Origins of Fantasy

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[metal-armed-muse]

TASTE TEST

EXECUTIVE CHEF! BUCKY X SOUS CHEF! F!READER

SUMMARY. Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.

WORD COUNT. 17.8k (she’s biiiig, i’m sorry) WARNINGS. workplace romance, age gap, power imbalance, lowk grump! bucky, switching povs, smut, lowkey love/lust at first sight, MDNI, 18+, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), soft dom! bucky, unprotected pnv, tit play, food play, public-ish sex, misogyny and sexism in workplace (not from Bucky or Steve), miscommunication, angst, no use of y/n. Switching povs - Reader is always referred to in second person — you/your, Bucky is always referred to in third person — he/him. Reader is able-bodied, has hair, has a scar on her right hand (needed for plot) from a kitchen accident. It’s mentioned a couple of times. Bucky doesn’t have a metal arm, there’s a scar instead. Hierarchy in the kitchen goes like this — executive chef > head chef > sous chef >>> line cooks. ‘Pass’ is the area/counter where finished dishes are kept to be picked up. NOTES. Baby’s first collab yayy. I am beyond excited to participate in the Bucky’s dream house collab with these amazingly talented authors of the @stantastic-association. Thank you @miraclediviner for organising this and making it a reality and a success. I’ll always adore you. Also thank you for the ‘scar on Bucky’s arm’ idea, I owe you baby. Ilysm ❤️

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BUCKY’S DREAM HOUSE MASTERLIST

Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.

Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.

Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.

Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.

He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.

It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.

5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Steve: You up?

Bucky: Yeah

Steve: Coffee in 10

Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.

Everything else is downstairs.

True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.

"Thanks."

"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"

Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.

Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.

"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."

"I know."

"Interviews are today, right?"

"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."

"Try not to scare them off this time."

"I don't scare people off."

Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'

They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.

Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'

Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.

"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.

Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"

"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"

Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.

Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.

"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.

"You mean you won't make time."

"Same thing."

"It's really —"

"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."

"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."

"I have Alpine."

"Your cat doesn't count."

Alpine meows, like she's offended.

They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.

The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.

The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.

Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.

Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."

"You'd be miserable."

"Probably."

"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like — you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."

Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.

Steve's right.

The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.

Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'

And he has.

The three Michelin stars prove it.

The first two interviews are disasters.

One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.

The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.

By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.

He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve: we're fucked, none of them can do it.

There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.

The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.

"Give me a second," he mutters.

"Sure."

Something about your voice makes him look up.

Oh.

Oh.

You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.

Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.

"For a year."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."

Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"

"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."

That does make him laugh.

You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"

"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."

Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.

"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."

"I know."

"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."

"I'm not most people."

Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.

"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often… Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.

Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on —

"What happened to your arm?"

That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."

Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

"Sometimes."

"When you're stressed?"

Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you —

"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."

There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.

"You start Monday," he hears himself say.

"What?"

"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."

A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."

Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch. 

"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.

Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.

If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.

He checks his phone — 8:47 AM, fuck — and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.

The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.

Instead, it's... fine?

Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?

Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."

"What —"

"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."

"It's your second day."

"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't. 

"How did you —"

"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."

Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.

Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say. 

"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality. 

"What?"

"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."

He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."

You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain. 

"Sugar?"

"Black's fine."

"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again. 

"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.

Bucky eyes go from you — your face —, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"

You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.

The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.

"I can —" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.

"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just —"

The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just… feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.

But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.

"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.

The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.

Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.

"Well?"

"It's good… really good. What'd you put in it?"

You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."

Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful — not to mention inappropriate — thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."

"Really?"

"Really."

You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.

"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever. 

"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.

You turn to look at him. 

"Don't —" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"

Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."

"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter? 

You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."

Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.

"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.

"Fine."

"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."

Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."

"About onions?"

"About the menu."

"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.

"Fuck off."

"Just saying, she's good."

"I know she's good. I hired her."

"That's not what I —" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."

Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.

He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind. 

The second thing he notices — and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't — is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.

Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.

You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."

"Yeah. Goodnight."  

You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose. 

The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.

Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."

This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.

You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.

But no.

Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that. 

Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.

She doesn't look at him at all.

Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.

But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.

Fuck it.

He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.

His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."

In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.

Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?

His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.

Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.

Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.

The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps —

Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.

Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."

The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is — this desperate want, this intense need — it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.

Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.

The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.

You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though. 

Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.

Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"

Everyone looks around. Blank faces.

"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.

"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."

"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.

"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."

Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.

The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.

You missed the debrief to stand outside?

"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"

When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.

There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She — She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."

Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.

"I — Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't — I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.

You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."

"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."

"You didn't scream."

"I raised my voice."

"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."

"Not more important than —" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."

A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef." There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.

"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."

"Yeah. Five years now."

"What's her name?"

"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.

"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed —"

"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."

"Oh. You're terrible."

"Sorry."

"Nope. You're not."

Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if —

Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.

"I'm okay," you say.

"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."

"I've survived worse."

Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her… If she's getting heavy."

You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."

"What?"

"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.

"I didn't —"

"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."

"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.

Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."

"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.

The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"

"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.

Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."

"Yeah, just — give me a sec."

Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."

"Yeah… here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."

Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.

The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.

Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.

Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room. 

Steve: You're in trouble

Bucky: Fuck off

Steve: She's pretty Steve: And she saved alpine Steve: And you looked at her like she hung the moon

Bucky: I said fuck off

Steve: Good luck buddy

He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. But…

You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe — you think —, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing. 

You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.

But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.

But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet. 

Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.

He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.

"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.

"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.

"You sure? You look a little flustered."

"It's hot in here."

He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."

"Must be coming down with something."

"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."

"I wasn't —"

"You were definitely staring."

Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."

Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"

"Veins. On your arms. They're very — I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are —" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important —"

Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."

Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.

Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.

That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.

By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.

Like jump your boss.

You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."

"You rushing off?"

"Just — long day."

"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So — uh — Alpine misses you."

If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"

"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."

"That so?" You can't help but smile.

"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."

This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure." 

Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."

"Right. For Alpine."

"For Alpine," you repeat.

There's a beat where you both just stand there.

"C'mon… She's upstairs."

You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.

Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.

"It's —"

Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.

"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."

Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."

"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."

"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."

"Well, I am very likable."

"So you've mentioned."

"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"

"Found her outside a restaurant."

"And she just — came home with you?"

"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."

"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"

When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."

"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.

Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."

"Does what?"

"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."

"Maybe she has good taste."

"That she does."

Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.

"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.

"I'm okay with that."

You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more. 

"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.

"Mhmm."

"Earlier. In the kitchen… What were you looking at?"

"I —" 

"Because you were definitely looking at something."

"I wasn't — okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's — you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."

"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Sound so smug about it."

"I'm not smug."

"You're absolutely smug right now."

Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes.  

"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.

"What is?"

"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."

"I wasn't rambling."

"You were definitely rambling."

"I was making valid points about water intake —"

Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.

When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I —" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.

One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.

Oh god, he's kissing you.

His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.

"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."

"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"

"Something like that."

"That's very unprofessional, Chef."

"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.

"Bucky — I — "

"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall. 

He sets you down on the bed — his bed — and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."

You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.

Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.

"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.

Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."

"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.

The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit. 

Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.

He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.

"I can't — Buck — It's too much —"

"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."

Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.

When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."

Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now. 

He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.

"Oh my god."

"What?" He's smirking.

"That's — you're —" Your brain's stopped working again.

Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"

If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"

"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"I really — oh —"

He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip.  

"Y-yeah."

"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."

He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me. Please fuck me."

"Well — Since you asked so nicely."

He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel — fuck."

You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move. 

The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."

Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck — Do that again."

Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours. 

"Fuck — you feel incredible, sweetheart."

Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.

"There — fuck, right there —"

He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm —"

"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."

The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.

"Where?" he grits out.

It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control — inside, please —"

Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."

You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.

He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.

You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.

Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.

"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.

It's stupidly endearing.

Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.

The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.

It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.

Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.

"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.

"Your cat's very demanding," you say.

"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.

This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.

"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.

"I should go home. Need to change before work."

"You could keep clothes here."

The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.

"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.

"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.

"That so?"

He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."

"Everything looks good on me."

"Can't argue with that."

You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.

The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you. 

"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots —" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.

A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.

"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."

His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."

There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.

"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."

You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.

Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.

His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat. 

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.

"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"

Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.

"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."

"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky —"

"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"

Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please —"

Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open. 

"Hey Buck, we need you on the — Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.

Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.

Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm — fuck —I didn't—" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."

The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know. 

"Oh my god. Steve just — he saw us —" you gasp. 

"Yep."

You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."

"You are corrupting me."

"Shut up."

The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.

You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce. 

Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself. 

Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs. 

His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."

"It's — It's the same honey," you reply dumbly. 

"No. It's not." 

"Bucky —"

"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."

There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter. 

The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.

"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."

Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."

"Bucky — "

"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

"This is not an experiment."

"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."

Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."

"More. I want —" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.

"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.

"Yes —" you whimper.

"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive. 

"That's —" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck —"

The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.

"Bucky —" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please —"

Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god —"

Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."

"We're supposed to be working —"

"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."

Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."

The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.

Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky —"

"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.

"Oh god —"

"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone. 

"Please — Buck — touch me. P-please touch me."

"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.

"You — You know what I mean —"

He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh — you think — but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now —"

"But, I'm not done —"

"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."

His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."

While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.

"Yes. God, yes —"

"How bad?"

"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds —"

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.

Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck — You feel — Jesus fucking Christ —"

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.

"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.

"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce — wanted to — fuck — wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad —"

You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fucking—"

Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.

"Don't stop — please —"

When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck — I'm so close —"

"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.

There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.

When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."

"Your fault."

"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you." 

"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."

"You're the one who spilled it."

"Accidentally."

"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue. 

You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.

"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."

"Bucky —"

"Just one more taste."

"Alpine, no — that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.

It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.

"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."

"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"

She meows like she's arguing with you.

Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.

The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.

"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."

"We always prep early."

"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"

The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.

"If that's okay."

"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.

You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.

"I like being here," you admit.

He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.

"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."

"Five more minutes."

"Bucky —"

"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."

Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.

"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.

"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.

"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.

"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."

"Maybe she is good."

Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.

"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."

"Barnes seems smarter than that."

"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."

You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.

But you can't move, can't breathe.

"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."

They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.

Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.

Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.

And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.

You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you — whatever it is, whatever it was becoming — has to stop.

Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'

All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.

You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.

But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.

Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"

"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."

"What's wrong? Do you need —"

"Just tired. Long week."

It's Wednesday.

Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.

"Okay… feel better, okay?"

You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you. 

Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.

But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.

But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant — his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.

So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.

It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts — headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.

Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"

You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.

"Nothing's going on."

"You haven't stayed over in a week."

"I've been tired."

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."

You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.

He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.

But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.

"You didn't do anything. I just need space."

You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.

When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.

Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."

Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky —"

His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute… please."

You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."

When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.

"I miss you… Alpine's not the only one."

"Buck —"

"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just — I hate that you're not there."

The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's not an answer."

Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.

"Something's wrong," he says.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration. 

Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."

"Wait —"

"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.

Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."

Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.

He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.

You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.

You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."

You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."

"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."

"Everything's fine."

"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit."

"Steve —"

"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable —"

"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's — it's nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"It's personal."

"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."

Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"

"No."

"Steve —"

"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."

Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."

"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."

"You don't understand —"

"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's complicated."

"Try me."

You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"

Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Who the hell would think that?"

"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous. 

"That's — no one here would —"

"They already are."

Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"

You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.

"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you know…" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.

"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.

He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"

"Their point is bullshit —"

"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."

Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"

"We weren't together."

"Bullshit."

"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."

"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"

"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."

"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"

You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter —"

"The hell it doesn't."

"Steve —"

"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"

You don't have an answer for that.

His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."

"Better miserable than —"

"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."

Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve —"

"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."

"I'm trying to protect him."

"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."

"Not if there's nothing to talk about."

"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"

"I don't know. I — I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing is being honest with him."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."

"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"

"I don't know what else to do."

Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."

"I do trust him —"

"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."

"If I tell him —"

"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."

You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.

Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.

"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.

"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."

"I'm working —"

"Now, Buck."

Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"

"No. But I just talked to her."

Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt. 

"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues. 

"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she… slept her way into your kitchen."

The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"

"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."

"That's —" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's — that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever — we weren't even —"

"I know."

"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She —" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"

"Assholes. But that's not the point —"

"They're talking about her like she's — like she —" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."

"That's exactly what she said you'd do."

"Good. Then she knows me."

"Buck —"

"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't —" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"

"She's trying to protect your reputation."

"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what — me?"

"Yeah."

"That's — Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.

"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."

"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"

"Like someone who's in love with her."

Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve —"

"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you —"

"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.

Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."

"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks — what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"

"No. She thinks she's protecting you."

"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally — for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"

Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But it’s never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day. 

"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."

"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she —" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just — it was just us."

"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."

"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."

"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."

Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"

"Talk to her."

"I've tried. She won't — every time I try, she shuts down."

"Try harder."

"Steve —"

"You love her, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."

Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"

"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."

"I'm firing them."

"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would be talking to me."

"Yeah. But she's scared… and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."

When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.

Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.

He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.

Because he would. He will.

He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.

He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.

And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.

Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.

When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.

Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."

The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.

You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.

He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"

Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.

"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone — multiple someones, apparently — have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."

More uncomfortable shifting. 

"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."

"Chef —" Jason starts.

"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."

Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."

No one seems to move.  

"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."

He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."

Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't —"

"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."

"Chef, I —"

"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."

Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't —"

"I can. I just did. Out. Now."

"This is bullshit —"

"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."

The new line cook — Miller, Bucky thinks his name is — raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."

"Smart choice."

Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.

"I said out," Bucky repeats.

Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.

"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."

The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.

Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.

He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.

But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.

Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.

When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.

You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.

The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.

Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again. 

Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."

Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.

He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.

"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.

"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."

"I had a reason —"

"A stupid reason."

You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."

"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason — all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."

The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just — I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."

"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.

"Sweetheart, no —" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have — I should've just read your mind or something —"

That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."

"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."

"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."

His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"

"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.

"You're in love with me?"

You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while."

"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."

The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"

"Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. I'm —" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."

Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've —"

"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."

Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."

"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"

"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."

A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."

"Haven't been sleeping." 

You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."

"At what?"

"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."

"I don't want to do it again either."  

Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his. 

The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.

Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."

Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.

You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.

His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."

"I'm sorry I left."

"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"

The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.

It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.

"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.

"Mhmm, dangerous."

He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."

"What?"

"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."

"That's very romantic."

"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"

You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."

"Is that a yes?"

You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this — Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."

The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space — you know, before all this."

Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.

"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.

His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.

Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.

COLLAB MASTERLIST ✧ MY MASTERLIST

EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab! Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.

TAGLIST. @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax + TO GET ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

[buckytakethewheel]

you make loving fun

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: You and Bucky have been dating for six weeks, and sex is still a little clumsy and awkward. Until it isn't. Word Count: 2.4k Warnings/tags: smut; lots of giggly/clumsy sex; p in v; praise kink (kinda); dirty talk; one instance of pussy pronouns; marking (fingers on back, light bighting); sweat licking; bucky's a very very very soft top; bucky & reader are in a new relationship Notes: i'm not sure what this is. just something i had in my wips for a while and i got random inspiration for it this weekend. giggly sex is fun and hot and giggly sex with bucky barnes would be even funnier and hotter :)

You and Bucky have been dating for exactly six weeks.

Not that anyone’s counting. (You both are. Secretly. Bucky has it written down in his notes app, you’ve been crossing off days on the calendar on your fridge.)

Six weeks of him tugging your hoodie strings to pull you closer when no one’s looking, of the kind of late-night talks that drift into early-morning ones. It’s kind of a precarious middle ground, long enough that you already know exactly how he takes his coffee every morning, but short enough that your heart still does that funny little flip when his name pops up on your screen.

Domesticity settled with a terrifying ease. You know the weight of his arm draped over your waist in sleep, and he knows you being too quiet during a movie watch means you’re already falling asleep, even if you deny it a hundred times when he asks you about it. In certain situations, words no longer need to be spoken. Quick glances exchanged across a crowded room say ‘get me out of there’ or ‘you look incredible’. Six weeks is enough to make that kind of familiarity start to kick in.

And then, there’s the bedroom.

Inside those more intimate four walls, the practiced cool of the last six weeks tends to evaporate. It’s the one place where the “newness” of it all still feels just as electric and charged. And, occasionally, a little bit clumsy. The breathless “is this okay?” whispered against a collarbone, his hands sometimes hovering a second too long, unsure if he should grip tighter or be gentler. The awkwardness of trying to be sexy while accidentally kicking him in the shin, or a stray elbow hitting the wrong spot.

Neither of you is new to sex, obviously. Bucky had his fair share of it back before the war, even if it’s been a few decades since he’s been properly introduced back into the game; and you also didn’t lack experience, with your list of boyfriends and hookups that never quite made you feel like you do now. But sex with real feelings comes with a whole extra instruction manual that most people don’t talk about. How two very naked people learn to fit their bodies together when hearts are involved, too.

You hadn’t imagined it would be like this, the first time. Or the second. That even Bucky, who usually moves with soldier-like precision, would become a mess of soft sighs and flushed skin, wonderfully undone under you, over you, around you. Every touch feels like a first (sure, many of them are), and there’s a tentative reverence to it, a mutual understanding that you’re both still learning the map of each other’s skin.

Tonight you’re in his bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft golden light over the dark vibranium of his left arm, and your fingers are dancing over it to the rhythm of a song that only exists in your mind. Bucky’s above you, weight braced on his forearms as his lips press against yours in a filthy kiss.

Already, you’re both a little sweaty, a little desperate.

He shifts his hips, lines himself up and pushes in, giving you that little pause at the beginning that’s both him waiting for permission and also letting you adjust to his size. Both are a testament to the way he’s always a gentleman to you, even when you’re practically begging him to fold you in half.

You arch, sigh his name… and then his phone starts going off on the nightstand. Unbearably loud and with a very specific, extremely annoying soundbite: a loud air horn.

Freezing mid-moan, it takes you half a second to realize what’s happening before you snort so violently you almost choke.

“Bucky, what the fuck?”

Bucky drops his forehead to your collarbone with a defeated groan. “I’m gonna murder Sam.”

"Why..." You can barely get the words out through the giggles. "Why is his contact sound a literal air horn?"

“It was funny at 3 a.m. last month,” he mumbles. “I was half drunk on your martinis.”

You laugh harder, unapologetically so, and your whole body shaking with laughter does interesting things around Bucky that make his hips jerk involuntarily.

“Fuck, baby, stop laughing, you’re gonna make me…” he cuts off with a helpless sound as you clench on reflex from giggling.

He retaliates by rolling you both so you’re suddenly on top, all the while the sheet is tangled around his ankle like a boa constrictor. He yanks, pulls, then his knee bangs something and his arm hits the bedside table. The lamp on it wobbles and the low, dancing lights on the ceiling make the scene look like it’s out of a low-budget horror flick.

You both stare at it, wide-eyed.

“Don’t you dare fall. We just fixed the trust issues from last week,” you whisper to the lamp. And by trust issues, you mean that one time Bucky decided to throw your bra against the lamp so hard it fell and broke the lightbulb.

Bucky wheezes. “I’m being cockblocked by furniture and my best friend. This is rock bottom.”

You choose that moment to move, a slow grind of your hips that works wonderfully at making his eyes cross. “Technically, you’re cockblocking yourself. You picked his ringtone, Bucky.”

“I was clearly a different man thirty days ago. One who didn’t understand the consequences of his drunken actions,” Bucky gasps, hands sliding down your body and settling at your hips to anchor you, thumbs digging into the soft give of your skin as he helps you ride him. The air horn finally cuts off, and you lean down, brushing your nose against his, hair falling like a curtain around both your faces.

“Think he’ll call back?”

“Let’s not keep talking about Sam,” Bucky murmurs, lips half curled up as he moves with an upward surge, doing his best to drag your attention back to him. It works, because you sink back down, the laughter in your lungs turning back into a shaky exhale. It’s still a little messy, sheets bunched awkwardly between your shins, but nothing really matters anymore when the cool of his vibranium hand fingers your inner thigh, squeezes, then moves up your stomach, crawling over the skin, before it reaches one of your breasts and palms it slowly.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes your toes curl every time. You simply nod, unsure that the right words can find you in time before you make a fool of yourself by only babbling some sounds. Your hips roll forward, Bucky meets you by thrusting up as you shift your weight to find that sweet angle again. Doesn’t take for you to find it, hands clawing at his shoulders and nails leaving its usual faint red marks behind. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

The praise makes your breath hitch in your throat, because it settles just like everything else in your relationship. Sweet, slow, still new, a little bit unexpected. Like you still can’t believe someone like Bucky Barnes would look twice your way, let alone have him under you, in his bed, calling you beautiful. He looks at you with a quiet sort of awe that makes the words land somehow deeper, branding themselves into your bloodstream. His thumb grazes your nipple, and you arch your back immediately.

“Bucky… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking sweet like that.”

He chuckles, and pulls you down until his lips are grazing the spot in your neck where your pulse is hammering. “That is kinda the point of what we’re doing.” The statement is punctuated by a sharp thrust up that steals the breath out of you, and you respond only with a high-pitched sound that is definitely not a laugh this time.

“You always make such pretty noises,” he tells you, vibranium hand sliding up from your breast to cup your jaw, cold thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. His flesh arm fully bands around your waist and keeps you pressed flush against his chest, so tight you can barely move your hips. Six weeks is enough that you recognize this: he’s about to fuck you so good you’ll see stars for an hour after.

