
california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.
three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.
you hesitate.
you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.
you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.
so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.
the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.
"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"
"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."
"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.
he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.
"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."
you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.
"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.
the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.
"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."
the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.
you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.
it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.
his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.
he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"
and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.
for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.
you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.
"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."
hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.
you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"
"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."
you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."
he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."
you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.
you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.
"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.
bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."
you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."
he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."
you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.
you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.
and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.
the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.
the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.
it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.
you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.
you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.
the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.
unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.
and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.
his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.
sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.
his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.
god, he looks good.
after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.
you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.
he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.
"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.
"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.
you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.
you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.
you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.
trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.
"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."
"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."
trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"
you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—
oh my god. stop thinking about that man.
trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."
"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"
his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."
something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."
"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."
your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.
"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."
the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—
"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"
the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.
heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.
metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.
you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.
"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.
you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.
you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"
you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.
you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."
he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.
"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.
you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"
"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."
your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."
the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."
you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.
"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.
he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."
your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.
you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.
"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."
you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.
the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.
there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.
the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.
you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.
paper.
it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.
the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.
two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.
your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.
there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.
your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.
you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.
you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.
"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.
you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."
your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.
you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—
"hey." bucky calls.
you pause and turn back around.
"you busy tonight?" he asks,
"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"
he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."
for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.
comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.
"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."
"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."
you blink. "we met last night."
then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."
oh. he noticed that?
you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.
the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.
"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."
bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."
and he does.
the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.
you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.
"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."
you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.
"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."
"i'm not goin' anywhere."
you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.
the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.
he looks good. he looks handsome.
"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."
it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.
your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."
bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."
"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.
as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.
you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.
the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.
bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"
"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.
you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.
its not graceful at all.
you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.
"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."
he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.
you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."
"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."
you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.
he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.
bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.
it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.
for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.
you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.
"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."
your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.
theres another small pause before bucky hums.
"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"
a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.
"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."
bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."
he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."
"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"
bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"
"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"
"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."
you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"
and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."
your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.
but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.
"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."
"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"
"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."
you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.
"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.
"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.
the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.
"garden gnomes."
your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"
he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."
you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"
"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."
you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.
"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."
"the best trucker in america and the most humble."
"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."
you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."
the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.
"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.
"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."
bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).
"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."
"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"
before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.
you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.
"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.
you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.
he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because
bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.
although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.
a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.
bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.
the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.
"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.
"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."
you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."
he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."
before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.
"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"
you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."
the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.
"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"
the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.
"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."
"thank you." you smile.
the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.
"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.
"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.
"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."
you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."
bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"
"once or twice." you grin.
and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.
the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.
he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"
you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."
he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.
the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.
the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.
you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.
"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"
its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.
his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.
"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"
your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.
"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."
bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.
"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."
"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.
a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.
"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."
the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.
but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.
"okay." you nod. "fine."
bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.
"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."
his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.
"where's sam now?" you ask softly.
bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.
"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"
"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."
he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."
its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.
bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.
"that's all i've got. your turn."
you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,
"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.
"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."
"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."
your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.
its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.
"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."
"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.
"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."
you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.
but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.
a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.
"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."
you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.
"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."
he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.
"i shot him."
the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.
if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.
"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."
his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.
"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."
you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.
"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"
"i'm not scared of you, princess."
bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.
"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."
and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.
you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.
"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.
"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."
and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.
in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.
your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.
you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.
you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.
the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.
you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.
and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.
you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.
it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.
you decide to be rid of it.
one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.
you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.
there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.
the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.
"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"
"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.
bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.
the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.
the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.
you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.
you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.
in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.
"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."
you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.
bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.
"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.
he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."
but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.
"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"
bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."
you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.
you nod once. "okay."
bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.
you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.
"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.
bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.
"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."
"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."
he huffs quietly. "you asked."
you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.
"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."
"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."
"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."
bucky glances at you. "and you will."
bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.
the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.
for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.
bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"
you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.
"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."
bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.
but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.
you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.
he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.
the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.
and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"
you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."
your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.
a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.
bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"
"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."
bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."
you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?
you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.
"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"
theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.