The bed beneath you creaks in steady protest as Bucky begins fucking up into you, his movements a little harder, deeper, eyes locked on yours as if he is memorizing the exact way you look every time he pushes home. Your fingers find the sheets under him, bunching the fabric until your knuckles go white, while your lips find his in a messy kiss, tongue, spit, some not-so-sexy teeth sometimes. Every time he hits that specific spot, your toes curl and you moan into his mouth, and his arm around your waist only grips you tighter. To this day, you still wonder how he’s been the first man in your life to find that spot so quickly. And how he sticks to it every time you make love to him, like he’s got a radar in his point pointing directly to it.

“Bucky,” you whimper, the name a prayer into his lips. You try to move, but his arm is solid around you, refusing to let you move an inch.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, shifting his legs so they’re bent at the knees, giving him a better angle to slide into your heat. “Just feel me, baby. You don’t need to do anything else.”

The friction builds, an electric coil in your lower belly that’s winding tighter with every thrust. Sweat slicks his chest where it presses against yours, a few drops pooling around his neck. Your eyes glint, and you consider reaching out and licking a stripe over him, but your mind slips. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the thought flickering through your heat-fogged brain like a dare. Maybe six weeks is too soon to get a bit kinky? Are you still in the “best behavior” phase?

Maybe coincidence, maybe the universe giving you the answer you were looking for, you hear Bucky speak in a quiet tone, right into your ear.

“She feels so good around my cock.”

The words sound more like a thought he couldn’t keep inside than a deliberate statement, the kind of blunt, dirty talk that is too far removed from his polite “is this okay?” that you’re used to. But he doesn’t retract it, and your heart trashes. You hadn’t realized that Bucky, always-a-gentleman Bucky, had this particular gear in him, and it’s a revelation that shatters your “best behavior” hesitation. If he can say that…

You lean up, your tongue darting out to lick a salty, searing stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the edge of his jaw, right where beads of sweat had been pooling before.

Bucky freezes for a heartbeat, then moves his vibranium hand to the back of your neck and pulls you close until he can bury his head in your neck and inhale before his teeth gently dig into the skin. You moan, and he knows enough of you to know how good that felt to you from your sounds alone. A wall is breaking tonight. You like that. He does, too.

His pace changes, no longer steady, just urgent now, with the kind of friction that makes you see colors behind your eyelids, a building pressure that almost sends your heart beating its way out of your chest. The clumsiness hasn’t left the building; your leg cramps once when you move it slightly further away, he yelps when you pull his hair a bit too hard once (before asking you to do it again right after). But it’s part of the heat, now.

“Bucky, please,” you sob into the crook of his neck as the first waves of your orgasm begin to lap at the edges of your mind.

You’d been used to men who thought the word please meant faster, harder. Now you’re in bed with a man who knows a please when you’re right about to cum means keep doing just that.

And oh, he does.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. “Let me see you cum.”

You’d barely realized you had even closed your eyes, but you force them open anyway, vision swimming, only to find him watching you intensely, face flushed, jaw locked tight. And he keeps that soul-destroying rhythm that has your nervous system screaming until the coil in your belly snaps.

It starts as a low tremor that radiates from where you’re joined, heat that turns your bones to liquid. Your fingers dig into his shoulders and you sob, moan, maybe a mix of both, as a thousand golden sparks dance behind your eyes. All you can feel through it is the solid weight of him holding you tight.

Bucky doesn’t look away for a single second, because seeing you come apart is what does it for him, too. His muscles turn to iron, his entire body shuddering with beautiful force that has the bed frame groaning in protest. He thrusts one last time, buried as deep as he can go, and stays there until the world finally stops spinning.

When he finally rolls your bodies so you're both laying on your side, but still connected with arms wrapped around each other and legs slung over hips, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Best sex of my life. Kinda also the most chaotic.”

He huffs a laugh, nose brushing your hair. “We’re gonna get better at being smooth.”

“Don’t you dare. I want more of this.”

His expression softens, something tender and a little awed flickering across his face.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you slow this time. No rush, just the two of you learning what this feels like when it’s quiet too.

General taglist: @barnes-babydoll @buckybarnes82 @buck-star @epiphanyrogers @gremlin-girly @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @metal-armed-muse @miraclediviner @overwintering-soldier @phoenix-in-writing @solivagant-reverie @stanmarvelous @sunday-bug @wherewinterblooms @wint3rbarnes

Bucky taglist: @astronautlawliet @jbbarnesn @nigelology @starspangledspanks @yexbarnes

[theoracleofsin]

hunting season

Prompt: @melkafucks requested bloody scenes with Lee Bodecker and the prompt "Look what you made me do to you, this is what you fucking wanted?" for my Valentine's Dead Dove event ! Pairing: Sheriff Lee Bodecker x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,2k Tags: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); EXTREMELY dubcon but not fully noncon; porn without plot; knife play; blood play; masochism; power imbalance (Sheriff Lee...); rough sex; degradation; use of handcuffs; outdoor sex; p in v; unprotected sex; creampie; possessive & dark Lee Bodecker

Woods around Knockemstiff are thick and dark, thin strays of moonlight managing to pierce the canopy. Your legs move faster than they ever have, lungs pumping oxygen through your body as your bare feet tear over roots and stones. Branches claw at your arms, ripping through the thin fabric of your dress. Behind you, you can hear him, the unhurried crunch of boots coming from someone who knows all too well that you can’t outrun him forever.

Sheriff Lee Bodecker never needs to rush.

You pushed him too far this time. Smart mouth at the diner, a refusal to keep quiet when his hand had lingered too long on your hip while he paid for his coffee. A late-night call to come down to the station for "questioning", which ended up with you slipping out the back instead, heart hammering, knowing exactly what kind of questioning he had in mind. Unfortunately for you, Lee anticipated this. He’d gone after you before you had barely stepped foot into the dark woods.

A root catches your ankle and you go down hard, palm scraping dirt. Your breath is knocked out of you in a sharp gasp, and you struggle to get back up before a heavy hand clamps around the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into the leaf litter.

Fuck.

“Gotcha now, sugar,” Le drawls, slow southern syrup dripping off every syllable like always. “Now why’dcha have to run? Got me all tired for nothin’.”

You try to twist, to buck him off of you, but his grip tightens until stars burst behind your eyes. His free hand yanks your wrists behind your back, cuffing them together with the ease of someone who’s done this way too many times, and the click of metal sounds deafening in your ears.

“Let me go,” you hiss, cheek still pressed into the hard floor.

“Now why in the hell would I do that? You ran, sugar. Made me chase you clear out here like damn deer in season.” Lee leans down close, hot breath fanning your ear. “You like bein’ hunted, don’tcha? Like knowin’ I’m comin’ for ya.”

Hate grows in your gut, not because you hate him but because you hate the way your body answers to him. How heat pools in your belly even as fear claws up your throat, how your panties get a little wetter at the thought of him catching you.

Lee shifts, hauling you up by the arm until you are on your knees in front of him. Moonlight catches on the blade he pulls from his belt, a slim hunting knife, edge glinting silver. Immediately you freeze, eyes widening.

“Lee…”

“Hush now, sugar,” he says, pressing the flat of the blade under the chin and tilting your face up so you had to meet his blue eyes. “Been teasin’ me for months, girl. Actin’ like you don’t want my hands all over ya. But we both know that ain’t the truth, don’t we?”

The knife trails down, slow as molasses, tracing the line of your throat, over your collarbone. You swallow hard against the steel and he hooks the neckline of your dress and tugs, fabric parting with a soft rip. Cool night air hits your skin, nipples tightening instantly.

You know you should scream. In your head, your instinct is to fight harder, try to escape even with your cuffed hands behind your back. But when Lee presses the blade hard enough to break skin, tiny beads of blood welling along the shallow cut in the valley between your breasts, a jolt lights through your spine and straight between your legs. The pain melts into something warm and liquid, something you try to deny even when your entire body sings for it.

“Look what’cha made me do. Is this what ya fuckin’ wanted?” Lee watches your face, eyes narrowing as your lips part on a shaky breath. He drags the blade lower, carving a thin red line down the center of your chest, stopping just above your navel. The cut is not deep enough to scar badly somewhere in the near future, but it is enough to burn and make every breath ache. Blood trickles slow, warm against your chilled skin. Your thighs press together without meaning to, and you whine softly.

“There she is,” he murmurs, clearly pleased with your unwanted reactions. “Bleedin’ pretty for me and enjoyin’ it. Knew you was fucked up just like that, sugar. Goddamn sight.”

Lee shoves you back down, chest onto the forest floor. Leaves stick to the blood smearing across your skin, but you ignore the feeling as you can hear the sound of him working his belt open behind you, the sound awfully filthy and loud. You try to twist away once, mostly pride taking over, but he catches your hip, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t ya dare,” he warns. “Ya run again, I’ll stick that blade somewhere else you won’t like.”

Rough fingers push your dress up until it pools around your waist and tear your underwear aside like it is nothing. The head of his thick cock nudges against you, feeling how soaked you are before he slides in with one hard thrust. You cry out, back arching as the stretch burns you from the inside. Always the rough man that he is, barely patient, Lee doesn’t give you any time to adjust to his girth and simply starts fucking into you with punishing strokes, knife gripped tight in his fist.

He presses the blade to your thigh, draws small shallow lines that bring flares of pain; but instead of whining in suffering, your cunt clenches hard around his cock, the agony and fullness twisting together until you can’t discern between the two of them.

“That’s it, sugar,” he growls, hips snapping forward, the other hand gripping your hair and fisting it around his fingers. “Fuckin’ take it while you bleed for your sheriff.”

Tears streak your face, mixing with dirt and sweat, but your hips rock up to meet his anyway. Pain is everywhere, across your chest, in your thighs. And yet, it’s perfect. You hate him for knowing that you can’t stop this, hate him for knowing exactly how much your body is willing to take the pain only to be rewarded with pleasure. And of course, you hate yourself more for craving it.

Lee brings the knife to his tongue, licks along the blade and then leans down to crash his mouth against yours in a messy kiss. Copper taste of your own blood on his tongue when he licks deep into your mouth.

“Come while it hurts, sugar,” he rasps against your lips. “Show me how bad ya need this.”

The next thrust hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that makes lights explode behind your eyes. Combined with the sting of the cuts on your skin, the relentless rhythm, you shatter with a broken sob, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Lee groans low in his throat, pace faltering briefly as your thighs shake and he chases his own end. He buries himself to the hilt one last time and cums with a curse on his lips, flooding you, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

When he pulls out slow, his eyes watch the way you leak around the emptiness, your blood and his release mixing sticky on your thighs, turning into the prettiest shade of pink he’s ever seen. Lee wipes the blade clean on your ruined dress before sheathing it, and unlocks the cuffs with surprising gentleness, rubbing your wrists until the blood is circulating normally again."

“Good girl,” he says quietly into your ear. “Now I know ya ain’t runnin’ again.”

[superbassbuck]

the brooklyn special.

pairing: 40s!stucky x childhood best friend!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn no plot, light banter, m!masturbation, oral (m receiving), facials, size difference, innocence kink, cucking, sub!steve, soft dom!bucky, stucky homoeroticism, dirty talking, praise, pet names: "doll" "my best girl"

a/n: missing stucky hours + listening to my 40s bucky playlist inspired this fic (totally not another shameless playlist self plug)

word count: 10.1k masterlist

synopsis: After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head with a glass of whiskey cold in his hand. “Look at you. Those muscles are practically busting out of your uniform.”

If it weren’t for the dim light of the bar, Bucky might’ve caught the flush creeping up Steve’s neck. Steve shifted, gripping his own glass before bringing it to his lips.

“I don’t know why we’re even here,” Steve said, draining the amber liquid in one go. “I can’t even get drunk.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I can, so we’re drinking. Just admire the notes of oak or whatever.”

Steve scoffed, but he couldn’t stop a smirk from tugging at his mouth. It was impossible to stay moody around Bucky. “It tastes like gasoline.”

Bucky threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh. As he straightened up, his eyes involuntarily drifted over Steve’s frame. Ever since the serum had transformed his friend, Bucky found himself constantly cataloging the… substantial changes.

Steve’s chest strained against his white T-shirt, his biceps flexing against the tight sleeves every time he moved. His jaw was chiseled now, his features sharper. Back then, Steve would have choked on a sip of cheap whiskey; now, the burn barely seemed to register. Bucky watched, mesmerized, as Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.

“So, tell me what this serum is actually doing to you,” Bucky asked, his laughter dying down. His eyes trailed down to Steve’s chest. “Other than making you outgrow your damn clothes… how are you feeling?”

Steve let out a long, grounded sigh of satisfaction, setting his glass back on the scarred wood of the table with a thud.

“I feel… good. Like everything is heightened—” he raised a hand to chest level, “—up to here. Both inside and out.”

Bucky raised his glass, blue eyes peering down to Steve’s lap just over the rim. “That so?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky took a slow swallow and set his own drink down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Explain it to me. What exactly is it about you that’s heightened on the inside?”

Steve shifted, the wooden chair creaking under his new, heavy weight. His brows furrowed as he searched for the right words.

“It’s like a mental amplification. Everything that feels good feels… great. And everything that feels bad feels that much worse.”

He swallowed hard, his fingers beginning to fidget against the tabletop—a nervous habit the serum hadn’t managed to take away. He hesitated on whether to keep going.

Bucky, ever attuned to Steve’s patterns of hesitation, leaned in closer, trying to gauge the rest out of him.

“And?” Bucky prodded softly.

Steve parted his lips, his face coloring slightly, before pressing them thin and shaking his head. “That’s about it, really.”

Bucky raised a brow, noting the flush as it crept over his friend’s chiseled features. There was clearly something internal Steve wasn’t mentioning—something he was actively holding back. It felt wrong. Usually, Steve was an open book around Bucky.

“Alright, well,” Bucky muttered, deciding not to pry—at least not yet. He pushed himself off the barstool with a grunt. “Let’s go show our girl your new look, yeah? She should be waiting at the park.”

Steve’s lips quirked into a faint, lopsided smile. He took one last sip of the whiskey—for courage, Bucky suspected—and stood up, his frame nearly blocking out the overhead light of the bar.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Let’s go.”

After the two men settled their bill, they stepped out of the bar and into the crisp night air. They made their way toward the park, the streetlamps casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement.

There you were, sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree. You looked like a vision pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine, dressed in an off-white collared blouse and a long, pleated skirt, with a simple cardigan draped over your shoulders.

The soft glow of the moonlight caught the curve of your smile as you finally looked up from your book, noticing Bucky and Steve approaching.

“Bucky!” you beamed, standing up and snapping your book shut. “Steve!”

As you drew closer, Steve stopped dead in his tracks.

It felt as though the air had been kicked right out of his lungs. His heart, now amplified by the serum, hammered frantically against his ribs. He had seen you a thousand times before, but seeing you now—with every sense dialed up to ten—was like a man seeing color for the first time.

Your scent—a fragrance he used to only catch when he was standing right beside you—carried on with the breeze, finding his nostrils instantly.

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief, dizzying second as he breathed you in.

Bucky slowed to a halt a step behind him, noticing the way Steve’s shoulders locked and how his gaze became hopelessly anchored to you.

Deep down, Bucky had always known Steve had a soft spot for you—hell, everyone did. Even Bucky had one, and he was shameless about it. But there was something different in the way Steve stiffened this time, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder just how much that serum had changed him on the inside.

“You guys had me waitin’ forever,” you met them halfway, smiling eyes darting between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got yourselves drunk.”

“Never that, doll,” Bucky offered you a tipsy, lopsided grin. “Our boy here couldn’t get a buzz going if he drank the whole bar dry.” He gave Steve a pointed nudge with his elbow. “Notice anything… different about him?”

You blinked, eyes drifting up to meet Steve’s. You tilted your head slightly, book held close to your chest. “Did you get taller?”

Bucky snickered as your gaze began a slow, bewildered trail down to Steve’s torso. “And since when did you suddenly start working out?”

“Jeez, you really need to start picking up the morning newsletter, doll.” Bucky laughed, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulder and hauling you into his side. You stumbled slightly against him, rolling your eyes at his familiar theatrics, but he kept you tucked firm under his wing. He pointed a triumphant finger at Steve. “This man right here just got injected with the Super Soldier serum.”

“Super soldier?” you repeated with a soft gasp. You stepped out from under Bucky’s arm, looking at Steve wide-eyed. “Steve, what on earth…?”

Your book was now tucked under one arm as your free hand reached out, hovering for a second before your fingers finally made contact with his bicep. The fabric of his usually loose T-shirt was straining and spreading tight across his muscles.

“Is that really you in there?” you teased, your hand sliding up his shoulder, then tracing the broad and wide expanse of his chest.

The propriety of your actions didn’t even cross your mind; you were simply enamored by the sheer mass of him.

You gave his forearm a squeeze, marveling at how your fingers couldn’t even meet halfway around it anymore. Just a few weeks ago, you had been the taller one—now, he was a mountain of a man, looming over you with a shadow that felt protective.

“Steve, you look great… you feel great, too—I mean, how are you feeling?” You blinked up at him, pressing your palm against his to compare their sizes.

Steve looked like he was about to combust on the spot.

The sensation of your small, soft hand wandering over his new frame and resting in his own rough palm was an absolute assault on his composure. Everywhere you touched felt like it was catching fire, the serum amplifying the friction of your skin against his until his blood felt like it was boiling.

He tried to speak, but his throat had gone bone dry. Bucky, of course, noticed immediately.

“I… yeah. Thanks. I feel good,” Steve stammered, nodding firmly as he looked down at you, a stray blond lock falling over his eyes. “I feel really, really good.”

You giggled at his familiar stuttering, finally pulling your hand away from his palm to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.

Steve, meanwhile, felt a sudden warm ache pooling in his lower stomach—a physical reaction so intense it made his head spin.

Your giggle, your scent, the way you looked at him—everything he had loved about you before the serum was now heightened to an overwhelming pitch.

He shifted awkwardly, his trousers becoming uncomfortably, visibly tight, but there was nowhere to hide in the moonlight.

Bucky, standing just a few feet away, watched the flush deepen from Steve’s neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes drifted down, catching the unmistakable, growing bulge that pushed against his friend’s trousers.

Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from howling right there in the park.

“Steve, you’re shaking,” you said softly, completely oblivious to his predicament as you moved your hand to the center of his chest to check his heart rate. “Is the serum making you sick? Your heart feels like it’s going a mile a minute.”

“N-no! No, I’m—I’m fine,” Steve choked out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. He was terrified that if he actually touched you back, he’d lose all of his self-control. “Just… feels like a lot of energy. It’s a lot to take in.”

Bucky cleared his throat, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips as he stepped back into the conversation. “Yeah, I’d say he’s got a lot of energy built up right now. Might be a biological side effect—right, Steve?”

Steve returned his words with a glare, and Bucky only snickered louder.

“Let’s not stay out too late,” you said, looking around the quiet park, your voice airy and warm. “My mother baked a fresh batch of gingersnaps before she headed out for the evening. She left them on the counter and specifically told me to share them with you both.”

“Gingersnaps?” Bucky’s grin widened. “My favorite. Your mother always did have a soft spot for me.”

“For us,” Steve corrected, his voice low and territorial. He looked back at you. “We’re excited to try them, sweetheart. I’m quite hungry, actually.”

You laughed softly, playfully beckoning them with a wave of your hand as you turned on your heel.

You began leading the way toward your apartment building just across the street, calling back, “Come on! They’re probably still warm.”

As you walked ahead, the long, pleated skirt of your dress swayed with every step. The fabric clung and released over the curve of your hips in a rhythm that felt far too provocative for Steve’s new, heightened senses.

He couldn’t look away.

His gaze was hopelessly locked onto the way you moved, his mind clouded with feelings that were a mixture of protectiveness and something… unfamiliar and hungry.

Bucky nudged him hard in the ribs, leaning in close enough to whisper, “Careful there, Steve. You keep staring like that, you’re gonna burn a hole right through her skirt.”

Steve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, his face flushing. “Shut up, Buck,” he hissed, though his eyes darted right back to you the second he regained his footing.

“I’m just saying,” Bucky chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he sauntered beside his friend. “Usually, you’re the one lecturing me about being a gentleman. Now look at you—standing there like a dog watching a steak dinner.”

You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow at their whispering. “What are you two plotting back there?”

Steve stood up straighter, and Bucky shook his hand in a dismissive wave despite the smile he tried to fight. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, doll. Just lead the way—we’re right behind you.”

You frowned playfully, but kept on walking anyway. “I don’t like it when you two keep things from me.”

Steve felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of your lips turned into a little pout. He was still struggling to keep his walk natural, his trousers feeling tighter with every step he took behind you.

“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice coming out a pitch deeper than he intended. “It’s nothing a girl like you would ever want to know. Just… stupid locker room talk.”

He waited until you turned your back to them before leaning toward Bucky’s ears.

“Behave,” he whisper-yelled in warning.

“Oh—come on,” Bucky smiled, adjusting his jacket as he met his friend’s panicked eyes. “I’m a saint, Steve.”

Once the three of you reached the building, you led the way up the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The rhythmic click of your heels on the creaky wooden steps was the only sound in the quiet hall.

Bucky leaned back slightly as he climbed, his gaze hooked shamelessly on the sway of your skirt.

A look of pure appreciation settled on his face, his tongue darted over his lower lip as he considered just how much his best childhood friend had grown up.

Steve, walking right beside him, felt a sharp surge of protectiveness at the way Bucky was cataloging your every move. He jutted a heavy elbow into Bucky’s ribs—a blow that, with his new strength, nearly sent Bucky over the banister.

“Be respectful!” Steve hissed, his jaw locked.

Bucky wheezed quietly, clutching his side.

“Jeez, Steve… watch the hardware,” he grunted, trying to catch his breath. “And don’t give me that lecture, pal. You’re looking just as hard as I am.” His eyes drifted pointedly down to the front of Steve’s trousers. “Probably harder, considering you’ve got the vision of a hawk now.”

You paused in front of your door, fishing the keys out of your purse. You raised a skeptical brow at the two of them. “What is going on with you two?”

Steve caught his breath, smoothing his expression as he closed the distance between you. He forced a stiff smile.

“Nothing,” he said. “We’re just excited for those cookies. Been thinking about them all the way here.”

Bucky let out a muffled snort behind him, but Steve ignored it, keeping his focus on your eyes.

You chuckled and shook your head, pushing the door open. “Well, don’t just stand there like statues. Come in.”

Steve crossed the threshold with Bucky lingering right behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, Steve realized that coming here so soon after the serum had been a mistake.

The apartment was a sensory trap. Away from the biting wind of the street, your scent was no longer just a trace on the breeze—it was everywhere. It was in the perfume lingering on your soft skin, the traces of your familiar vanilla scent in the kitchen, and on the lived-in warmth of the sofa.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” you said, heading straight for the kitchen.

Steve didn’t move.

He stood in the center of the living room, his body as rigid as a bag of bricks. Every muscle in his legs and back was coiled like a high tension spring. His hands were balled into fists at his sides just to keep them from shaking.

You returned a moment later, carrying a ceramic plate of gingersnaps and tea to the coffee table.

To Steve, you looked effortlessly domestic, the soft light of the floor lamp catching the stray flyaways of your hair like a soft halo.

As you sat on the sofa, you crossed one leg over the other, causing the hem of your skirt to hike up an inch or two higher than usual. It revealed the smooth line of your calf, covered only by a flimsy, sheer stocking that Steve felt he could easily rip with the slightest twitch of his hands.

A roar of blood rushed to Steve’s ears. He felt himself straining very painfully against his trousers, his fingers twitching with a desperate longing to touch you.

“Sit down, Steve,” Bucky prompted, giving his friend a nudge in the back toward the sofa. “Relax a little.”

Bucky sank into the armchair, leaving the spot on the sofa right next to you wide open. He looked at Steve, then at the empty cushion, and finally at Steve’s visible predicament, his eyebrows rising in amusement.

“Yeah, come here, Steve,” you said, scooting over and patting the empty space next to you.

Steve swallowed hard, taking long, stiff strides until he finally sank onto the small sofa.

The cushions dipped precariously and the wooden frame groaned under his heavy weight. He found his knees sitting much higher than usual, making him look even more like a giant in a dollhouse.

“Man,” Bucky laughed, lifting a cup of tea to his lips. “You’re gonna break the damn furniture, Stevie.”

Steve mumbled a shy, “sorry,” his face burning.

You just shook your head, ignoring Bucky’s usual teasing. You picked up a gingersnap and brought it to Steve’s lips, cupping your other hand beneath it to catch any stray crumbs.

“Say ah.”

Bucky nearly choked, a spray of tea flying back into his cup.

Steve had turned a shade of red that was impossible to hide, the color racing from his collar to his hairline until even his ears were glowing. He sat there frozen—his jaw hanging slightly as he looked from the cookie in your hand to the teasing glimmer shining in your eyes.

“Well?” Bucky taunted, leaning forward in his armchair and clattering his saucer down on the table.

He was enjoying this far too much.

“Don’t keep the lady waiting, Steve. Go on. Say ‘ah’ for the misses.”

Steve pressed his lips together, giving Bucky a hard glare from across the couch.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Steve,” you teased, nudging the gingersnap closer to his mouth. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”

Bucky let out a low, wicked whistle. “He’s real hungry, doll. Starving, I’d say. Just look at him—he’s already drooling for a bite.”

“Bucky—” Steve’s jaw dropped in indignation at his friend’s shamelessness, and you seized the opportunity to slide the edge of the cookie past his teeth.

“There,” you hummed, reaching out to catch a small crumb off his bottom lip with a slow swipe of your thumb. “Was that so hard?”

Steve wished the worn cushions would open up and swallow him whole—because hard was exactly what he was. The simple graze of your thumb swiping over his lip was enough to make his whole body shudder. The feel of your lingering touch tingled on his lips, the sensation only making him dangerously need you more.

“Hell,” Steve muttered through the quiet munching. “Would you… please excuse me—”

He stood up so abruptly the sofa groaned. He kept his back turned to you, his hand dropping to swiftly, desperately adjust the painful bulge pushing up against his pants. He took stiff, heavy strides toward the bathroom, each footstep making the delicate floorboards thud and creak under his heavy body.

After Steve disappeared around the corner, you turned to Bucky. He was leaning back in the armchair, looking entirely too smug for his own good.

“Is everything okay with him?” you asked softly. “He’s been acting so… jumpy. Is the serum hurting him? Maybe he needs a doctor.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, swiping a gingersnap from the plate. He took a slow bite, savoring the sweetness before his eyes met yours, something mischievous and knowing behind those orbs.

“Hurting him? No, sweetheart. I don’t think ‘pain’ is what Stevie’s feeling right now,” Bucky said, his gaze drifting toward the hallway. “The scientists told him the serum doesn’t just change the muscles. It amplifies everything inside—his heart, his nerves, and his…” He paused, his eyes landing back on yours, “… instincts.”

You blinked, still not quite catching the drift. “Instincts? Like his reflexes?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Bucky replied with a casual shrug, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees to bridge the gap between you. “See, Steve was always the type to keep to himself when it came to women. But that serum? It turned him into a real man—in every sense of the word.”

You tilted your head curiously, and Bucky chuckled at your naivety before pressing on.

“Everything he sees, everything he smells… everything he feels… it’s all ten times more intense than it used to be.” Bucky paused, raising a dark brow. “You followin’ me, doll?”

“I’m trying to,” you murmured, though a slight heat was beginning to prickle at your cheeks.

Bucky glanced toward the closed bathroom door. “Usually, Steve’s got a lot of willpower. But you sitting there, feeding him and touching him like that?” A wolfish grin tugged at his mouth. “I bet it’s taking every ounce of strength in that new body of his just to remember how to be a gentleman.”

You followed Bucky’s gaze toward the darkened hallway, your lower lip poking out in a slight, troubled pout.

“But… is he hurting?” you asked, your heart aching at the thought of Steve in any kind of distress. “If the serum is making things that intense, it sounds… painful.”

Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you’re so innocent doll. That’s why we love you.” He shook his head, leaning back as he watched the gears slowly turn in your head.

“Listen to me,” he continued. “Steve is a gentleman. Always has been, always will be. He’d sooner jump on a grenade than be disrespectful to a lady—but at the end of the day, he’s a man. And a man has certain… needs. Especially when he’s sitting inches away from the person he’s been head over heels in love with since we were all knee high to a grasshopper.”

Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes went wide to meet his. “Steve… Steve likes me? Like that?”

Bucky gave you a boyish grin.

“Like doesn’t even begin to cover it, sweetheart. He’s had it bad for you for about a decade,” he teased before he tilted his head and gave you a slight pout. “Now, don’t go getting me too jealous, either. I’ve got a heart too, you know.”

A deep, hot flush crept up your neck and nestled into your cheeks. You could hardly wrap your mind around the idea that Steve… kind, stalwart Steve, actually liked you.

Between that revelation and the way Bucky was staring, you found yourself shifting restlessly on the cushion, rubbing your legs together subtly as if to soothe a sudden warm itch.

Bucky’s eyes dropped, tracking the way your skirt shifted over your thighs. He let out a low amusing hum at the way you wriggled beneath his scrutiny, his own expression darkening with interest.

“If he’s feeling… uncomfortable around me,” you started, your voice small and flustered, “is there anything I can do to help him? I don’t want him to be in pain.”

Bucky watched your legs work together for a moment before dragging his eyes back to yours. “You want to help him, do you?”

“Of course,” you nodded earnestly, meeting his stare with wide, sincere eyes. “I’d do anything to help you two if you were in distress. You’re my best friends.”

Bucky’s grin shifted, wider and somehow more predatory. He leaned in an inch closer, his voice dropping deeper. “Anything, sweetheart?”

Steve walked back into the living room. He looked slightly more composed, though his hair was damp at the temples where he had splashed his face with cold water.

His shirt was tucked in tight—perhaps too tight—and he kept his arms stiff at his sides as he approached the sofa. He stopped in his tracks, his frame large in the small room, when he saw how closely Bucky was leaning toward you and the stiff, flustered way you were sitting.

“Everything alright?” Steve asked. His eyes darted suspiciously between his smug best friend and your embarrassed expression.

“Are you feeling alright, Steve?” you asked softly, looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Bucky said the… um, the serum… it might be making things difficult for you?”

Steve froze.

He stared down at Bucky, his eyes blown wide with a mix of shock and betrayal. He opened his mouth to stammer out a polite lie—to tell you he was perfectly fine and that Bucky was just talking nonsense—but Bucky didn’t give him the chance.

“I told our girl here all about your little predicament, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted with a gravelly purr. He leaned back, relishing the way Steve’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. “Told her how all those new nerves of yours are screaming for a bit of... relief.”

Steve’s face went from pale to a scorched, blistering red. “Buck, shut it—”

“And the best part?” Bucky continued, ignoring the warning as he looked up at his friend with taunting eyes. “She’s a real sweetheart, Steve. She told me she’s willing to do just about anything to help you out of your distress. Isn’t that right, doll?”

Steve’s gaze flickered down to you, searching your face as if he were waiting for you to deny it—or perhaps, secretly hoping for your confirmation.

“Anything,” Bucky repeated for you, his voice low and suggestive. “She’s got a real generous heart, Steve. I think she’s just waiting for you to tell her exactly what a big, strong soldier like you needs to feel better.”

Steve’s chest felt like it was closing in on his heart. Your eyes—still wide and guileless—never broke away from his, and it only made his restraint weaker.

“What do you need from me, Steve?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “If you’re hurting… if there’s something I can do to make this easier on you, just tell me.”

If you could be any more innocent, Steve swore he would lose his mind. He had a sudden, violent urge to pin you down on the couch and fuck you right there.

“I… I don’t…” Steve stammered, his voice trailing off as he heard Bucky push himself off the armchair.

Bucky stepped up behind Steve and reached out and to give Steve a firm nudge toward you, forcing his large frame even deeper into your personal space until he was practically looming over your lap.

“Look at her, Steve,” Bucky cooed next to Steve’s ear. “You’ve got the girl of your dreams sittin’ right in front of you, offering her help, and you’re not gonna accept it?”

Steve felt like he could burst right through the seams of his trousers just from looking at you. Your eyes kept flicking down to the heavy, undeniable bulge in front of you before darting back up to his, your teeth nervously strumming over your bottom lip as you fought the urge to stare.

Bucky noticed.

Of course, Bucky noticed.

He let out a sly grin before reaching around and flattening his palm directly over the straining bulge in Steve’s pants. He had done it so casually that you almost believed this wasn’t the first time he’d handled his friend.

“Fuck,” Steve’s eyes snapped wide, head turning to Bucky’s in shock but not pulling away. “B-Buck—!”

“Look at this, doll,” Bucky hummed darkly. He didn’t break eye contact with you as his fingers flexed, squeezing the length of Steve’s cock through the fabric. “You see how hard he is? How much he’s shaking just because you’re lookin’ at him?”

Steve let out a low, involuntary whimper—a sound so ungentlemanly it made his face burn even hotter. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and desperate, pleading for you to either stop this or finish it.

“P-please…”

Bucky gave Steve a firm squeeze, his fingers curling around Steve’s bulge. The pressure made Steve’s head roll back, a deep, broken groan vibrating out of his throat as his body betrayed him.

A dark, damp circle began to bloom against the front of his light-colored trousers, the fabric darkening as a heavy bead of pre-cum soaked through, marking him right where Bucky’s thumb was pressing.

Bucky let out a low, dark chuckle as he relished the way his friend was falling apart beneath his hand.

“Look at that, doll,” Bucky urged, voice raspy.

He shifted his palm slightly to smear the growing dampness into the cloth, making the stain even more obvious and Steve even more shameful. “See what you’re doin’ to him? He’s so worked up for you, he can’t even keep himself dry.”

Steve was trembling where he stood, his massive shoulders shaking as he looked down at his ruined pants before his gaze snapped back to yours—raw and shamelessly.

“Buck… stop,” he whined. It was a pathetic, needy sound, and despite every ounce of strength in his new muscles he could use to push Bucky off, he didn’t. He stayed rooted to the spot, leaning into the touch. “You’re… you’re scaring her…”

“Scaring her?” Bucky chuckled. “I’m not scaring her. Look her in the eye, Stevie. She wants you just as bad.”

Bucky glanced over at you, tilting his head with a flash of innocence that didn’t match the way his hand was still working Steve through his trousers. “Isn’t that right, doll? Don’t you want to help our poor, big Stevie?”

“How should I…” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked up at the two large men looming over you. “What should I do?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “Get down on your knees, sweetheart. A man loves to see his woman on her knees for him.”

A small gasp escaped you, and you looked up at Steve as if waiting for his approval. He didn’t deny it—his brows were pinched together and his jaw hung open as his chest heaved in deep, heavy breaths. Finally, you slid off the cushions and sank onto the rug. From this angle, Steve looked like a titan, and the damp stain on his trousers sat right at eye level.

Steve swore he could bust right then and there just from seeing you on your knees.

“Now,” Bucky commanded softly. His hand finally let go of Steve’s cock to rest on top of his head, his fingers threading firmly through Steve’s blonde hair. “Open ‘em up. Nice and slow.”

“Slow?” Steve whined.

Bucky clicked his tongue. “He’s been waiting a long time for this, he can wait a little longer.”

With trembling fingers, you reached for the buttons of his trousers. The fabric was strained to the limit, and as you worked them free one by one, the rigid, pulsing heat of him began to push through the opening.

When the last button gave way, Steve’s cock snapped free, heavy and thick.

You gasped at the size. You weren’t sure how it was going to fit in your hand.

“There he is,” Bucky cooed, his hand tightening in Steve’s hair as he forced Steve's head down to look at you. “Now, wrap your hand around him. Take a good grip so he knows he’s yours.”

You reached out, your small hand barely able to meet around the girth of him. The feel of your warm, amateur palm wrapping around his skin made Steve’s eyes shutter closed instantly in pleasure.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve cursed, his hips instinctively bucking forward for more.

“Look at that,” Bucky chuckled.“Can’t even fit her whole hand around you—but it feels good, doesn’t it? So much better than your own hand.”

“So…” Steve moaned, his hips drawing back slightly before he thrusted himself into your palm, “much… better. Fuck—”

You tightened your grip, swiping your thumb over the pre-cum that gathered at his tip and over his cockhead. The friction of your palm against his over sensitized skin made Steve’s knees buckle, his large frame swaying as he looked down at you through his haze of lust.

“See that, doll?” Bucky rumbled above you. “Steve’s a man now—and a man like this… sometimes a hand just isn’t enough to please him. Isn’t that right, Stevie?”

Steve didn’t, couldn’t, give him a coherent answer. He was busy babbling broken, desperate sounds into the air, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest. “God… please,” he breathed. “Her hand.. it’s so soft—so warm.”

Your face was on fire. You could feel yourself wetting your panties with every heavy breath and grunt that escaped Steve’s lips. And the way Bucky was shamelessly watching you, that wicked little knowing grin plastered on his face, only made you feel smaller—utterly helpless under both of them.

Bucky’s cock was practically jumping out of his pants as his eyes were fixed on the way your small hand looked against Steve.

“Shit. I think he needs more, sweetheart.” He breathed. “I think he needs more, sweetheart. Stick your tongue out. I want you to use that pretty tongue of yours. Lick it—all the way up—and then I want you to take as much of him as you can into your small little mouth.”

You hesitated, your breath hitching as you stared up at the two men.

“I… I’ve never... sucked before—” you confessed, tiny and trembling.

The admission made you sink back on your heels, suddenly overwhelmed. You had Steve right in front of you, practically panting for anything you were willing to give him, which should have made you feel confident—but the performance anxiety was taking its toll.

You were terrified you wouldn’t be able to satisfy Steve, and the weight of Bucky’s watchful and critical gaze only made it worse.

But Bucky didn’t look disappointed.

In fact, his grin grew wider.

“Even better,” Bucky purred. He leaned over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours. “That just means Stevie here gets to be the one to teach you. And don’t you worry, doll... we’re gonna make sure you learn exactly how to take care of a man.”

Bucky’s hand slid down Steve’s forearm, his grip tightening as he nudged him toward you. “Help her out, Stevie. Grab her hair.”

Steve hesitated. His eyes dropped to the plump curve of your lips, and his cock twitched as he imagined the heat of your mouth wrapping around him. Slowly, as if expecting you to pull away, his thick fingers tangled into your hair.

When you let out a soft, shaky sigh at the feel of his touch, Steve took it as the only permission he needed. He tugged a little firmer now, guiding your face closer to his hard length until you stumbled forward on your knees with a small whimper.

“Tell her, Steve,” Bucky urged, his eyes fixed on your trembling lips. “Tell her exactly what you want her to do with that pretty mouth.”

Steve’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, with a hand tight around the base of his cock, he guided himself right to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darted out at the pre-cum collecting at his slit, and Steve’s entire body shuddered with every effort it took from slamming his cock into your mouth.

“How does it taste, sweetheart?” Steve breathed, gauging your expression.

You looked up at him, your eyes a little hazy as the salty taste of him settled on your tongue. It was a completely new sensation—warm, strong, and undeniably masculine.

“It’s… a little salty,” you admitted gently “Is it supposed to taste like that?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, his hand coming up to grip Steve’s shoulder as he pressed himself into his back, his cock subtly rubbing up against the cleft of Steve’s ass through the fabric of his own pants. “Aw. Isn’t that cute? Just a little taste and our girl’s already curious.”

“Open… please,” Steve rasped.

Between the sight of your waiting mouth and the insistent pressure of Bucky behind him, his senses were completely overwhelmed.

“Open your mouth all the way for me, sweetheart,” Steve let out a shaking breath.

He guided his throbbing, slicked head of his cock back to your lips, his fingers tightening instinctively in your hair. “I need to feel how warm your mouth is… I need you to take me.”

Shyly, you parted your lips. At the sight of your tongue, Steve took it as a final invitation to lose himself. He nudged your head closer to his cock until your lips stretched over his sensitive head. Already overwhelmed by the sensation of your plump lips sliding over his sensitive flesh, Steve let out a low, guttural growl and tossed his head back.

“Oh, hell…” he cursed, bucking his hips forward without warning.

Steve’s cock slid over your wet tongue and buried itself deep in your mouth. Your eyes went wide as you let out a muffled, helpless choke around his length. That small sound only made your throat tighten around his shaft, and the combination of your sweet, pained noises and the warmth was enough to shatter Steve’s last bit of control.

“Shit… that feels… fuck,” Steve whined, his hips snapping deeper into your mouth. “Feels too damn good—”

“Whoa, Stevie,” Bucky chuckled, though his own breath was hitching as he watched. He reached down, his hand landing heavy on Steve’s hip to try and still him. “Slow down, pal. You’re gonna choke the poor girl if you keep lunging like a wild animal. Take it easy.”

“I—I can’t…” Steve gasped, his head rolling back against Bucky’s shoulder.

His eyes were blown wide and glassy with a terrifying haze of lust. His thrusts became more frantic, his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a wet, vulgar slapping sound.

“Fuck, Bucky… do you see how she’s looking at me?” Steve grumbled, his voice a wrecked, low vibration.

He looked down at you, watching the way your eyes stayed locked on his even as you struggled to accommodate his size.

“She’s chokin’ around me… I can feel her throat squeezing me… but she’s not looking away.”

He glanced back at Bucky, blonde hair falling over his sweat beaded brow in messy, golden strands. “That—that means she wants it, right? She wants me to keep goin’?”

Your eyes grew wide and teary, your warm, wet throat closing in tight around him as he drove himself in to the hilt. You choked and coughed, drooling helplessly around his thick shaft as his pelvis collided with your nose with every thrust.

“Mmph—!”

“Fuckin’ hell, Steve…” Bucky cursed. “Slow down—you’re breaking her.”

Breaking you.

The mere idea of it—the very woman he had sought after for years, now pinned on her knees beneath him, servicing his cock—was too much to bear. Your eyes, usually so wide with wonder and kindness, were now glassy and teary as your mouth stretched to accommodate him.

The sight of your vulnerability was the final spark. It was enough to make him cum on the spot.

“Fuck… I can’t—shit, not when she’s looking at me like that…” Steve groaned, rocking his hips faster against your mouth.

“Ste—ve—mmph..”

“You like this, don’t you?” he breathed, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at the messy, beautiful ruin of your face. “My girl… my best girl… taking all of me.”

And then you nodded—a small, subtle little movement you managed to get out despite the possessive grip Steve had on your hair. That tiny invitation made his cock throb violently inside your mouth, pulsing once, twice, before his release finally consumed him and your mouth.