"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."
oh.
you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?
"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.
it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.
god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.
the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.
you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.
and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.
"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."
you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.
"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"
bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.
"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"
"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."
"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.
and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.
you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.
minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.
the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky
you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.
you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.
not as good as the real thing.
your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—
oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.
"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.
this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.
your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.
you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.
"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.
you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.
then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.
"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.
you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.
you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.
the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.
your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.
you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.
then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.
you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.
the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.
bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.
but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.
"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.
bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.
"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."
you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"
bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.
he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.
his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.
he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.
"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.
bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.
"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.
you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."
"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."
so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.
you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.
"great." you murmur.
after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.
you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.
you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"
trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."
"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."
both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.
he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."
you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."
trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.
you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.
he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.
"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.
your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.
"witnesses describe her as..."
your blood runs cold.
the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.
"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."
you turn to the back room door.
you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.
and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.
you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.
"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.
you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.
"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.
the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.
"what were you doin' in th—"
you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.
his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"
"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.
"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"
your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.
"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."
something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.
the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.
you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "
"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.
"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."
bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.
his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.
"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."
your chest tightens. "but bucky—"
"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."
you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.
"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."
the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.
"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."
"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.
"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."
you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.
you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.
every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.
as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.
"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.
bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."
you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.
you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.
bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.
"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.
he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.
you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.
bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.
you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.
night comes gently.
the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.
you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.
you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.
you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.
a locket.
it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.
you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.
for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.
it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.
then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.
bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.
"hey." he says.
you blink. "hey."
the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.
"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"
his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."
something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.
"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."
"yeah." he nods. "okay."
you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.
bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.
you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."
"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"
you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."
you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.
"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.
you "i'm not even sure if it fits—"
"then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.
you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.
its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.
you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"
"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."
you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."
you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.
and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.
it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.
"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.
but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.
"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"
bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.
"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."
you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.
bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.
"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."
you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."
your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.
bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.
"sit." he tells you.
and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.
you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.
bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.
but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.
you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.
bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.
"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."
your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.
"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"
you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"
"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.
"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"
bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.
"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."
and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.
you blink. "you... heard that?"
he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.
"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."
the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.
"bucky." you almost whimper.
"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."
you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.
"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."
you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"
and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.
his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.
his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.
the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.
"buck." you manage to whine.
a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.
"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.
his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.
bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.
"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."
his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.
"no, please—"
he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.
he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.
you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.
"did you wear these for me?" he asks.
he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.
"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."
he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."
you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.
he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.
and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.
you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.
he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.
you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.
"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."
he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.
his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.
he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.
"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"
but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.
and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.
bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.
his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.
"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.
"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.
youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"
bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."
your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."
so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.
you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.
his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.
he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.
"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."
"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."
a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."
then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.
"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."
and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.
all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.
the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.
you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.
"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.
bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.
a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.
the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.
but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?
"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.
"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.
"can i ask you something?"
"of course, sweetheart."
"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"
"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."
you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."
there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.
"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.
your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."
"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."
morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.
"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.
trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.
"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."
"tempting." bucky replies dryly.
"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."
the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?
you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.
the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.
bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"
"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."
"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.
you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."
bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."
you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."
he hums, "touché."
the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.
I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.
Beautiful writing!
I would've done that sober
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy
Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.
Word count: 12k
Divider by me ;)
You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.
Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.
“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.
“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”
You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.
Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.
Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.
“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.
He stopped talking immediately.
You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”
Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”
His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.
“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.
“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”
Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”
You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.
“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”
His brows furrowed.
You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”
“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”
He passed the blunt over again.
You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.
“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”
Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”
He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.
You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”
Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”
You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”
Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.
“But you told me–”
“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”
Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.
“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”
Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”
“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”
Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.
“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.
If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.
You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”
“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”
You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”
You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.
The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.
Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.
You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.
Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”
The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.
“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.
“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”
His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.
You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.
“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”
You grinned. “He’s six-one.”
Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”
Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.
“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”
A laugh escaped you softly.
“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”
“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.
Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”
“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.
Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.
“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”
“How solidary of you.”
He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”
You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”
Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.
Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.
Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.
The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.
“Use me,” he blurted out.
Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time.
“What do you mean?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”
You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”
“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.
That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.
“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”
A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”
Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”
“You’ll close the park?”
“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”
“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”
Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”
“I was fifteen.”
“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”
“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”
Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.
You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.
It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.
Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.
“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.
Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”
That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.
The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.
You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.
Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.
You swallowed.
His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”
A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.
You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.
You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.
When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.
You slept absurdly well afterward.
A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.
You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.
The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.
Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.
The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.
You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.
You recognized the cologne immediately.
“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.
Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.
You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”
“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.
The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.
You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.
Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.
The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.
You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.
“We need to talk.”
You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.
Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.
You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.
“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”
Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.
You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”
He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”
“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.
Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”
His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.
“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.
His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.
“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”
Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.
You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.
Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”
“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”
“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.
Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.
You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.
Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.
You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”
“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.
You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.
“No kissing.”
Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”
“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”
His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”
You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”
Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”
Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.
Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.
“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”
Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically.
“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.
“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”
Dean’s brows lifted.
“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”
Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”
Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”
Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.
You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.
The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”
Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”
You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”
He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.
“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.
“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.
You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.
Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.
Your gaze dropped away first.
Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.
Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.
“Can I add rules too?” he asked.
You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”
The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.
“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”
You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”
Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.
“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”
Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”
You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”
Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.
You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.
Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.
“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”
Your mouth parted slightly.
“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”
And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.
You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.
That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.
You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.
Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”
Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”
You snorted softly.
He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”
The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.
There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.
Nothing changed.
Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.
Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.
You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.
Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.
You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.
“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.
You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.
“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”
Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”
You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”
Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”
You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment.
“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”
A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”
Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”
“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.
You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.
“Let’s see,” you murmured.
You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.
Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.
Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.
Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.
He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.
You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.
You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”
Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.
“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”
“You still read it.”
“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.
You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.
“Not in math,” he said quietly.
Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.
“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”
You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.
“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.
You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.
Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.
Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.
You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.
Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.
The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.
Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.
"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."
He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs.
You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.
"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.
You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.
You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.
You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.
The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.
Tucker.
The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.
You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.
Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.
Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.
The front door opened and you froze.
Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.
Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.
“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.
Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”
The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.
Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.
The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.
“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”
Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.
“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.
“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.
Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.
The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.
You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.
Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.
You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.
“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”
From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.
“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.
You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.
Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.
Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.
You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.
Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.
Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.
For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.
The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.
You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.
He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.
“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.
Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.
“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”
You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.
“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”
Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.
“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.
“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.
“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”
You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”
“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”
You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.
You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.
“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“You say that now...”
You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.
Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.
You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.
You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.
Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.
You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.
You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”
Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.
“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.
Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway.
“Why aren’t you at the party?”
Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.
You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.
“Because I’m here with you.”
“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”
“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.
Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.
Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.
“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.
Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.
“I have my sources.”
You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”
You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”
Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”
You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”
Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”
You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.
Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.
“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.
Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”
One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.
Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”
You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”
“Besides the obvious?”
Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.
“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.
“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”
Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.
“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”
You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.
“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”
The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.
Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.
Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?
Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”
You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.
Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”
Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.
Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.
‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’
“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.
Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”
Even he sounded unsure of the answer.
Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.
“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”
Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.
He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.
It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.
Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.
He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.
Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.
You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.
The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.
You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.
With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.
Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.
He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.
The silence stretched thickly.
You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.
You swallowed. “What do you think?”
Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”
Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.
You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.
Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.
You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.
“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”
Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.
“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.
You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.
In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.
For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.
A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.
Your eyes met his again through the reflection.
“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”
One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten.
His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”
The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.
His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.
The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.
"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.
You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.
As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.
"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.
"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.
"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.
You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.
"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.
"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.
"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.
"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.
The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.
You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.
The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?
"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.
The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him.
Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.
"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.
Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.
"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.
As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.
You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.
As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.
You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.
You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.
"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."
You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.
In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.
You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.
“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.
"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."
His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.
The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.
Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.
As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.
The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.
You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"
Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.
Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.
His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.
You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.
Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.
You swallowed once. “Did you…?”
The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.
Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.
“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.
You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”
Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”
You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.
The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.
Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.
You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.
Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.
His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.
The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.
So much for rules.
Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
snowghoul
areudirty
origamiaround
janainaart
kaledo-art
prguitarman