“Look at her, Buck!” Steve beamed, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest as he drove himself into your throat one last time. “She’s so… fuck… she’s so perfect. God, I’m cumming—!”

Bucky watched, enamored, as Steve’s thick seed flooded your mouth. Steve held your head down, his fingers still tangled in your hair, as his release seeped around the stretch of your lips and down your chin, dripping obscenely onto the floor.

Your face—usually so pretty, soft, and composed—was now fucked to filth. Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, and your lips and chin were smeared with a mask of saliva and Steve’s cum.

It was a sight vulgar enough to make Bucky almost feel bad for you.

Almost.

The sensation of Steve’s salty, warm, and thick cum hitting the back of your throat was like a drug filling your head. His cock throbbed tiredly in your mouth, Steve finally coming down from his high. He let out a long, shaky breath and pulled out of your wet, sore mouth with a heavy, sloppy pop.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Steve rasped, his voice filled with regret as he took in the sight of you—kneeling on the floor, breathless and covered in his mess. “Look at you. I ruined you. I didn’t mean to be so—God, please let me help you up.”

He started to reach for your shoulders, his large palms open and trembling, but he was cut off by the sharp sound of Bucky’s belt being unbuckled.

“Get up, Steve.”

Bucky’s voice wasn’t a suggestion but rather an authoritative command that made no move for arguments. He nudged Steve back with a firm, steady hand, his eyes never leaving your messy, dazed face.

“That’s not a way to treat a woman now, Steve,” Bucky purred, finally extending a hand to you. His fingers were steady, a contrast to Steve’s shaking frame. “Our girl has never sucked a cock before—and yet here you are, slamming your pelvis down her throat and ruinin’ her.”

Steve’s face flushed with embarrassment and shame. His eyes flickered to Bucky’s briefly before looking back at yours with guilt.

“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I… I lost control.”

You reached up, wiping the corner of your mouth as Bucky’s hand closed around yours, pulling you to your feet. “It’s okay—”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Steve,” Bucky interrupted with a sharp click of his tongue, shaking his head.

He pointed to the seat directly behind Steve—the one Bucky had just vacated. “Sit down. Since you don’t know how to pace yourself, I’m going to show you how to properly please a woman.”

Steve swallowed hard, watching your debauched face blink up at Bucky with a dazed curiosity. His heartstrings pulled knowing how brutally he’d just fucked your face, and reluctantly, he took a seat as instructed.

You felt Bucky’s warm breath hit the back of your neck as he pressed up behind you—his bulge rubbing firm against the fabric of your skirt as his hands circled from behind you to your front, undoing the buttons on your blouse one at a time.

“You have to take your time with a fragile woman like her,” Bucky said raspily, his nose finding the crook of your neck and pressing soft, wet kisses between each sentence. “You need to savor this moment—undress her slowly as if unwrapping a delicate present.”

Your blouse was finally undone, and you heard the small gasp that left Steve’s lips at the sight of your lacey bra.

Swiftly, as if he had done this plenty of times before, Bucky undid your bra in one quick moment, the lace hitting the ground.

“Oh—!” you gasped as Bucky’s hands immediately found your nipples, giving them soft and teasing tugs as he circled his digits around the sensitive flesh.

In reaction, your back arched against his chest, only making your ass rub up against Bucky’s straining cock even more.

“Bucky…” Steve breathed from the couch, his hands already working at his half-hard cock. “What’re you… doing…”

“You’ve gotta play with her for a bit,” Bucky explained, giving your nipple a harsher tug that made you squeal. “Hear that, Steve? Means she likes it.”

He nuzzled his nose closer to your face, blue eyes piercing through yours.

“Do you like it, doll?”

“I… I do…”

You were cut off with Bucky’s hand sliding up to your chin and giving your cheeks a firm squeeze in his direction.

“Look at me when you answer, baby,” he warned. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, Bucky... I l-love it,” you whimpered as his hands continued their possessive roam over your body.

Bucky’s grin was dark and satisfied, his thumb grazing the corner of your swollen mouth. “Good. Eye contact is important. Now…”

He reached out, his hand hooking under your chin and firmly turning your face to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve looked completely spent, his blue eyes wide and glazed with a heavy, post orgasmic haze as he watched you from the couch, his hand resting lazily over the rise of his cock.

“Look Steve in the eye while I touch you,” Bucky commanded, his fingers digging slightly into your cheeks to keep your head still. “Tell him how good it feels.”

You shivered, your eyes locking onto Steve’s. He looked so vulnerable, yet so hungry, his chest heaving as he watched his best friend’s hands work over you.

“Don’t keep him waiting.” Bucky urged.

“It… it feels so good, Steve,” you breathed as Bucky continued to grope you. “Bucky’s hands… they’re so warm—I love how he’s touching me—”

Steve let out a choked sound at your words, one hand stroking his shaft while the other gripped the arm rest. “Jesus…”

“He’s got a lot to learn, doesn’t he, baby?” Bucky murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your skirt and unzipping the side, letting the fabric fall over your legs and hit the ground. “Tell him how it feels when I do this.”

A mewl escaped your lips the moment Bucky slyly slid his hand down the waistband of your panties, his fingers gently rubbing at your clit before delving deeper against your folds. He shifted around you, one hand groping at your chest,waist, and hips—while the other fingered your wet cunt.

“Ah—Buck!”

“My,” Bucky chuckled, clicking his tongue. “She’s so wet.”

Steve swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the sight of Bucky’s hand disappearing into your lace. “Is she?”

“Long before I even started touchin’ her, I bet,” Bucky explained, nudging his knee between your legs to force them to spread wider for him. “That’s all because of you, Steve. You worked her up so good—she’s dripping around my fingers.”

Still standing and completely exposed to both of the hungry men, you felt Bucky’s fingers probe against your entrance, giving you a few teasing strokes before he pushed firmly against the tight heat of your hole.

You arched your back, whining high in your throat as Bucky’s fingers sheathed completely inside you—at first stroking gently before he began to move roughly, enticing shamelessly wet sounds out of you.

“Oh my God—!” you cried.

You squelched around his fingers as he worked your slick folds. Steve’s eyes widened, his breath completely caught in his throat as he watched your body react so easily to Bucky’s hands.

“You hear that, Stevie?” Bucky groaned, increasing the pace in his fingers while rubbing himself against your back. “When a woman sounds like that—it means she’s ready. Ready to be fucked.”

With a sharp tug, Bucky hooked his fingers into the lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed and shivering in the center of the room.

He rested a heavy hand on your lower back, his palm hot against your skin as he guided you toward the couch.

“On the couch, doll. Front and center.”

You stumbled slightly, your knees weak and your inner thighs a slick, aching mess. You barely had time to settle onto the cushions before Bucky was already unbuckling his belt, his pants hitting the floor as he exposed himself completely.

He stepped in, his thighs nudging between your knees and forcing you to lay back until you were spread wide and vulnerable beneath him.

Bucky was big in ways that genuinely worried you.

If you could hardly handle Steve’s length in your throat, you weren’t sure of how your body would react to Bucky’s width.

He noticed the way your eyes widened as he hovered over you, his thumb tracing the seam of his own length as he rubbed his tip against your entrance. He let out a low, dark chuckle, completely satisfied with the way he had you squirming and the way he had Steve pinned to his seat, unable to look away.

“You see how she’s shaking, Steve? That’s what you want. You want her knowing exactly what’s coming for her.”

“Bucky,” you whined, your hands coming up to his shoulders for support—and Steve watched with a pang of envy, wishing it was his skin you were clinging to instead. “Please…”

Bucky laughed again, taking the head of his cock and dragging it slowly along your slit, coating himself in your heat. You let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily twitching, begging for the friction to turn into something more.

“She’s begging so sweetly, Buck…” Steve gave himself a gentle squeeze around his sensitive shaft at the sight of you. “You need to take care of her—”

“Even though she’s beggin’, you gotta make her wait.” Bucky explained despite the strain of holding back in his own voice. “You stretch her out bit by bit until she’s begging you to just get it over with.”

Bucky poked his tip against the soft, warm flesh of your cunt, pressing just enough pressure to make you gasp but not enough to penetrate all the way through.

“Tell Steve what you want, doll,” Bucky murmured, his hand coming down to grip your hip. “Tell him how much you want this.”

“B-Bucky, please,” you sobbed, your back arching off the couch as you tried to force yourself onto him, but he held his ground, as immovable as a mountain.

“That’s not an answer,” Bucky teased, his eyes darting to Steve, who was leaning so far forward he was nearly off his seat. “Is she asking for a kiss, Stevie? Is she asking for a blanket? I can’t tell.”

Steve’s throat bobbed as he watched the head of Bucky’s cock sliding against your entrance, the size of him making you look so small and fragile. “She wants you inside her, Buck. Just… fuck, just give it to her.”

“I want to hear her say it,” Bucky countered, giving you another shallow, teasing poke that made your toes curl into the cushions. “Tell us, baby. What do you want me to do with this?”

“I want you inside,” you choked out, your face warm with embarrassment. “I want… I want you to stretch me. Please, Bucky, fuck me!”

Bucky smirked, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”

With one hand propped near your head to hold himself up, he used the other to grip the base of his cock. He pushed deeper against your entrance, your cunt slowly stretching around him with every stinging burn. You could feel every ridge, every inch of his width forcing your tight walls to let him in.

“Shit,” Bucky hissed a curse, “she’s so tight.”

“Buck,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as he stretched you with every slide. “Too… too big, I don’t think I—”

“You can, baby,” Bucky countered. He hooked one hand underneath your thigh, hoisting it up toward your chest until you were pinned back, nearly splitting you. “Here—I’ll help you. Steve, I want you to watch me.”

A broken mewl left your lips as you tossed your head back against the cushions. Bucky was filling you—completely and deeply—and he hadn’t even begun to move before your legs were already shaking. With a deep grunt, he finally bottomed out, his hips slamming against yours with a wet squelch so vulgar it made Steve’s breath hitch.

“Her legs are shaking…” Steve pointed out, which only made your body warm even more in embarrassment.

You turned your head to look at him, and the sight made you clench instinctively around Bucky’s dick. Steve was at the edge of his seat, his toes curled into the floor as his large hand pumped over his cock. He was still slick from his own cum and the heat of your mouth, leaking profusely and looking every bit ready for round two.

“S-Steve…” you broke off into a whimper as Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened.

The sudden grip made your eyes flicker back to Bucky’s—his darkening at the way you were looking at his best friend. He let out a sharp, mocking huff.

“Moaning another man’s name while I’m buried this deep inside you, doll?” Bucky pulled back until he was nearly out, the slick wetness around his shaft filling the room before he slammed back in, making you cry out and the couch groan.

“If you’ve got enough breath to call for Stevie,” he growled, pulling his hips back again before thrusting even deeper, “then I’m not working you hard enough.”

The moment Bucky increased his pace, a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. You tried to hide it—to claw back any shred of composure—but you simply couldn't when you were stripped bare and taken so roughly while Steve watched every single second.

Every time Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix, it felt like your nerves were catching on fire.

You were parted completely by him, his width stretching you so thoroughly that your body had no choice but to acknowledge that you belonged to him.

“A-ah! Bu-Bucky… feels so good—!” you cried out, hands clawing at his back as he fucked you into the cushions.

Each thrust Bucky delivered seemed to synchronize with the wet pumping of Steve’s hand. Bucky looked over his shoulder, a dark smirk pulling at his lips as he caught Steve’s eye.

“Bet you’ve imagined this countless times, haven’t you, Stevie?” Bucky taunted.

He nearly pulled all the way out, letting Steve see the wet and stretched out version of you before bottoming out again, filling you completely and making you cry out.

“Lying in your bed at night, wondering what it would like to hear her scream like this for you.” Bucky continued with a gritty rasp.

As shameful as it was—every bit of it was true.

Every day you had spent standing next to Steve—acting small and seemingly innocent—you never would have guessed that little ol’ Steve had the filthiest thoughts imaginable running through his mind.

He used to imagine what it would feel like to have a body that didn’t fail him, a body strong enough to pin you down and finally act on the dirty thoughts that made his blood sing. He’d lie awake in his cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling and picturing your hands on him.

Or better yet, his hands on you—forcing a cry just like the one Bucky was coaxing out of you now.

Every time Bucky’s cock slid out of your cunt, Steve imagined it was his own sinking back into your tight, aching heat. If your mouth had felt that incredible, he could only imagine how it must feel to be buried deep inside you. The thought alone made him pump his cock faster, his body leaking a copious amount of pre-cum thanks to the serum.

He was already on the verge of busting a second load just from the sight of you getting ruined.

“God… ah, fuck,” Steve whimpered, his eyes glazed as his cock became painfully sensitive under his own touch.

“Look at him, doll,” Bucky prompted, leaning down to hiss the words into your ear while he continued to relentlessly pump into you. “Look at how hard he’s working just to keep up with us. He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Watching his best friend ruin you while he sits there and plays with himself.”

Bucky pulled back almost to the tip, gripping your other hip and flaring you even wider for the audience.

“He’s imagining it’s him,” Bucky laughed, a dark, sexy sound that made you flare up. “He’s imagining he’s the one stretching you out, the one making you sob his name. But he has to learn how to take care of you first, right? He has to watch me finish inside you.”

Your eyes widened at the thought of Bucky pumping you full.

It was dangerous, but with the way he had you pinned, your body couldn’t help but react. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your heat.

“Oh—” Bucky grunted, his cock twitching violently at the feel of your soft thighs locking him in. “Jesus… fuck.”

“Finish inside her,” Steve pleaded. He was timing his own hand to Bucky’s thrust, body tensing as he was prepared to cum alongside his best friend. “Fuck, Buck… do it. She’s pullin’ you in—means she wants it. I want to see you fill her.”

“She’s—she’s so tight,” Bucky hissed, his head falling into the crook of your neck. He drew his hips back as far as your locked legs would allow before sliding back in. “She’s pulling me in… like she’s trying to drain me.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look you in the eye, his eyes dark with hunger.

“What should I do, doll? Should I cum inside?” he whispered, rocking his hips in a slow, agonizing grind as he fought to hold back his release. “Should I show Steve how to properly breed a woman?”

“Yes!” you sobbed, your hips rising to meet him—trying to rip the orgasm out of him yourself. “Please, Bucky. I want it, please!”

Bucky’s face strained at your words, his hips losing rhythm as he fucked you until his cock twitched and pulsed.

“Christ… you dirty girl,” he grunted between clenched teeth, each thrust making the couch slide an inch against the floor.

Steve watched and listened, tracing the way your body shook and the way your moans pitched higher and higher with every wet slap of Bucky’s hips. He could see the exact moment you both started to go over the edge—and he was right there with you, his hand a blur as he prepared to cum too.

“Shit!” Bucky cursed. “Cumming—fuck—I’m cumming, baby.” He groaned, tossing his head back as you felt his cock twitch inside you, filling you up deeply.

“Oh my god—Buck!”

Your head swam with desire, the feeling of him pumping you full making you cry out as you came alongside him. Your walls clenched around his shaft as he continued to pump lazily into you, his release flooding your core.

Across from you, at that exact second, Steve let out a broken groan as his body jerked in the chair. His hand moved in a blur over his sensitive shaft, his cock twitching in his grip before spilling warm cum all over his fingers and stomach.

The living room that had once been warm with the scent of sweet cookies and tea now smelled of nothing but sex and sweat. Bucky stayed buried deep for a moment, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheek as the tremors in your legs finally began to fade.

“Good girl,” he murmured in soothingly. “You were such a good girl for me.”

Slowly, Bucky began to pull out.

The sudden loss of him left you feeling sensitive and vulnerable, and you could feel the warmth he’d pumped into you beginning to slick down your thighs, staining the worn cushion of the couch. Bucky reached for the floor, grabbing his pants and pulling them over his shins.

“Did you watch carefully, Steve?” Bucky asked, doing his belt lazily.

Steve didn’t say a word.

He just nodded, pushing himself up from the chair.

You were completely spent, your limbs feeling like stones against the couch, but your eyes went wide as you watched him approach.

Despite having just finished, Steve was already half hard again. You didn’t know how it was physically possible, but a man with his desires amplified by the super-soldier serum worked wonders in ways that even you couldn’t understand.

“I did,” Steve confirmed.

His chest was still heaving as he stood over you, his shadow falling across your trembling frame. He looked devastating—undone, messy, and still starving.

“S-steve?” you whimpered, weakly trying to sit up, “… are you okay? What are you doing?”

Bucky let out a dark, knowing chuckle at the shock on your face. He stepped aside, clearing a path as he looked from Steve back down to you, his hand clamping firmly on his friend’s shoulder.

“Good,” Bucky said. “Because it’s your turn.”

3 weeks since i posted my last fic 🚬 this has been in my drafts since jan and i'm glad i got to finally finish it! another stucky one, but from here on out you guys can expect to see more bucky fics soon (probably knight!bucky or model!bucky, depends if i'm feeling depressed or horny)

thank you guys for sticking around, and i hope you enjoyed!

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[fantasysisland]

Living in Ink

Pen to paper

All I have ever known is I was born to write

Pen to paper

When my voice fails me

A Voice never prepped to catch my thoughts

My hands know the process

The inevitable feeling

of words not spoken, forever lost in thought

Yet my hands begin to sculpt

Ink Bleeding

Pen to paper

Torn, messy, written

If not heard read

Even if i must be the one to read it

Passion, the feeling of conquering a page once blank

Pen to Paper

Frantically, ecstatic in lunacy

screaming in black and blue

Of hopes and wants, arguments and feeling

Never ignored, never shut down

Pen to paper

Words spoken yet forever unheard

Written only to bleed

To never be forgotten

To matter

To be something

To transcend in black and blue

Pen and paper

[fantasysisland]

Before the Fall

A poem…eh-ish

I’m forgetful and I’m fake

I forget the steps I take

All in all within these walls

I seem to never break

The cycles entrenched

The ones that catch me before the fall

The cycles aiming to protect

To prevent my soul from ache

Yet truly make no change

To the hunger that befalls all

As the serpent lies awake in the field

To heed the broken call

Of a mind not braced for for it all

Forgetful and fake

forgotten every step taken

The cycles in which the fight was meant to end

Cycles dependent on strides forward

The loop begins again

Does this mean no end?

No fight against the serpent in wait?

Awake and ready to head the minds broken calls

Ready to destroy a souls path, as it aims to make steps

A soul aching and fighting

Striving to end farther than the serpent

Quicker than its slither

Ahead of the call

Forgetful and Fake

What steps are there to take?

[goat-limbs]

Touched

contents (nsfw): Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader, teasing, yearning, impropriety, era-appropriate age gap (between 7 and 10 years—Reader is in her early 20s, Benedict is 30), masturbation, voyeurism, gentle fem-dom, power play, dirty talk.

synopsis: As Eloise's friend you've found yourself a distraction and an outlet in writing letters for lovers who want to impress each other. Benedict catches you mid-writing one and commissions you.

word count: 5,3K

a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @pixopix! Read part two here.

There is little to be had in a world that cherishes propriety, and brands anything that sets the blood running as improper. Simple things, such as racing along the lane; plunging into water on a whim; screaming at the top of the lungs; skimming stones across the surface just to see what startles. Smoking and bitter ale are for men, confirmed spinsters, and tavern-crawlers—never for someone who means to be thought respectable—not to mention the other pursuits you are convinced, in your heart of hearts, humanity was made for.

Still, you have your small mercies. In place of selfish freedoms that would sully your family’s name and see you packed off to some dreary convent, you have found a kindred spirit. A confidant. Someone who dodges the unattractive prospect of shrinking to fit the title of wife by disappearing into books, trading jests which, spoken aloud, would be called cruel, and sharing cakes dusted with so much sugar your lips stick when you press them together.

Eloise.

She has the same kind of contained anger you do: held in behind the ribs, kept in check by manners that demand smiling compliance. When you are together, it stops circling and becomes a thing with purpose. You read to each other when nobody is watching; you try out speeches you will never be invited to deliver; you write pages meant for one pair of eyes and no other. A small club, and one women are not allowed. And secrets, precisely, are what can be had there. You are certain Eloise keeps hers. By the sheer act of never pressing, she makes room for you to keep yours.

As with anything that feels faintly revolutionary, your own secret is born in the places where people are permitted to be human. It happens because your lady’s maid has a simple yearning of the heart towards another, and no safe way to speak it. She has the feeling, and the fear, and a hand that will not steady enough to set it down. You see an opening where she sees a wall. You write the letter on her behalf, fold it, seal it, and slip it under the bedchamber door. After that, the requests begin to come—never plainly, always in small signals: a ribbon tied a particular way, a scrap of paper left where only you will find it, a glance held half a second too long. You discover, quietly, what power the pen has when the heart dictates and the mind merely makes it neat.

It is only fitting that your thirtieth letter should be written in the Bridgertons’ drawing room. Eloise is reading Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, neatly wrapped in an inconspicuous—and entirely out-of-character—copy of James Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women, when Lady Bridgerton calls for her.

“It seems I must abandon the Sermons in order to pick lace,” she says, putting an extra measure of loathing on lace.

You smile. “Choose one that tears easily.”

Eloise nods, conspiratorial. “Do not go anywhere. I shall be back.”

The door opens and does not close. You sit with your back to it, and it would be difficult to tell who has entered intending to take Eloise’s place, were it not for the stench.

“I can smell all of last night’s endeavours on you, Benedict,” you mutter, nose still to the parchment. “You reek.”

Ah. A significant downside of spending your time at the Bridgertons’ establishment is Benedict.

Not because you have any real disdain for him—on the contrary. He has been lodged at the edge of your thoughts, in that periphery where notions are allowed to wander into forbidden country, ever since such thoughts first began to sprout in you. A fool with unrealistic dreams in the eyes of his mother, a buffoon to some, he somehow manages to make up for promiscuity and a contentious pursuit of all things hedonistic with something disarmingly plain: kindness.

He does not boast. He keeps most of his escapades confined to rumours he never troubles to exaggerate. He keeps his lovers’ names anonymous, as though their privacy is part of the pleasure, and not an inconvenience. There is an honesty in it that you cannot help but admire.

And admiration is a dangerous thing, when it turns its face towards wanting. Because what Benedict has, you want, too—the ease, the appetite, the liberty. With him, preferably.

Mind slipping into places you would rather it did not, you fail to notice that he does not dignify your remark with any answering sally. Benedict simply threads his way across the room and leans over your shoulder.

“That is quite a language you are using here,” he says, his mouth near enough to your ear that the words feel breathed rather than spoken.

Your head snaps to the side. “Oh, dear Lord,” you manage, the protest landing into Benedict’s cheek. “This is not—”

“Who is it for?” he asks, sliding the paper from beneath your fingers and beginning, quite shamelessly, to read. “I was certain that, much like Eloise, you were beyond earthly delights.”

You turn in the chair, swinging one arm over its back as though it might serve for a barricade. “If you mean slobbering, drunken men at balls as the full array of earthly delights I am permitted to choose from, then you are perfectly right,” you say, keeping your voice flat even as you reach for the page. “I am beyond them. Hand over the letter.”

Benedict does not look at you. There is a pause in which you could swear the tips of his ears go pink. “And yet you are writing quite… graphic filth,” he says at last. “About a man, I presume.”

“It is not about anyone I know,” you say, and at that you earn his glance. Heat crawls up your throat. “Oh—Lord help me. I, um—” You hide your face in your hands and speak through the spread of your fingers. “I may have found… a certain joy in setting down what others cannot say to their lovers.”

Your hands return to your lap. Your head dips; eyes fix themselves on the floor in hopes to find some mercy within it. “So I do it for them,” you add. “For a small price.”

Benedict mutters your name, his expression binding impishness and boyish bewilderment in unholy matrimony.

You stand abruptly, still reaching for the parchment, but Benedict simply lifts it higher—just beyond your grasp. “Please do not tell Eloise. Or anyone… for that matter.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, and his smile shows that crooked canine you have, regrettably, thought about in scenarios that have nothing to do with food. “For a small price.”

“Extortion?” you huff. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Not extortion. I am no brute,” Benedict replies. “A favour.” A pause, intentful enough to be annoying. “Write one for me.”

You eye him, then fold your arms across your chest. Your foot nudges at nothing on the tiles, a small, useless rebellion, and then—against your better judgement—you relent. “Which of the ladies is so fortunate as to have you commissioning a letter for her?”

Benedict keeps smiling. Testing. “Not a lady,” he says. “A man.”

You bark a laugh, sharp and entirely unladylike. “A rather versatile rake, are you not?”

“You wound me.” His hand goes to his chest in something that aims for tragedy and lands, at best, in theatre. You roll your eyes. “Your judgement is inequitable. The only difference between you and me is that I perform the actions you only write of. The thoughts, however—” He steps closer. Offers the letter back, and when you reach for it, he keeps hold of it for one heartbeat longer, leaning in so his mouth finds your ear. “—we seem to share.”

Then he releases the paper.

“What would you like me to write?” you ask, quieter than you mean to, your face still near his.

“Do it as you would,” Benedict says, easy. “I shall tell you if I like it.”

The nerve of him pricks you, quick and clean. Anger, full stop. “I fear corrections are not included in my services,” you spit.

“I think a smart provider would reconsider, if the price is suitable,” he murmurs into your ear. It is not a threat. It is a challenge. “Like the silence of someone with many contacts.”

“Brute,” you say, because it is the only dignified response to being cornered by charm. “Fine. So be it. I shall remember this, Benedict.”

“I would hope so.” He looks pleased with himself, which only worsens the urge to bite. “I think it is the first time you and I are entangled in a scheme.”

“I have a feeling there will come a time when you will require my silence,” you say. “I hope you know it changes the way I shall provide it, and if—”

Something flickers across his face: interest, admiration, a quick, juvenile flash of joy at being met where he stands rather than indulged. “I like this,” he says, head tipping to the side. “Menacing agrees with you.”

“You are entirely insufferable.”

“You have three days,” Benedict tells you. He looks at you one last time before retreating towards the door and carries that image out with himself, alongside the words that he still cannot believe left your pen.

Excerpts, like: If you ever touched my mouth with your thumb, I think I would swallow it like communion. Nobody is as hungry as I am for you, compel Benedict to wish his memory were better than his imagination. A few lines on the page are enough to send his mind straight towards the images: open mouths with thumbs in them, then other parts of him.

Normally, he would stop himself, because normally, you are his sister’s friend. Today he is wrung out and defenceless. More and more moments happen when Benedict’s weak memory renders him forgetful even of that simple fact—when he stops seeing a girl and begins to see a woman, and not just any woman. Someone whose eyes reflect his own insatiability and lust for life. A kindred spirit, only far more miserable, because she is trapped in a body even more constricted than his own.

One line stays with him when he stumbles into bed with your face behind his eyelids: If there is a God for the wild parts of a person, He keeps no parlours. He lives in the hedge and the ditch and the mouth of the wood, where things do not apologise for wanting. Benedict thinks himself converted to do the bidding of that God. He falls asleep wondering whether that God grants people who want the same thing a bond that can outlast them.

As promised, three days later, an envelope arrives at his bachelor lodging. It bears a sigil of orchid pressed into white wax. Hands traitors, he takes it shakily from the valet and closes the door of his bedchambers. Impatient to see if indeed, you’ve written it as you would, if you were allowed to be yourself.

Lover of Mine,

There is a tendon at your neck that tightens when you swallow, when you laugh, when you lie. I think of it at the most improper hours. I think of my tongue laid there, greedy and patient, learning the pulse of you the way a creature learns a trail.

I think of your mouth, too; how easily it can be made to open, how it would look with my fingers at the corners, widening you as though I mean to see the whole of you at once. I would take the brine I draw from you and use it like holy water, as though it might keep me from sinning further, when it would only teach me the shape of my next offence.

Where your heart beats, I want my nails to leave their blunt testament, so that, later, when you dress and step back into the world, it knows you have been touched by something that lives on desiring you. I want you marked, not for shame, but for recognition. Between your legs lies the root I want to taste and take; I want to learn it until my mouth aches with it, until you have no choice but for your lungs to remember me. Let me cling to you like damp to stone, long after you have tried to be good.

Yours, to the last drop of my blood.

There’s a space underneath for him to sign. It looks particularly offensive without your name bled into parchment. You’ve written it oblique enough for any man to fit, and what Benedict should feel is that it is thoughtful and clever of you. What his hunger supplies is entirely different: he can insert himself into every paragraph and picture your fingers and tongue doing what your pen promises.

An ornate box with a trap that mauls prying limbs opens for him. The surface of its maw holds the pain of shouldn’t Benedict struggles to conquer his entire life. Once he trespasses deep enough, it dissolves into pleasure of pressure, familiar and new, where he tries his best to make himself believe his hands are not calloused from brushes, and are actually yours.

When he meets you again he’s weighted down by guilt of what he’s done with your image in his head and awful feeling of hollowed bones. Another rich family’s ball that cannot compete entertainment-wise to anything Benedict can have at Granville’s salon, yet he chooses this. To seek you out. To ask for more.

He finds you flanked by Eloise, seeping brandy and tucking your dance card into your cleavage having scouted a suitor approaching you.

“My favourite brother, in his least favourite place,” Eloise announces as Benedict comes up behind you, bright enough to earn a glance or two from nearby clusters.

He takes your hand anyway, because etiquette is a shield he knows how to wear. When his lips brush your knuckles, you murmur, low and sweet, “Violet’s tendrils reach even the fiercest fighters, I see.”

Benedict arranges his most innocent face. “Here I was, prepared to rescue you from that snotty gentleman who has had his eyes on you for the better part of an hour, and I find you far more interested in crushing me with my sister.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” you say, and when he starts to retreat you catch his sleeve, quick and sure. “Now you are my favourite brother as well.”

“That is what I thought.” He turns to Eloise. “Eloise, you are next on my list of damsels.”

Eloise gives him a look of someone who’s long accepted their fate. “I am quite alright.” She reaches for the drinks table, already moving away. “I shall drown the sorrow of this double betrayal in another glass and go and find Pen.”

Benedict offers you his hand again. You take it, and he leads you to the floor before your suitor can collect himself.

His palm settles at your back. Fingers find the line where cloth gives way, bare skin just above the seam, and the contact draws a traitorous breath from between your lips that Benedict both hears and feels. He is not proud of how quickly his own lungs answer. The music begins; the room loosens around the rhythm.

“I sense a secret intention beneath this act of chivalry,” you say, voice pitched for him alone. “Was the letter not to your lover’s liking?”

“Oh, it was to his liking,” Benedict says. On the next turn he brings his mouth near your ear, close enough that the heat of him lands there and holds. “So much so that I find myself in need of another.”

“Benedict,” you warn.

“I will pay you, if that is what you require,” he answers, unbothered. “With money. Or with a favour.”

“Interesting.” Your eyes narrow. You take a deeper breath, and it presses you a fraction closer in the hold. Benedict’s gaze strays once, then he drags it back to your face like a man correcting himself. “I shall ponder the favour I will require of you,” you say. A beat. Then, a shy, soft sweetness. “Have you read it?”

He nods, slow. Releases you for the turn and catches you again, your back briefly to his chest, his hand heavy on your waist. “Who did you write it for?”

“For your lover,” you say.

Another turn brings you face to face again, close enough that he can see the discomfort gathering before it shows. “And who did you think of?” he asks.

“What is this to you?” you return, honestly bewildered.

“I am curious,” Benedict says, and the steps pull you in again so he can put the words at your temple, private. “How a lady who keeps appearances so well writes about learning pulses and tasting roots.”

The distance returns with the next figure, and he meets your look full on. “I meant no offence,” he says, quieter. “It was magnificent. Inspiring.”

“What did it inspire?” you ask.

Benedict’s mouth curves, the same insolent little tilt he uses when he thinks he has the upper hand. “What is this to you?”

“Inspiration for further work,” you say, mid-turn. “Ouroboros of filth.”

“I will tell you,” he says, and when the pattern brings you back together your chests meet with the smallest, indecent jolt, “if you write me another.”

“That’s settled, then,” you answer, and the calm of it hits him harder than any raised voice.

The dance ends with both of you bowing. He steals one more glance at the place your features betray a fluster, and cherishes it. It helps him survive the evening. It helps him keep his forearms relaxed when other women touch them, and his smile steady when they offer their bland jokes.

He receives the next letter as before—days later, with the same wax and the same stamp. It speaks of bathing in waters that have nothing to do with rivers, lakes, or seas. Of the tempest that plagues people who cannot crawl inside their beloveds and live there. This time, your hand has got ahead of you: it is signed with a crooked B you have managed to conjure from the first letter of your name. Just as before, it is witty and melancholic in a way that leaves his loins aflame and his lungs feeling shallow.

To keep his part of the agreement, he uses an afternoon tea at Anthony’s, where the men are preoccupied with politics and the women entirely engrossed in children. He gives you a prolonged glance, then retreats to the library—unnoticed, and as clever as ever in the art of social disappearance.

Your excuse from the table earns you absent-minded nods and smiles, the sort granted to anyone who looks like they are doing something sensible. The library is a wild guess. Where else does one go, if one intends to speak of literature with any seriousness?

When you reach it, the door is ajar. Benedict is inside with his back to it, fingers skimming the spines as if he is searching for a particular title and cannot quite decide what it ought to be.

“You wanted to see me?” you ask, palms entwined behind your back.

“I dislike having debts,” he says, without turning. “And I believe I owe you a story.”

“And is it a story fit for an afternoon tea with approximately ten children running about the house?”

“Most of them are toddlers. I do not know much about children, but I do know toddlers do not run very fast.” He turns then, and props himself against the shelves with an ease that feels practiced. “It is also safest in the lion’s maw.”

“I think it an unfortunate figure of speech.”

“Always so clever.” His mouth twitches. “Come.”

He beckons you closer with two fingers, casual. The thrill hits you in a way you resent. Daylight. A respectable house. People within shouting distance. This is the sort of small trespass you are meant to outgrow, and yet it feels like learning. Acquiring, in bright hours, knowledge you suspect would still be denied you even if you did the proper thing and capitulated to a husband.

So you go. Benedict’s finger points closer still. You walk until you are beside him, nose near enough to the books that you can smell old paper and leather. Then he slides behind you. One hand comes up to the shelf beside your head, palm flat to the wood, boxing you in without touching.

“We should be quiet in the library,” he explains, voice lowered.

“A noble motive,” you murmur. “How clever of you.”

“What would you like to know?” he asks, and his breath stirs the hair arranged at your temple. “Keep looking at the books.”

“Everything,” you say. “Everything that sprouted from what I wrote in your name.”

He hums, as if considering where to begin, and then gives you a name as though it has always existed. “Call him Thomas,” Benedict says. “Thomas has a way of listening that makes a man forget himself. He read your letter and did not laugh once. He did not mock it, either. He took it seriously. He wrote back. He said he had never been spoken to with such… hunger. He said he could feel it on his skin.”

Benedict’s voice stays even as he lays it out, placing details like pieces on a board. A room, a door, a hand at a throat. A kiss stolen in a corridor. He speaks of a meeting that required caution, of risk, of wanting to be marked and kept. He makes it sound plausible enough to pass at a distance.

Up close, it gives him away.

He is too smooth. Too quick. The story moves as if he has already decided what each part should do, and now it is only a matter of saying it aloud. He does not stumble. He does not swallow. His breathing does not change. Nothing in him catches, as if focus were overriding the passion. If this were true, if these moments belonged to him, he ought to have some tell. A hitch, a heat, a crack in the polish.

The story of Thomas does not stir anything in you. Something else works though. What you feel with your whole being is his hand, a hairsbreadth from yours when you shift your fingers on a spine. His chest suspended at your back, not touching, and still crowding your breath. The warmth of him, the smell of him—spirits and soap, something stale that suggests too little sleep. The fact of his mouth near your neck, and the ease with which he could choose to use it. The fact of his palms, and where they could settle if he so wished. How simple it would be, in the space between one careful step and the next, to turn this from talk into something else entirely, to grabbing your waist, hoisting your skirts, to—

His voice carries on behind you, steady, persuasive in the way a man persuades himself.

You turn your head only a fraction, enough to let your words reach him without being heard by anyone else. “You lie to me,” you say. “Was your lover not satisfied?”

Now—the hitch in his breath arrives. He folds it into a scoff, then an incredulous little laugh, the kind meant to put you back in place by making you smaller. You turn in the tight space, face stern. Benedict sees the hurt in your eyes and still clings to hope.

“Which part of what I have told you sounded untrue?” he asks.

“Everything,” you tell him. “I am beginning to think either your lover was left entirely unimpressed, or that such a person as Thomas does not exist. Which is it?” Your chin lifts, defiant. “Am I bland, or is it simply impossible to entertain spectres?”

“You are not bland,” Benedict says under his breath. “But if I tell you the whole truth, you will hate me.”

You blink. Then smile, and your quiet laugh is your turn to test him. “Have you made someone miserable? Made a fool of me? Betrayed me?” you ask. “If not, I cannot hate you.”

He closes in. His jaw rasps against your cheek as he speaks, too close for sense. “I have been… touched… by your words, and by—” A swallow; you feel the motion like an echo in your own throat. “By myself. Wishing for you.”

You stay very still, nails biting into the wood behind you. “So there was no recipient,” you murmur.

“I was him. I am him.” His mouth finds your ear and sets the words into it. Warm lips, wet, licked over again and again. “Are you disgusted?”

You take a second, properly. Not disgusted. Never that. Not by Benedict, not by sincerity offered this plainly. The feeling is hotter, sharper, and it makes you careful. “If I said I was,” you mutter, low and wolfish, “would my silence be considered a favour?”

“Willful creature,” Benedict rasps, pushing his nose into the line of your hair. “What is it in that head of yours that you want?”

“The arrangement has changed.” You put your hand to his chest and shove, palm flat, feeling the quick flutter of his heart answer the beat in your wrist. “Show me,” you say, and by some miracle, your voice remains even, “how touched you were.”

“And if I say no?”

You pause. It would be unbecoming. And besides, it would be a blow aimed at yourself. Worse, it would betray the freedom you have been trying to reach.

“Then we will speak of this no more,” you tell him, solemn. “This is not the way I wish to be cruel.”

Benedict holds your eyes. “Do you wish to be cruel?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But sweetly. Desirably.”

His hands find you like you’ve pictured it countless times. Your waist, fingers digging into meat, back pushed into wood. “Be cruel to me,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

Your palms rest on his forearms. All willpower gets sent there, so they won’t tremble. Breath saws through your nose when you speak. “Touch yourself.”

Benedict’s eyes go deliciously wide. His fingers twitch where they hold you, then, by some mercy of the God of wild parts of a person, they drift to his shirt. He drags it free, untucks it, and palms himself through his slacks as if waiting to be told what to do next. Even now, impertinence clings to him.

“Properly,” you chide. “As you did during your reading sessions.”

“I need your wicked tongue for that,” he says, and works at the fastening.

You nearly miss it, too busy staring at the swell between his legs, at the dark scatter of hair at his navel, the straining root, when—your eyes meet briefly, and you keep your gaze there. Below his lashes where he’s under your spell and begging. “Talk to me,” Benedict says.

Your hands slip from his arms. One goes to his cheek, tender. “Do you seek praise?”

He nods, mouth agape.

“That is… oddly endearing.” A real, girlish laugh escapes you. “I thought of you too. Of your mouth. This mouth—” Your thumb swipes his lips, slips inside, and tests its weight on his tongue. “On different parts of me. Here—” Your other hand gestures to your neck, then lower, between your breasts. “And here.”

A sound leaves him. Breathy and wonderful, and yours, entirely. He draws himself out, bare in his hand, and his strokes are strained, fist unforgivingly tense. The head of him is darkened, weeping at the tip, teasing your own tongue to slip out and your knees to buck. “Is that how you did it?” you ask.

“Yes,” he breathes. His words keep trying to run ahead of him. “With your mouth in my head.” Firm hand clasps your shoulder, drawing you in until his forehead’s flat meets yours, breath all over your face. “On me. With your knees scruffed, ah—”

“I would,” you tell him. Hold him by the neck and keep the tension in his tendons until when you get to write about it. “I’d kneel for you. Learn you. Your shape inside me, when you’re rigid and after,” you say. “When you soften… and leak from me.”

“How are you real?” Benedict says, his mouth flattened against yours. His fist bumps your hip when it moves. Looking down, you see his slacks fallen to his knees and you take in every small gesture that brings him close: the thumb pressing the head, gathering the slick; the way he pulls himself away from his stomach; the twist of his wrist when it comes up, then the sharp descent that nearly has him punching his own abdomen. “Kiss me,” you feel him say into your lips.

“No,” you pout. “I need my mouth free, don’t I?”

“Beautifully cruel,” he says, shakes his head. “What else would you do? Where would you want me?”

“I want,” you bite your lip, “the shape of this tooth—” Your thumb hooks on his crooked canine and presses until his head cocks back a notch. “On my inner thigh. Only for me to see. Bruise me,” you say, spurring him on. “Take me. Show me what it’s like to be unafraid.”

Your calves burn from keeping you both upright. Between your legs there is a violent tug that spreads to your belly and pulses, wet and salacious, and it makes you say too much. “When you come back smelling of gin and bodies it makes my gut twist.”

“You say I reek,” Benedict mumbles, lost now, in the little space under your ear.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you tangled with others when I am here, painfully untouched,” you tell him. You catch his cheeks and rub your face on his. “I want you to reek of me. I want to reek of you.”

“By God, darling,” he groans, “I am—” It breaks into a choked gasp. “Where do you want me?”

“Here.” You lift your skirt and guide him to the naked sliver of skin in the crease of your thigh, where you mean to keep him. Your other hand finds his mouth, too bold for his own good, and holds. Your fingers muzzle him, and you smile, wicked. “And quiet.”

The tip grazes where you want it. His breath comes in short, tormented bursts over your palm, like he is blowing up a broken balloon. He presses himself fully and thrusts against you, close to where you dream of having him, and then warmth floods, stains the material of your undergarments and sticks to skin, wanted, cherished, won. His whole body tenses, holds that precipice for stretched out seconds, and then everything goes at once. His jaw under your touch relaxes. His shoulders slacken, the entirety of him becoming smaller. Fit to hold. To cradle.

A man who softens immediately becomes your favourite kind.

“How beautiful you are now,” you say, astonished—the last words you manage before Benedict’s lips find yours in an off-centre, hound-like kiss. Grateful and generous and wanting all the same. He holds your face firmly, stretches the skin of your cheeks, and tilts you so his tongue can find the deepest parts of your mouth.

“You are—” he mutters. “A miracle from the God who lives in hedges.”

Your laugh is relieved. Satiated, for now. “Are you converted?”

“He can have me if I can have you,” Benedict says.

He can have you, you decide.

When everything hushes down, when he tucks himself back into his clothing and makes himself look as though you have indeed been merely browsing books, you feel something you thought impossible: deeper breathing, a focus unlike anything you ever mustered over piano or embroidery. An opened door, and on the other side a landscape howling, dangerous, endlessly exciting.

You’ve touched freedom. And it tastes of Benedict.

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

family planning (t.n.)

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 11.6k

Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.

A/N: this is NOT a pregnancy fic you guys i promise also i didn't want to split this into two parts but tumblr deemed it too long so um two parts ig

credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider

Part 2

Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.

The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.

He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.

But that was the thing.

Nothing felt wrong about today.

Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.

And now he was stuck in Charms.

Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.

Then another.

Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”

The room cracked.

Not shattered. Not exploded.

Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.

There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—

Silence.

Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.

She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.

For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.

Then her lip trembled.

“—Papà?”

Her voice broke.

And then she started crying.

Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.

“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)

The classroom froze.

“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.

Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”

A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”

The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)

She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.

“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)

Theo stared at her from his seat.

He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.

“Is she—speaking Italian?” Someone murmured.

A ripple of voices followed.

“Yeah.” “Definitely Italian.” “I don’t speak Italian.” “Does anyone speak Italian?”

Someone turned.

Then another.

Then, inevitably, every gaze slid to Theo.

Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”

He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.

“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”

Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.

She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.

“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)

Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.

“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.

“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”

The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.

“Papà…” She whimpered.

Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.

“Cazzo.” (fuck)

He pushed his chair back and stood.

The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.

Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.

“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)

The girl barely registered him.

She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)

“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)

He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.

“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)

She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)

Theo swallowed.

“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)

That was when she opened her eyes.

Really looked at him.

Her crying hitched mid-sob.

For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then—

“Papà!”

She surged forward.

Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.

“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)

Theo froze.

Completely. Utterly.

His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.

The room was dead silent.

Theo’s eyes flicked up.

Every single person was staring.

Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.

Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.

No one moved.

The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.

Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.

“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”

She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.

Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.

Once.

Twice.

And then she was gone.

Fast asleep.

Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.

Theo swallowed hard.

The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.

Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.

“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.

Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”

“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”

All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.

“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”

He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.

He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.

“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”

Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.

“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.

Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed, “No. I… that… that’s impossible.”

McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."

Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”

Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”

Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”

“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."

Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."

Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.

Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.

"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"

“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”

“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”

McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”

Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”

The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.

The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.

“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)

She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.

Theo froze.

Pomfrey halted mid-step. Flitwick winced. Even Snape straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)

Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.

She was shaking.

“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”

Everyone froze.

Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.

Something twisted painfully in his chest.

“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)

Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.

Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.

“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.

She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.

McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.

“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”

Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”

Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”

The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.

Theo stiffened, then sighed.

“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”

The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.

Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.

He ignored the stares.

The whispers.

The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.

Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.

“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”

Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”

Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”

Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”

Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.

Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.

He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.

Not because it was loud.

But because it was wrong.

Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.

Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.

Theo just stood there.

Staring.

This was real. This was happening.

He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.

His stomach twisted.

This hardly seemed responsible.

Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.

Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.

He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.

He hesitated.

Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.

He stepped back.

She looked… peaceful.

Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.

Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.

He needed a cigarette. Immediately.

Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.

“Papà…”

It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.

Theo froze.

“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.

“Merda.” He muttered.

If he left and she woke up—

He glanced at the chair beside the bed.

Then back at her.

“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.

Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.

Just for tonight.

That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.

Just until she woke up.

Theo woke to pins and needles.

A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.

There was weight on him.

Warm. Solid.

Theo froze.

Slowly, carefully, he looked down.

She was asleep in his lap.

At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Theo stared.

His mind helpfully offered no explanation.

He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.

Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.

Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.

“This is a disaster.” He whispered.

She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.

He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.

For a long second, they just looked at each other.

Then her face brightened.

“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)

After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.

Because Merlin help him, she was competent.

She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.

The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.

She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.

Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.

“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)

He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was going to be a long day.

By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.

Theo was still in his pajamas.

He didn’t care.

The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.

He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.

He turned toward the common room—

And she bolted.

“—Oi, wait—!”

Too late.

She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.

“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”

She did not fall.

Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.

Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”

“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.

The room went dead silent.

Draco stared.

Lorenzo choked.

Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.

Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.

“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”

Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.

“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”

Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”

He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.

“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.

Mattheo snorted despite himself.

Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”

Mattheo blinked. Once.

Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.

Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.

“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”

Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.

Theo moved instantly.

“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”

Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”

Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”

Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."

“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.

The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)

Theo opened his mouth on instinct.

“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)

He stopped.

Because she wasn’t crying.

She wasn’t reaching for him.

She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.

She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.

Theo’s brain stalled.

Then—click.

The realization hit him like divine intervention.

An hour.

A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.

The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.

He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.

“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”

“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”

Theo was already turning away.

“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."

Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.

“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”

The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”

Mattheo looked down at her.

Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.

"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.

Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.

He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.

He shouldn’t feel guilty for this. Dammit.

It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.

He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.

And yet.

She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.

Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.

The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.

He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?

How would he keep her safe?

Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.

Merlin, he needed that.

When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.

She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.

Theo stepped closer.

Her face lit up the moment she saw him.

“Papà!”

Something eased in his chest.

At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.

Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.

And immediately—

“—achoo!”

She blinked. Sniffed.

Then again.

“Ach—ah—choo!”

Theo froze.

Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”

Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.

“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”

Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”

“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”

Theo swallowed.

“…Right.” He muttered.

He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Papà?” She asked softly.

Theo stopped.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)

Her shoulders relaxed instantly.

Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.

Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.

Theo caught her automatically.

She settled against him, warm and content.

And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.

It felt a lot like guilt.

And something dangerously close to resolve.

Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.

He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.

Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.

Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.

“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)

“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)

Theo froze.

Mom? She has a mom?

The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.

She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.

“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)

Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.

“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)

“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.

“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”

Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.

“You… you don’t know her name?”

The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.

The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.

“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)

“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.

“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."

Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.

“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)

“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)

Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.

He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”

Theo froze mid-lunge.

“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”

Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.

He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.

He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.

And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.

Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.

Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.

Still. He felt wrecked.

He promised he’d come back.

Repeated it, even.

Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.

It didn’t help.

She cried anyway.

Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.

Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.

So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.

Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.

The child sang.

Loudly.

Badly.

And every time Theo stopped responding—

“Papà?”

—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.

“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)

She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.

Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.

My God, was she clingy.

Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.

If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.

Clinging to the only constant she recognized.

Him.

The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.

He resisted.

Inside the stall, the singing faltered.

“Papà!” She called, sharper now.

“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)

The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.

Theo closed his eyes.

Unbelievable.

Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.

They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—

—and promptly ran straight into you.

You froze.

You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.

You firmly belonged to the former camp.

This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.

You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—

“Mama!”

The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.

Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.

“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.

“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.

You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.

Bianca frowned.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.

You spared Theo a glance.

He hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.

Bianca’s smile faltered.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.

“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.

Theo swallowed.

She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—

“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)

“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”

Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.

Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.

Flitwick blinked.

McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.

Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.

It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.

Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.

Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.

The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.

“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”

Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.

“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”

Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.

Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”

You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”

McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”

“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.

But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.

He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.

Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.

And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.

But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.

Theodore Nott was not a single father.

Absolutely not.

He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.

And yet.

If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.

It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.

So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.

He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.

You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”

“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”

“We can’t even speak the same language.”

“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”

“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”

The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.

You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”

Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.

“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”

His mouth opened—closed again.

“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”

The anger he’d carried with him faltered.

He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”

“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.

You hesitated. Took a breath.

“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”

Theo’s chest went cold.

“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”

You looked at him, eyes searching his face.

“Like what?” You asked.

He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”

Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”

His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”

“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”

He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.

Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."

"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"

"Fuck this." He said harshly.

You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”

He turned away before you could finish.

He needed a fucking cigarette.

Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.

“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.

He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.

He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.

The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.

But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.

You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.

“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”

Theo’s fingers stilled.

Truthfully, he wasn’t.

Not in the way you meant.

It wasn’t you he was grieving.

It was the future he thought he was building.

He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.

Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.

A home that wasn’t cold. A father who didn’t disappear into silence. A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.

He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.

Breaking the curse.

And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.

Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.

She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.

Would he turn into him?

Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?

Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?

Would his hands—

Theo’s breath hitched.

He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.

But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.

Perhaps he was driven to it.

He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.

He never got the chance to light it.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

Firm. Steady.

He stilled.

Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.

For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.

And there it was.

Your eyes.

Or rather—

Bianca’s.

His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.

"Achoo!"

Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.

“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”

The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.

Theo swallowed.

“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”

Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.

Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.

“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)

She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.

“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)

Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.

But experience had already taught him better.

If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.

He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.

Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.

Theo froze.

His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.

Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.

Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.

Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.

Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.

But it was you.

You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.

Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.

“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”

You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.

“I brought breakfast.”

Behind him, there was sudden movement.

Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.

She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.

“Mama!”

Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.

“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”

Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.

Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.

Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.

“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.

Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”

You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”

"Oh." He muttered.

“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”

You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.

Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”

You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”

Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.

“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)

Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)

Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)

Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.

You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.

Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.

Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.

Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.

A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.

You sat on his other side.

Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.

“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”

Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.

“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”

You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”

You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.

“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.

You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.

It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.

You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”

Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.

You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”

He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

You froze.

Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.

“Wow." He said simply.

You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”

Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.

Not really.

But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.

“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."

Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.

So he went.

There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.

Theo stared at it.

Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.

He handed it back.

“No?” Mattheo blinked.

“No.” Theo said flatly.

He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.

And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.

The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.

When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.

Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.

The second thing—

You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.

Fast asleep.

Theo stopped just inside the doorway.

Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.

You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.

Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He studied your face.

A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.

Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.

You stirred.

Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.

Theo froze.

Bianca was going to lose this one day.

She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.

He was going to lose this someday.

He didn't want to lose you.

He wanted you for the rest of his life.

The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.

He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.

Then you shifted again.

This time more sharply.

Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.

You stiffened.

“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.

You blinked.

You slowly sank back down, mortified.

Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.

Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”

Theo raised a brow.

You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”

He stayed silent, letting you dig.

“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”

Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.

You shot him a look, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”

Theo didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.

“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”

You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.

“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.

He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded, “Okay.”

Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.

A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.

The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.

You weren’t doing much better.

The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.

The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.

It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.

So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.

You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.

Apparently, it was a thing.

A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.

Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.

So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.

“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”

“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”

Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.

“…You’re a genius.”

So there you were.

The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.

Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.

Who cared about Bianca?

You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.

Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.

She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.

“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)

Theo obliged.

He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.

You watched from the blanket.

At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.

Then your gaze shifted.

Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.

And something in your chest shifted.

Warm.

Tight.

Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.

He stole your breath.

You stared at him.

At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.

Not your ending.

And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.

Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.

And now?

You got it.

You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.

You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.

A man you could build a life with.

But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.

And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.

It felt inevitable.

You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”

You bent to lift Bianca—

“No!” She protested instantly.

She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.

Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.

“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”

You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.

Theo noticed.

He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.

“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)

The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.

You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.

Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.

“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)

Theo froze.

The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.

Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.

You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"

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[cipheress-to-k-pop]

family planning pt. 2 (t.n.)

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.

A/N: This is the second part and since you waited so patiently i included 3 bonus scenes teehee posting it early for my babies

Special mention to @for-the-love-of-puppies and @luffysprincess who predicted this turnout lol our brains are in sync

Credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider

Part 1

Bianca was a blur of movement by the Great Lake.

She darted along the grassy bank, boots thudding softly against the earth as she zig-zagged around rocks and half-buried roots, stopping every few seconds to crouch down and inspect something with intense focus before bolting off again. A stick became a wand, a pebble became treasure, and the reeds at the water’s edge were clearly hiding something very important.

You watched her with a fond smile, arms folded loosely as you leaned back against the cool stone.

“She has too much energy.” You said, though there was no real complaint in your voice—only wonder.

Theo huffed a quiet laugh beside you, eyes never leaving her, “She’s a firecracker.”

Bianca shrieked with laughter as she nearly tripped over her own feet, caught herself at the last second, and then stood very still—carefully regaining her balance before continuing on her way.

Theo tilted his head slightly, watching her, “She takes after you.”

You laughed, startled, “Are you crazy?”

He glanced at you, amused, “What?”

You nodded toward Bianca. “Look at her. She’s observant. Thoughtful. She watches everything. She’s lively, yeah—but she hardly ever leaps without looking first.” You smiled softly, “That’s all you.”

Theo went quiet at that, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

He watched Bianca sprint past a patch of wildflowers, slow just enough to avoid stepping on them, then take off again.

“…Maybe.” He conceded.

A moment later, he added, half-thoughtful, half-teasing, “She’d be a good Chaser.”

You snorted, “Of course you’d say that.”

“Did you see that turn?” He said, nodding toward her as she swerved sharply to avoid the water’s edge, “She'll be a star quidditch player.”

You hummed, considering it. “I don’t know,” You said slowly, “I kind of see her as a Magizoologist.”

Theo glanced at you, “Yeah?”

“She’s gentle,” You said, “Curious. She doesn’t just want to look—she wants to understand.” You smiled as Bianca crouched again, whispering something to a very unimpressed-looking duck, “I think she’d love creatures.”

Theo’s expression softened.

“Whatever she chooses,” He said quietly, “she’ll be brilliant.”

The words lingered between you.

The lake rippled softly. The breeze carried the scent of water and grass. Bianca’s laughter echoed across the shore, bright and unburdened.

And then—slowly, inevitably—the conversation faded.

Neither of you spoke.

Because the truth settled in like a weight neither of you wanted to name.

There were futures you were imagining that you wouldn’t get to see. First matches. First discoveries. First failures. First triumphs.

Theo swallowed.

You hugged your arms closer to yourself, eyes fixed on Bianca as if memorizing the way the sunlight caught in her curls.

For a moment, it was almost peaceful.

And for a moment, that made it hurt so much more.

Bedtime was always a gamble.

There were nights when Bianca conked out long before she was meant to, curled boneless and warm in Theo’s arms, and you and him would exchange a silent look before jointly deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. No pajamas. No teeth brushed. Not if it meant waking her. You’d just lay her down as she was and hope she didn't wake up.

Some nights, she went down like a dream—padding excitedly toward bed because she was looking forward to the story that Theo read to her. When it was your turn, Bianca would read to you instead, you'd study the pictures with exaggerated seriousness, and make enthusiastic oohs and ahhs at all the right moments while Bianca beamed in pride at her reading skills.

And then there were the nights she refused.

It would almost be easier if she weren’t tired—at least then you could burn the energy off. A walk around the castle usually did the trick. More often than not, she’d be asleep in Theo’s arms before you even turned back toward the common room, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing slow and even.

But the worst nights were when she was exhausted and still couldn’t sleep.

Overtired, overstimulated, and furious about it.

The crying cut through you in a way nothing else did—sharp and relentless, scraping along your nerves until you felt hollowed out. Theo held on as long as he could. When it became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself.

"Ten minutes." He promised, "I'll be back."

But when fifteen passed and he still hadn’t returned, you didn’t go looking for him. You knew where he was—the common room, breathing, grounding himself. You let him have those extra minutes.

You held Bianca instead, her small body tense in your arms, her face damp with tears. You hugged her close and rocked back and forth, humming softly at first, then singing—a lullaby from a film you used to love as a child.

Gradually, the sobs quieted.

Her breathing evened out.

And when you were absolutely certain she was gone—truly asleep—you tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets, lingering just long enough to make sure she didn’t stir.

Only then did you leave.

You closed the door quietly behind you and let out a long breath.

“She’s finally down.” You murmured, collapsing onto the couch beside Theo like your bones had simply decided they were finished.

He looked up from the parchment spread across the coffee table. His hair was mussed, sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back up.” He said quietly.

Your head tipped against his shoulder without thinking. “It’s okay, Theo,” You replied softly, “You deserved the break after the fight to get her into pajamas.”

He exhaled—a deep, exhausted sigh—and let his head fall forward for a moment. The common room was dim, fire crackling low, everything wrapped in that hazy, end-of-day quiet where the world felt temporarily paused.

After a beat, Theo straightened slightly, shaking his head like he could physically shake himself awake. “Okay,” He said, gesturing to the parchment with his chin, “Do you want to start writing the Charms essay?”

You nodded, eyes already heavy. “In a second,” You murmured, “Just… give me a second.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The fire crackled. The room softened. The parchment remained untouched.

And sometime in the night, Theo’s head tipped gently against yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him too—the two of you tangled together on the couch like you belonged there.

Morning crept into the Slytherin common room slowly.

Pale light filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint shapes across the stone floor and catching on the dying embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet in that in-between way—too early for students rushing to class, too late for true solitude.

Sometime during the night, the distance between you and Theo had disappeared entirely.

Your head was tucked beneath his chin now, his arm slung loosely—but securely—around your waist. One of your legs had somehow ended up tangled with his, your body curved into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His cheek rested against the crown of your head, breath warm and steady, fingers curled faintly into the fabric of your sleeve.

You looked… settled.

Theo hadn’t slept that deeply in weeks.

The first voices shattered the quiet.

“Oi—what the hell?”

Blaise stopped short just inside the common room, halfway through a yawn. Mattheo, behind him, followed his line of sight—and froze. Then a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“Mama y papà.” He said cheerfully.

Theo stirred at the sound, brows knitting together. You shifted too, burrowing closer on instinct, your face scrunching in your sleep in that exact way Bianca did when she didn’t want to wake up yet.

Theo’s eyes fluttered open.

It took him a moment to piece things together. The couch. The dying fire. The weight against his chest.

You.

His arm tightened before he could stop himself.

Draco let out a low whistle. “Merlin,” He drawled, “You leave one kid with him for a week and suddenly he’s playing house.”

Theo’s eyes snapped fully open, “Shut up.”

Lorenzo folded his arms, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained, “Are we interrupting something?”

You shifted again, mumbling something soft and unintelligible into Theo’s chest. Your hand slid up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.

Theo held his breath.

For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling—at the stone arches, at the faint greenish light—fully aware of his friends staring like the two of you were a particularly scandalous exhibit in a zoo.

And still, despite himself, his eyelids felt heavy again.

“Bianca?” He murmured, voice barely there.

“Still fast asleep.” Mattheo supplied easily.

Theo didn’t even fight it.

His eyes slid shut again, arm tightening just a fraction more around you as his head tipped back against the couch.

Out cold.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Blaise whispered, “He’s actually asleep."

Lorenzo stared, "My old man used to do the same too. Fell asleep through a whole movie once."

The Slytherin common room was almost unnervingly quiet at that hour.

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green flames reflecting in the tall windows like something alive beneath the lake outside. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, leaving only a soft pool of light near the couches where you and Theo sat—books spread open, parchment littered with notes, ink smudges marking the evidence of three solid feet of Transfiguration essays each.

You were officially on a break.

You shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders just as Theo stood, rolling his neck once before moving toward the small table where he’d set up the kettle. You watched him quietly as he brewed tea—precise, unhurried, like the ritual itself grounded him.

When he returned and placed a cup in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.

The teabag was still steeping.

You took a careful sip. It was perfect. Strong, but not bitter. Exactly how you liked it.

A soft chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Theo glanced up, “What?”

You shook your head, lifting the cup slightly, “Nothing. Just—thank you.”

He nodded once, but his mouth twitched like he knew there was more to it.

Then, almost without thinking, you said, “You know… before meeting her, I didn’t think I’d ever even look twice at you.”

Theo’s quill froze mid-scratch.

Slowly, he turned to face you, one brow lifting. “Wow,” He drawled, “I feel incredibly flattered.”

You winced, “No—wait. That came out wrong.”

He studied you now, the teasing edge fading, curiosity sharpening his expression.

“I just mean,” You continued, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, “before Bianca, I honestly thought we’d graduate and pass by each other without ever really being in each other’s lives.” You hesitated, “But now…”

“Now what?” He asked quietly.

You gestured vaguely between the two of you—the firelight, the late hour, the way his knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.

“You know exactly how I like my tea,” You said softly, “And I know how you like yours. I’m allergic to smoke, and you stopped smoking before this even became…” Your voice trailed off as you ducked your head, unsure how to name what sat between you, “Whatever this is.”

“Whatever this is,” You finished, almost to yourself, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How sometimes things just… happen. Completely out of order.”

Theo leaned back slightly, watching you like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“She changed things.” He said.

“Yes,” You whispered, “She certainly did.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I never thought about it before.” He admitted finally, voice low.

“About what?”

“Any of this,” He said, “A family. A future. I didn’t think I was capable of it, to be honest.” His jaw tightened. “Thought I was too screwed up to deserve one.”

Your chest ached.

“And now?” You asked softly.

“Now,” He said, barely above a breath, “I want it more than anything in the world.” His eyes met yours, “Bianca. And you.”

Your heart stuttered painfully.

“I don’t know when it happened,” He went on, “Or how. I just know that somewhere along the way, I stopped yearning for my past—and started anticipating the future instead.”

The fire popped, sharp in the stillness.

You looked at him—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension he carried like armor. The boy who had let himself love without realizing how deeply it would cut.

“I think,” You said, voice trembling just slightly, “I feel the same way, Theo.” You swallowed, “I want a future with you.”

You reached for him before fear could catch up, your fingers brushing his wrist. He went utterly still at the contact, breath hitching like you’d struck something vital.

You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you lifted your gaze to his—and then your hands began to tremble when you saw it. The want in his eyes. Bare. Unguarded.

Theo leaned in slowly, deliberately—giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His forehead rested against yours first, warm and steady, grounding you both.

“Ti amo.” He whispered.

You didn’t need to understand Italian to know what he was saying.

The kiss started softly, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly. When you responded, just as gently, his breath shuddered, relief and emotion tangling together.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. Like he was learning you. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the moment might fracture.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if anchoring himself. You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, the firelight warming your skin as the world narrowed to this—this quiet, impossible thing that had found you both.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, foreheads still touching.

You really did love him.

Theo had been in a mood.

It settled over him the moment the owl arrived—thick parchment, precise handwriting, the professors’ seal pressed into the wax like a finality. You’d read it together at the kitchen table in the common room, Bianca swinging her legs beneath the chair, humming to herself as she colored, blissfully unaware.

We believe we have found a way to reverse the spell. Preliminary tests indicate a high probability of success. We are confident we can return the child to her proper time.

Ever since then, something in Theo had gone quiet.

Not angry. Not cruel. Just… withdrawn. As if he’d folded inward, brick by careful brick, building walls he refused to name. He spoke less. Smiled less. When Bianca reached for him, he held her a little tighter, a little longer—like he was memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against his chest.

You told yourself you understood.

Of course he was going to miss her. You were going to miss her too. Somewhere between shared breakfasts and bedtime stories, scraped knees and tangled curls, Bianca had taken root in your heart. The thought of watching her vanish—of returning to your normal lives and pretending these weeks hadn’t rewritten you—made your throat ache in a way you didn’t know how to soothe.

That night, Bianca went to bed easily.

Too easily.

She pressed a sticky kiss to your cheek, murmured something sleepy in Italian, and curled beneath her blankets without protest. No fuss. No tears. Just acceptance.

It felt like a bad omen.

Theo waited until the door clicked shut behind you before he spoke.

“What if we don’t send her back?”

You turned slowly, the words not quite registering, “What?”

“What if we keep her here,” He said, voice low and urgent, like if he spoke too loudly the idea might shatter, “What if we just—don’t go through with it. We have time with her. Real time. Why should we give that up?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Theo,” You said carefully, “What are you talking about?”

“We’re her parents,” He said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious, “And if we send her back, we’re sending her to a life where she doesn’t have a mother. At least this way—” His voice cracked, just slightly, “—at least this way she has both of us.”

“Theo—”

“I know it hasn’t been perfect,” He rushed on, stepping closer, words tumbling over each other, “But we’re learning. We can do this. We already are. You see her—she’s happy here. She’s safe.” His eyes searched yours desperately, “She doesn’t have to lose you.”

Your chest burned.

“I know we could do this,” You whispered, “I know that. But Bianca isn’t our child. Not really. No matter how badly we want her to be.”

His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” He said sharply, “To grow up without a mother. To wake up every day knowing there’s a hole in your life you’ll never fill.” His voice dropped, rough and raw, “If she stays here, she doesn’t have to lose you. Whatever it is—whatever happens to you—we can catch it early. We can fix it.”

Your vision blurred.

“If Bianca stays here,” You said, voice breaking, “the you in the future loses his daughter forever. He’s already lost his wife, Theo. Don’t make him lose his baby girl too.”

Something in him snapped.

“Screw him.” He said hoarsely.

He reached for you suddenly, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he could stop the tears if he tried hard enough. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

“I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here,” He whispered, “Right now.”

Your sob escaped before you could stop it, fingers clutching at his sleeves like an anchor.

“Theo,” You breathed, “you know as well as I do… she isn’t meant to be here.”

He sucked in a breath—and this time, he couldn’t hold it back.

The sob tore out of his chest, raw and broken, his grip tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“Don’t make me give you up, (Y/N),” He choked, voice collapsing on your name, “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you too.”

His forehead stayed pressed to yours as his shoulders shook, grief and fear and want spilling out all at once. He wasn’t just pleading for Bianca.

He was pleading for you. For the life he’d tasted and already couldn’t bear to lose.

And you held him there, crying quietly into his collar, knowing that love—no matter how real—was not enough to change fate.

The second Theo entered the hospital wing, every instinct in his body screamed the same reckless, impossible thing.

Grab you. Grab Bianca. Apparate.

Disappear so completely that no one would ever find you again.

His mother had family in Italy—old blood, old names, people who still believed hospitality was sacred. They would open their doors. They would help you. They would protect you.

How hard could it be, really, to end up on their doorstep with a frightened child and a woman he loved?

Too easy.

Too selfish.

You didn’t even look at him when the thought flickered across his face. You simply squeezed Bianca’s hand and guided her forward, gentle but firm. You knew if you looked back at him, you would be all to convinced to leave together.

Theo swallowed hard, the bitterness rising sharp and ugly in his throat.

All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was for the three of you to be happy. Together. Why was that such an impossible thing to ask for? Why did it feel like the universe kept dangling it just close enough for him to taste before ripping it away?

He knew the truth, even if it tore him apart.

Bianca belonged with his older self. The man who chose to have her. The man who could protect her. The man who could stay.

But she was his daughter too—damn it. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. And the thought of letting her go felt like carving something vital out of his chest.

You knelt in front of Bianca, pulling her into a tight embrace. You kissed her forehead, whispered words she couldn’t possibly understand, and said as little as you could. Her fingers were small and warm in yours, but they grew slick with sweat as she glanced around at the unfamiliar adults. She tightened her grip, grounding herself the only way she knew how, holding onto you like she could anchor the moment in place.

Theo watched, throat burning.

Then he knelt too.

He’d done it a thousand times—tying her shoes, wiping tears from her cheeks, crouching to her level when he needed her attention—but this time his knees hit the stone floor harder than usual. Pain flared and vanished, eclipsed by something far worse. His hands trembled as they came up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing over her skin slowly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the exact warmth of her.

“Hey.” He said softly.

His voice cracked immediately.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, and tried again, “Bambina.” (Little one)

Her eyes lifted to his.

Just like yours—wide, glassy, endlessly deep. Like looking into a pool of pearlescent ink that reflected too much truth.

“Ti vedrò presto, amore.” He said gently, brushing a curl back from her face. (I’ll see you soon, love.)

“Le cose saranno un po’ diverse…” His breath hitched, “Ma devi avere pazienza, va bene? Andrà tutto bene.” (Things will be a little different… but you need to be patient, okay? Everything will be fine.)

Bianca studied him with grave seriousness, like she was weighing his words carefully.

Then—suddenly—her face lit up.

“Oh!” She said brightly, “Come quella volta.” (Oh! Like that time.)

Theo blinked, “Come quando?” (Like when?)

“Come quando sei andato via con la mamma.” She explained easily. (Like when you went away with Mama.)

His chest tightened, “Quando?” (When?)

“Quando siete andati in ospedale.” She continued, rocking on her feet. (When you went to the hospital.)

"E poi sei tornato a casa felice." (And then you came home with happiness.)

Theo’s breath caught violently.

The room tilted.

"Felice?" He asked quietly, feeling like hell. (Happy?)

The word felt wrong in his mouth.

A cold, sickening thought slithered into his mind.

Was he happy when you passed?

His chest tightened, panic blooming sharp and fast, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Then—

Bianca tilted her head, frowning slightly—confused by his confusion.

“Quando sei tornato con il mio fratellino, Felice.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. (When you came back with my little brother, Felice.)

The world went very, very still.

Blood rushed through Theo’s head so fast he swayed, knees locking as though a feather could knock him over.

“Tuo… fratello?” He repeated hoarsely. (Your… brother?)

She nodded, curls bouncing. “Sì.” (Yes.)

“È piccolo,” She added solemnly, “Piange tanto.” (He’s little. He cries a lot.)

The hospital.

You being sick.

Too sick to carry her. Too sick to eat breakfast.

The reason Bianca hadn’t seemed sad. The reason she’d been so independent.

Not because you were going to die.

But because you were making room for someone new.

Felice.

Happiness.

Everything slid into place with sickening, breathtaking clarity.

“Oh." Theo breathed.

Bianca reached up, cupping his cheek with her small, warm hand.

“Non piangere, papà,” She whispered. (Don’t cry, Papa.)

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until that moment.

Salazar—this was mortifying. Breaking down like this. In front of professors. In front of you. In front of a three-year-old.

And yet—he couldn’t stop.

Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrestrained.

Because now he knew.

He would be happy. He would love you. And you would love him back.

You would build a life together. Two children. Maybe more. A family so warm and whole that Bianca would speak of it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His children would never have to imagine a future without their mother.

He would never have to watch them grow up with that hollow ache he’d carried his entire life.

He would never have to watch you get sick, watch you leave this world, leaving him alone to raise your daughter, the last remaining memory of you.

Theo pulled Bianca into his chest, holding her like he could imprint the feeling into his bones—her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart.

“Ti amo.” He choked, “Ti amo tantissimo.” (I love you so, so much.)

Her arms wrapped around his neck—fierce and small.

You stared at the pair of them, heart aching, mind reeling. You felt for Theo—deeply—but shock quickly overtook sympathy.

Because between the two of them, you had absolutely not expected him to be the one crying.

“…Wait,” You said slowly. “What’s going on?”

Bianca turned her head as best she could while still buried against Theo’s chest.

“Papa says he loves me, mamma,” She announced cheerfully, “You’re too slow these days.”

Both of you froze.

“…You speak English?” You and Theo said in unison.

bonus:

The room was finally quiet.

Bianca was gone—sent back to a future that suddenly felt more real than the present—and Theo’s bedroom felt too large without her small presence filling it. The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across the sheets in pale silver bands. You lay on your side facing Theo, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm resting loosely around your waist.

Theo was on the cusp of sleep, just as he had been for the past hour, but your incessant thinking refused to let him go.

“But if Bianca hadn’t come back,” You murmured, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, “we would’ve just… gone on with our lives.”

He hummed softly, half-asleep but listening, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes into your side.

“And we wouldn’t have fallen in love,” You continued, the words tumbling out faster now, like if you didn’t say them you’d drown in them, “And if we didn’t fall in love, she wouldn’t exist. Which means she wouldn’t be able to come back and make us fall in love in the first place.”

You turned your face into his chest, your voice muffled, “So at the center of the loop—at the very beginning—there had to be a version of us that fell in love and had Bianca without any intervention at all.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not empty.

Then Theo sighed, fond and exhausted and deeply amused in that way that meant he loved you too much to be irritated.

“(Y/N), my love… amore mio,” He said gently. He had taken to repeating everything in Italian after English so it would help you learn faster. You felt his chest rise as he spoke again, slower and deliberate. “My future bride… la mia futura sposa. It is four in the morning.”

You groaned softly. “I know,” You sighed, “I just… I miss her.”

His arm tightened around you, grounding and warm, “Me too.”

For a moment, that was all there was—breathing, moonlight, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, the two of you were happy and whole.

Then Theo shifted.

You felt it before you saw it: the subtle slide of his hand, warm fingers sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt like he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“Say the word, dolcezza,” He murmured, his voice dipping into something unmistakably dangerous, “and I’ll bring her back to us.”

You slapped his hand away without even looking.

“It is four in the morning.” You said flatly.

He chuckled, low and unapologetic, eyes still closed like this was all part of his master plan, “Italiano, per favore.”

You hesitated, “Um… sono...sono le… una, due, tre, quattro… quattro del mattino?” (Um...it's....one, two three, four....four in the morning?)

“Perfetta,” He said smugly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Your accent is getting better.”

bonus bonus teehee:

The front door closed with a quiet, final click behind you.

For a moment, you just stood there.

The house felt different somehow—too still, like it had been holding its breath. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The sofa. The stairs. The framed photos waiting to be filled with memories that hadn’t happened yet.

Home.

You looked down at the bundle in your arms, your baby boy wrapped in impossibly soft blankets, his face pink and sleepy and perfect. Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they were coming.

Theo stepped in behind you, arms full—hospital bags slung over his shoulders, a car seat awkwardly balanced against his hip. He froze when he saw your face.

“Hey.” He murmured gently.

You turned, blinking hard, then leaned into him anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—slow, grounding, full of everything you didn’t have words for. Then you kissed Felice’s tiny forehead, breathing him in like you’d been afraid he might disappear.

“Bentornato a casa, piccolo,” You whispered, voice shaking, “This is where you’re going to grow up.” (Welcome home, baby boy)

Theo swallowed, eyes shining. He reached out, brushing one finger over Felice’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

And then—

“MAMMA!”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Bianca came flying into the hallway, curls bouncing wildly, socks half-slipping off her feet. Mattheo, her godfather, was right behind her, laughing and reaching out uselessly like he could actually stop her.

“Bianca—piano, piano!” He called, “Slow down—!”

Theo reacted instantly.

He dropped the bags without a second thought and scooped Bianca up mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground just before she could crash straight into you. She shrieked with laughter as he spun her once, relief spilling out of him in a dozen breathless kisses pressed to her cheeks, her temple, her nose.

You watched them with a soft, aching smile.

Your heart lurched at the sight of your baby girl in his arms—hair wild, eyes bright, whole and glowing with excitement. You had missed her more than you’d allowed yourself to admit during the last few days. Every quiet moment in the hospital had carried the echo of her laughter, the absence of her small weight climbing into your lap.

You had been waiting eagerly to acquaint your children.

Theo had insisted it was better this way. Better for your recovery, better that you didn’t have to juggle between children so soon. He’d been gentle but unmovable about it, the same way he’d been your entire pregnancy—this one and Bianca’s.

At the first sign of discomfort, he’d been apparating you straight to the hospital wing or summoning your healer for a home visit without hesitation. You’d teased him once that your obstetrician must be thoroughly sick of him by now.

But judging by the way Theo paid—promptly, generously, without ever blinking—and by the fine silk scarf and expensive purse he’d gifted the healer who brought both of his children into the world, you suspected annoyance was the last thing they felt.

If anything, they were probably fond of him.

“Hey—hey—hey,” He murmured into her hair, “Careful, amore mio. Papà’s got you.”

Theo finally stopped spinning, still holding Bianca securely against his chest. He pressed one last kiss into her curls and rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.

And you realized, with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness—

And despite the 36 hours of grueling labor, you realized that, for this man, you would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Theo shifted Bianca onto one hip, still holding her tight as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter softened into a happy hum as she curled into him, arms looped around his neck.

Then her eyes finally landed on you.

On the bundle in your arms.

“Mamma?” She whispered, voice suddenly small.

You felt your throat close instantly.

“Vieni qui, amore,” You murmured, smiling through the sting behind your eyes, “Piano, va bene?” (Come here, love. Easy, okay?)

Theo crouched, keeping Bianca safely lifted as he guided her closer, one protective hand braced at her back. Mattheo lingered a few steps behind, unusually quiet, waiting for the family to have their moment.

Bianca leaned forward, peering into the soft folds of the blanket.

The baby stirred, tiny fingers flexing, lips puckering in a half-sleepy frown.

Her gasp was barely a sound.

“È… piccolo,” She breathed, "He's smaller than me."

Theo huffed out a soft laugh, eyes glassy.

You tilted Felice just enough so she could see his face properly. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second—dark, unfocused, brand new.

Bianca’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach out, then froze mid-air.

“Posso?” She asked, glancing up at you for permission. (Can I?)

“Yes,” You whispered, “Gently.”

Felice shifted again, a soft sound leaving him, and Bianca’s eyes went impossibly wide.

"He spoke to me." She gasped.

Theo pressed his lips together hard, eyes shining as he bent to kiss the side of Bianca’s head, then yours. His free hand came up to cradle you, thumb stroking slow, careful circles like he was afraid the moment might shatter.

“This,” he said quietly, voice thick, “is Felice, your little brother.”

Bianca straightened immediately.

“Felice,” She repeated, testing the name. Then she smiled, bright and sure, “Ciao, Felice. Io sono Bianca.”

The baby slept on, oblivious.

Mattheo cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes like something had gotten in them, "Merlin, enough to make a grown man cry."

And standing there in the doorway of your home, with laughter in the air and your children between you, you knew—

This was it.

This was the life Bianca had promised.

Happy.

bonus bonus BONUS scene for my patient babies:

The one thing about living in Italy was that you missed the company.

Not the weather, not the food—certainly not the wine—but them. The loud, sharp-edged comfort of people who knew you before the life you’d built now. The friends who felt less like friends and more like family, forged in dungeons and late nights and shared survival.

The friends you’d left behind at Hogwarts.

You thanked every higher power you could think of that Mattheo had moved here a few years after Bianca was born. It softened the ache. Made the distance feel survivable.

And now—now that it was Bianca’s sixth birthday, the first child in the entire group to hit that milestone—the rest of them had descended to Italy like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Thank goodness Slytherins were rich.

Draco and Blaise were already deep in conversation near the terrace doors, voices low and animated, catching up like no time had passed at all. Lorenzo and Mattheo, meanwhile, had somehow been tricked—lured, really—into assembling Bianca’s princess castle in the middle of the sitting room.

That would teach them to bring gifts that required instructions.

Bianca hovered nearby like a general overseeing her troops, crown slightly askew, offering entirely unhelpful instructions. Felice, on the other hand, had claimed the discarded wrapping paper as his own, even though his uncles had been kind enough to bring presents for him as well.

Instead, he toddled around the sitting room, triumphantly dragging the empty box the princess castle had come in behind him, until Theo scooped him up at the last second—saving him from the scattered screws as Mattheo struggled to put the thing together.

Theo hovered near you like a shadow, as he always did these days. One hand rested habitually—possessively—against the small of your back, grounding, warm. The other balanced Felice on his hip, your son’s face still slightly sticky with cake frosting as he played absently with the little tie you’d put him in today.

Then the front doors flew open.

“MISS ME, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS?”

Pansy Parkinson’s voice sliced clean through the manor.

Theo barely had time to turn before she was already there—flinging her coat into Draco’s arms without looking, heels clicking furiously across the marble floor. Her eyes found you instantly.

Her face lit up.

“Oh my God—” She started, already smiling—

Then she stopped.

Her gaze dropped.

Paused.

Lifted.

Dropped again.

You barely had time to blink before—

SMACK.

Theo yelped, jerking back, hand flying to his arm, “What the hell—?!”

Pansy rounded on him like a woman possessed, “Can you PLEASE stop climbing on top of this poor woman?”

You laughed helplessly, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.

Theo stared at her, scandalized, “Excuse you—”

“Salazar’s balls,” Pansy cut in, eyes wild, “How many children are you planning on having? Fancy your own Quidditch team, do you?!”

“How many children we decide to have is none of you—”

“And she is not an oven to keep popping out your buns,” Pansy said sweetly, patting his shoulder like she was doing him a favor, “Control yourself.”

Theo spluttered, “It’s not like I could carry them myself, now could I?!”

“You’re a wizard,” She snapped back, “I think you could figure it out!”

You tried—tried—to regain control, “Pansy—”

She turned on a dime, expression melting instantly as she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a careful hug.

“Oh, come here,” She murmured, “Look at you. Absolutely glowing.”

You laughed against her shoulder.

“I get it,” She added thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you again, “If I were Theo, I’d be filling you up with kids too.”

Theo opened his mouth.

SMACK.

“Do not.” Pansy warned.

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[dearmisshoney]

raw proof

synopsis. best friends don’t fuck — unless your name is lorenzo berkshire and your girl asks for a creampie on camera.

pairing. childhood best friend! lorenzo berkshire x reader

content/mdni. fem!reader, cheeky!enzo, flirty!enzo, protective!enzo, kind of sub!enzo, allusions to mutual pinning, handjob, voice kink, riding, consensual filming/sex tape, unsolicited dicc pic (NOT from enzo), teasing, dirty talk, slight degradation, praise, pet name (babe, my girl), p in v, raw sex, creampie

word count. 4k

a/n. this is so tame compared to the other stuff i posted recently! also, first enzo fic!! sorry for the wait, my sweet @belovedenzo! fyi, the creep is named after a weirdo that bothered me in real life, so yeah! please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

“hmmm, hm, hmmm.”

the soft hum of enzo’s deep voice nicely matched the tame whirling of the electric fan, growing louder when the head was pointing at him, and going quieter when the spinning blades turned towards you.

it was summer. and as much as you wanted to catch up and play around with your childhood best friend enzo, the heat discouraged the two of you from staying close to one another. so there you were now, spread on the l-shaped couch in your living room, on the two extremities, with a god-sent fan in the middle.

it danced towards enzo first, blessing his shirtless, boxer-clad form with a cool gust of air, then it panned over to you, drenched in sweat in your sports bra and panties.

thank god you were living alone, otherwise you wouldn’t hear the end of it from your mother about how it is not proper to stay like that with a man around bla bla bla.

it was enzo. the guy you knew since you were in diapers. the guy with whom you shared countless of baths when you two were kids. the guy who was there through every embarrassing stage of your puberty.

staying in your underwear around one another was nothing.

“it’s the highest setting, right?” you mumbled after locking your phone and dropping it to the side, displeased by the little breeze of the electric fan.

“yeah…” he muttered back, slight disappointment latched onto the brief confirmation. he didn’t even bother to raise from his horizontal position, already recalling the desperation he had while smashing the plus button on the fan.

“ugh, i wanna peel my skin off my face.”

it was evening already, yet the heat was as persistent as ever. maybe you should get some ice from the freezer and just… dump it on you? yeah, maybe even sneak some pieces in your bra to cool off bett–

bing.

…

“oh, fuck off.”

checking your phone after the notification pierced the peaceful ambiance of the room, you immediately lock it back, infuriated by what you saw.

“again?”

enzo had a hunch about the source of your sudden rage, and by his short question and your audible huffs of annoyance, he knew he was right.

“is that michael guy still pestering you? didn’t you block him?”

“it looks like he made another account. ugh, why doesn’t he take the hint?”

you raised your upper half off the couch, leaning on the pads of your palms just for a few seconds, before diving head first between the scattered pillows next to you.

you groaned into them, and enzo could hear your agony even through the plush material.

“you told him you have a boyfr–?”

“multiple times. i even sent a picture of you to convince him.”

you did not have a boyfriend. you have been single for months now, but michael doesn’t need to know that. your sweet best friend enzo offered to play boyfriend to scare off the creep, but it seems like even that wasn’t enough.

“aaaand?”

“he knew we’re not together.”

you should’ve expected the number one stalker to recognize lorenzo from the pictures you have on your account.

“damn. i am sorry, babe.”

“ahh, it’s fine. i will just block him aga–”

bing.

“is that him again?”

enzo reacted more energic this time, jumping from his seat, abandoning his own phone, all to crawl towards your part of the couch. to see for himself what that weirdo does in your dms.

“wait, let me chec– oh my god, ewwwwwwwwwwww.”

if last time you dropped your phone on the couch, now you straight up threw it away from you. you shriek into a ball, clutching one of the pillows close to your chest and hiding in it. the heat no longer mattered as you were now dominated by disgust, captured by the need to be hidden.

“what? what?”

lorenzo panicked, eyes almost flaring out of his sockets at your unusual reaction. you were so affected by whatever you saw on your phone, you were almost shaking.

“that bastard sent me a dick pic. it looked like a bald rat, i feel like puking.”

enzo stilled for a second.

then he blinked.

“a bald rat?”

“yes.” you wailed, face still buried in the pillow. “a naked mole rat. pink and sickly and shiny. i’m traumatized.”

he snorted at your description. then choked on it trying to suppress his laugh, realizing it is not an appropriate reaction. “i’m sorry, i’m not laughing at you, babe, it’s just– god, that’s disgusting.” he reached for your shoulder carefully, hand warm and grounding as he gave you a gentle stroke.

“you okay?”

“no.” you mumbled pathetically, burying your face deeper into the softness. “i was just trying to exist. and now i’ve seen that. i need to bleach my brain. i need to send something back to scar him for life.”

enzo hummed, rubbing lazy circles into your shoulder. “like a revenge dick pic?”

“yeah. but…” you peeked at him from your pillow, lips pouting. “i don’t have a dick.”

he blinked again. and then his lips curled. slowly.

“so use mine.”

you raised your head so fast you nearly knocked foreheads with lorenzo. in that moment you realized just how close he was to you.

how close and naked he was.

“enzo–”

“what?” he grinned, boyish and infuriatingly calm, as if he hadn’t just offered to donate his cock for the cause. “he values dicks so much, i’ll give him one. free of charge. beautifully lit. no filters. let him compare.”

you gaped at him, blood boiling beneath your skin with every word of his, flushing your face with embarrassment.

he was just messing with you, right?

“you’re not serious.”

enzo moved his body closer, until your bare knees touched, and his palms spread over your naked thighs, keeping you still on the couch. with such proposals on his lips, enzo had a feeling you’d run away from him.

so he didn’t give you the opportunity at all.

“i’m dead serious. let me help you. he sends you a shitty unsolicited dick? you send back mine. i guarantee he’ll never message you again.”

you choked on a nervous laugh, trying to calm down your nerves and not read too much into it. lorenzo had no ulterior motives with such a suggestion, so why was your mind fostering unholy thoughts all of a sudden?

the nakedness of your two bodies didn’t help, especially now with his skin touching yours. his hands were firmly planted on your thighs, resting mainly on the top — only his fingers, fidgety and restless, tapped against your inner section.

making your head spin and forcing your legs to close up.

“you’re insane.” you whispered back at him, averting your gaze from his piercing ones and opting to stare at your abandoned phone.

he squeezed your thighs, fingers digging in the fat of your legs — bringing your eyes back on his.

“and you’re suffering. babe, come on. you know i’d do anything for you.”

your mouth went dry, spit refusing to further pool in. yet something else pooled... in your underwear.

his voice dropped just a little lower, his face dragging just a tad closer to your ear.

“i don’t want anyone making you feel unsafe. or disgusted. especially not some pathetic little creep who thinks his dick deserves attention.”

you swallowed, keeping focus on his gorgeous face; that mischievous glint in his eyes, the devious curl on his wet lips. he was still smiling, but there was something else in his expression now — sharp. protective. hungry.

and when you didn’t answer, enzo gently tugged you closer by your thighs, tilting his head.

“unless you’re too shy to see it?”

your lips parted, words rushing to get out in a short protest. “i’m not.”

“you sure?” he whispered, thumbs rubbing up your inner thigh now, almost brushing the edge of your panties. “because you can. if you want. i’ll even let you take the picture. show him what a real one looks like.”

your thighs squeezed together, trapping his digits briefly in between. your skin was warm, warmer than before, and where his hands stood — the patches burnt with unspoken desire. the heat licked up your spine too, spreading arousal all over your body like a raging fire.

you stared at him.

you’d known lorenzo your whole life.

and yet… right now, you couldn’t stop picturing what he would look like bare.

hard.

just for you.

your voice came out small, just a flimsy string of sanity keeping you away from his plan. “he won’t believe it’s real.”

enzo shrugged, eyes dark, whispering yet another possibility. “then we’ll take another. with your hand on it this time.”

“enzo!” you gasped, outraged by his proposition, going as far as pushing the pillow into his face.

but he only grinned wider, accepting your attacks with open arms and letting the pillow crash into his face. he immediately removed it, throwing it out of the way, and took back his position next to your blushing face.

“say the word, babe. i’ll even get it hard for you.”

you swallowed again.

you could feel your heartbeat in your throat, in your stomach, in the places where his thumbs were still drawing lazy little circles against your inner thighs.

the summer heat had nothing on the burn spreading beneath your skin now. and the look on his face — steady, teasing, inviting — wasn't helping.

“okay.” you murmured, almost like you were afraid to break the moment, finally giving in. “okay… let's do it.”

“yeah?” enzo’s brows lifted just a bit — surprised… or thrilled.

you nodded, lips parted, your tongue already poking out and wetting your lips.

“but… only if you get hard first. i’m not sending him a softie.”

enzo barked out a laugh, loud and wicked. “god, you’re fucking perfect.”

his hands slid from your thighs to his lap, lazily adjusting himself in his boxers. he was already half-hard, just from the idea of you seeing him. he didn’t even try to hide the way his cock twitched when you looked down, just once, then looked away quickly like you hadn’t meant to.

“c’mere.” he said, voice a little rougher now. “closer. talk to me.”

“talk to you?”

he hummed, stroking himself through the thin cotton, tentatively gripping his cock with his long fingers. he didn’t take it out yet — afraid to scare you — but you could still see the shape of him swelling beneath the fabric, thick and eager.

“yeah. want you to talk me through it.”

“enzo…” his name bloomed on your tongue with a whiny tinge, barely escaping from between your lips.

but he heard it clearly. he let out a low, throaty groan as a result, his head slightly lolling back on the couch.

“fuck. say it again.”

“what?”

“my name. with that voice…” he breathed, slowly dragging his palm up and down the length of his cock, the fabric now visibly wet at the tip, clinging to his mushroomy tip.

“goddamn, babe. didn’t know you could sound like that when you say it.”

you swallowed hard, thighs pressing together, your own panties now marked by dripping need. he looked beautiful like this — messy hair damp from sweat, chest rising and falling with each breath, mouth parted as he stared at you like he could eat you alive.

“enzo.” you whispered, unsure if you were trying to calm him down or make it worse. “you’re… getting really hard.”

“because of you.” he groaned again, accentuating it with a harsher tug on his cock. “your voice. your fucking voice, babe — talk to me.”

your cheeks flamed, but something in you cracked open; some hungry, curious part of you that liked the way his hips bucked into his hand at the mere sounds of your voice. liked the way his lashes fluttered, how his eyes rolled back.

liked how needy he looked.

“you’re doing so good.” you whispered seductively, barely able to believe the words were coming from your own mouth. “look at you…”

enzo whined, pressing harder against his boxers. fuck, this was really happening!

“look at how hard you are.” you said, braver now, watching his cock twitch under his touch. “shit… all for me?”

“yes, yes, fuck, yes–” he was panting now, jerking himself faster, his head tipped back completely, throat taut. “keep going, please– your voice, i– fuck, i’ve never gotten this hard this fast–”

“you’re gonna make a mess in your boxers…” you tutted, more to yourself, pressing your thighs together — now shamelessly.

“you want me to help? want me to pull them down and stroke you for real?”

enzo whimpered, and this time he shuddered — hips lifting, breath stuttering, a thick wet patch forming all over his cock.

“babe–” he gasped, looking at you like you’d just offered him the most amazing offer in the world. “please. please touch me.”

your palm was hot against his abs before he even finished the sentence.

and when your fingers slid under the waistband of his boxers — slow, sweet, teasing — lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat like you’d just sucked the life out of him.

his cock sprang free, flushed and twitching, curved thick and dripping precum towards his belly.

and fuck, he really was big. more than you imagined. heavy and sticky in your hand when you finally curled your fingers around him.

“fuck, enzo.” you whispered.

he groaned, head tilting to the side to see your hand work around him.

“say that again.” he rasped, eyes glued to your fingers wrapping around his shaft, getting all wet and nasty with his arousal. “say my name. say anything. just… don’t stop.”

you leaned in closer, breath feathering over his cock as you began to stroke him close to your face — slow, gentle pulls from base to tip, gathering the leaking precum with your thumb and swirling it over the flushed tip. he jerked at the touch, hips bucking, one hand gripping the couch for dear life.

“you’re so sensitive…” you murmured, tilting your head, studying him. “does it feel good, enzo?”

“yes– fuck, yes. your hands– god, your hands are so soft!”

you smiled, slow and sly. your other hand joined in, cupping his balls, stroking in rhythm with the other, until he was panting again, hips faltering, lashes fluttering with every twist of your wrist.

“you’re so pretty like this.” you breathed, voice all syrup and sugar, so close to his cock, yet so far away. “flushed and messy. moaning just from my hands.”

enzo bit his lip, the sound that escaped him something halfway between a sob and a growl.

“fuck, keep going– don’t stop– say more–”

you leaned in, lips brushing the muscles of his abdomen, voice like velvet.

“you gonna cum for me, babe? just from my voice and my hands? poor thing, you’re so pent up…”

“holy shit–”

his stomach jumped, his thighs trembled, and his hand suddenly darted for your phone, unlocking it with shaking fingers.

“what are you doing?” you asked, still stroking him, but slower now, more curious than anything.

“picture.” he panted. “fuck– we need to send that creep a real dick pic. one he’ll never forget.”

oh, that’s right. you were supposed to get him hard for a picture…

“you’re gonna send him this?” you laughed, light and breathless, watching as he snapped a photo of your delicate hand wrapped around his flushed cock. “you’re actually so cruel.”

that michael guy will fucking die.

“you’re the one stroking me like this.” he said with a grin, snapping another picture from a lower angle, your other hand on his balls now visible. “and your voice– fuck, your voice is even hotter than your hand.”

you squeezed him, just to make him shut up and focus on you.

he gasped at your ministration, nearly dropping the phone on you.

“enzo.” you whispered against his ear, your thumb brushing under the head. “focus on me, babe. cum for me.”

he did.

with a strangled moan and a whimper of your name, he spilled all over your hand and his stomach, cock twitching in your grip. he finally released the phone somewhere beside him, both hands flying to your hand as he rode it out, chanting your name like a prayer.

“fuck. fuck, babe–” he panted, pulling you in closer, resting his head on your shoulder, still shaking a little. “you’re unreal.”

before either of you could say a word, the notification pinged.

michael had already replied.

lol that’s a stock image :)

enzo stared at the message. blinked. stared again.

and then, very softly, almost in disbelief. “stock image?”

you snorted, and then started to laugh — loud and breathless, your forehead falling against his shoulder as your dirty fingers absently toyed with his still-softening cock, now wet and twitching in your palm.

“enzo.” you gasped between laughs. “he thinks… he thinks that is a stock image?”

“my dick is not a stock image.” he mumbled, borderline offended, his voice cracking with the way you were still feather-dancing across him. “what stock photo site has your hand in it?”

you grinned, turning your head just enough to catch the pink flush blooming on his cheeks.

“you want to prove it to him?” you asked, wickedly sweet, now concocting a plan of your own.

“…how?” enzo glanced at you, heart in his throat, his whole body buzzing with expectation.

you leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “fuck me. right now. raw. and take a video.”

he froze.

and then–

“w–what?”

“you heard me.” you whispered. “he doesn’t think you’re real? let’s give him something real.”

enzo’s cock twitched again in your hand — just barely — but enough to signal he was hardening again.

“please.” you breathed, nosing at his neck, voice breaking into something soft and whiny. exactly how he likes it. “fuck me, enzo. i need it. want you so bad–”

your voice cracked with desperation, half faux, half real.

“need you inside me. need you to fill me up. make me yours.”

enzo whimpered, eyes rolling back once more, the mere image of you impaled on his cock making his pulse spike. he was still sensitive, still dazed, but you begging like that?

he grabbed your waist, almost clumsily, and guided you into his lap — your soaked panties rubbing against his cock, already stiff beneath you.

“you don’t know what you’re asking for.” he whispered, trembling. “i won’t be able to stop.”

you cupped his face, squishing his cheeks together and making his lips into a pout.  barely touching them, you whispered one final request.

“good. i don’t want you to.”

he didn’t waste another second.

his hands gripped your hips like he owned them — like he always had — and with one swift motion, he pulled your soaked panties aside, guiding his thick cock to your dripping slit. the blunt head bumped your folds, sticky and aching, and your body clenched before he even pushed in.

“hold the phone.” you whispered, breathless, reaching for it where he’d dropped it on the cushion. you tilted it up just as you sank onto him, but he couldn’t comply.

lorenzo groaned, deep and broken. his head slammed back against the couch and his hands tightened, digging into your waist as you slid down his cock — inch by thick inch — stretching, aching.

taking him raw.

“fuck. babe.” his voice cracked. “you feel insane. so fucking wet. you’re dripping down my balls– fuck–”

you whimpered, clutching his shoulders for balance, camera still rolling in your other hand. the way he filled you up was nothing short of divine — so thick and deep. he curved just right, making your pussy clench around him like it was made for him.

you bounced once.

enzo yelled.

hand flew to your ass, spreading you wider, keeping you flush against him as you began to ride — sloppy, wet, desperate. his cock dragged along your walls perfectly, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the space between you, your breaths quick and needy.

the slight flash of the phone still capturing everything.

“y–you’re gonna–” he whined, eyes fluttering as he stared between your bodies. “god, i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

you laughed softly against his neck, still bouncing, nails digging into his shoulders as you went deeper and deeper with every move. “yeah? you’ve been imagining this?”

“every night.” he admitted, voice breaking. “every fucking night, since we were teenagers.”

you moaned his name, pleased with his answer, rocking your hips faster. and enzo shuddered, grabbing the base of his cock as you rode him, watching it disappear again and again into your soaked cunt.

“you want proof?” you panted, angling the camera down even more, catching the perfect image of your pussy fluttering around enzo’s cock. for the creep in your dms. “tell him, babe. tell him this is real.”

lorenzo looked at the phone — flushed, panting, eyes nearly wild, watching himself disappear in your greedy tight hole on film.

it was so hot, shit–

“this is my girl. my fucking pussy. you wish you had her voice in your ear while you came. but guess what?”

he wrapped an arm around your back, pulling you down until your forehead flushed against his, hips snapping up hard–

“she’s riding me.”

you moaned when he thrust up again — rough, relentless, so deep you could barely catch your breath. the head of his cock dragged right over that spot that made your thighs shake, your body clenching around him in helpless pulses.

enzo grunted, hips stuttering, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the apartment.

“you hear that?” he breathed, voice hoarse with awe, sweat beading along his temple as he watched you bounce. “fuck, it’s so loud — that’s your pussy, babe. sucking me in.”

“enzo…” you whimpered, nails clawing at his shoulder. “you’re so deep– too good–”

he angled his hips just right, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix, and your body jerked. your walls clamping down so tight that his eyes fluttered shut and his head dropped back again.

“you’re close, huh?” he rasped. “feels like you’re about to fucking milk me.”

you nodded, frantic, desperate.

“tell me what you want.” he panted, breath shallow, also close to climax. “tell me how you want it.”

your voice broke. you were already trembling.

“inside.” you gasped, not even ashamed now. “please, enzo– want you to cum in me. fill me up. make it messy.”

he growled like an animal, finally catching his prey.

“fuck– fuck, babe” he slammed up into you so hard you saw stars, one hand clutching at your ass, the other gripping your hip so tight it would bruise. “say that again. say it.”

you pulled the phone back up, aiming the camera down at where you were connected once more — where his cock was glistening, coated in you, buried all the way to the hilt.

“i want your cum.” you whispered close to your phone, with eyes locked on his own blown-out orbs. “deep inside me. i want you to ruin me, enzo.”

his hips jerked. a broken moan punched out of him.

“you’re so– fuck, you’re gonna make me–”

“do it.” you moaned, hand scratching down his chest and leaving marks all over his skin. “fill me up, babe. i want it all.”

he came with a cry — full-body shudder, cock twitching inside you as he emptied himself in thick, hot spurts. you felt the heat of it coat your insides, your cunt fluttering around him in aftershock. he clung to you like he’d fall apart if he didn’t, hips still rutting weakly, desperate to stay inside you, to push it all in deeper.

you collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, his cock still sheathed inside you — warm and twitching and still dripping cum.

the camera caught it all.

his fingers found the curve of your thighs, spreading you slightly, just enough to let the phone capture your folds stretched wide around him, cum already beginning to leak.

“damn right.” he muttered, flushed and breathless, voice hoarse with pride. “real enough for you now, michael?”

michael wasn’t gonna sleep tonight.

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @theodoresvalentine, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove, @minidemont, @yuunarii-arii

[hydrangel1c]

I hateeee, no, I loathe you all. I can't look up a Rafe fanfiction and find one that is ACTUALLY written by y'all, and not by that shitass AI. And it's SO obvious, you wouldn't even try to tone it down or hide it somehow. It's soooo disgusting.

This happens in the DARK!Rafe community, and it is awful, so awful and I get so mad because I can clearly sense the crapiness of characterisation which only a bot creates.

You are soooo pathetic for using AI to WRITE. Y'all are straight up talentless, FILLING the tags with your crap.

But it's fine, 'cause at the end of the day, there are only a few of us that rest knowing they are amazing, and y'all ain't shit.

[suny777-deactivated20260301]

𝓘𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮, 𝓦𝓮 𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻 — 𝓟𝓽.3

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: The country sees a perfect President and his perfect First Lady. But behind closed doors, her marriage is suffocating. One unexpected connection makes her question everything.

(here is pt.1 and pt.2)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Panic attacks, toxic relationship, emotional abuse, controlling behavior, anger, manipulation, mention of cheating, Toxic Marriage, Dark, 18+

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You always had to pretend.

Pretend your marriage was perfect.

Pretend you were happy.

Pretend you wanted this life — the galas, the cameras, the constant eyes watching your every move.

You smiled when you were supposed to.

You stood beside him when you were supposed to.

You played the role of devoted wife flawlessly.

But it was the furthest thing from the truth.

When Rafe told you he had hired a journalist to interview you about how “amazing” it was to be First Lady, you nodded like always.

Of course you did.

The interview started light.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

“Your favorite vacation spot?”

“What’s your favorite room in the White House?”

Those were easy.

You didn’t have to lie about liking peonies.

You didn’t have to lie about loving the ocean.

But then the journalist glanced down at his notes.

And asked—

“What’s it like being married to the President?”

You smiled perfectly.

Poised. Elegant.

Your hands folded neatly in your lap — so tightly your knuckles ached.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to tell him what it was really like being married to Rafe Cameron.

How every day felt like walking through a house filled with smoke suffocating but invisible to everyone else.

And then the flashbacks hit.

Rafe yelling.

Holly crying in her room.

The lipstick stain on his collar.

The way he looked at you when you confronted him.

“You’re imagining things.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“You’re paranoid.”

The hotel key card in his coat pocket.

The perfume that wasn’t yours.

The room starts spinning.

The journalist’s voice fades, distant and muffled.

“Mrs. Cameron? Are you alright?”

Your throat tightens.

You swallow.

“I—” your voice comes out thin. “Could I get some air?”

And for the first time in a long time, your perfect mask begins to crack.

Outside, the world tilts. Your lungs forget how to work.

You’re exhausted.

You don’t know how your life managed to become this how every morning feels like waking up to a punishment you don’t remember earning.

You don’t know why you can’t just put the fake smile back on.

Usually you can.

Usually you lie so easily it scares you.

But today?

Today you want to tell the truth.

You want to tell the world what this marriage really is. What this life really feels like.

People glamorize it.

They think you have it all.

You don’t.

You’re First Lady.

You can host galas.

You can deliver speeches.

And at the end of the day, it’s all a performance.

All a lie.

All torture.

You can smile through humiliation.

Through the cheating.

Through the emotional bruises no one sees.

You’ve done it all for Rafe.

But you can’t do it anymore.

You’re pulled from your spiraling thoughts when you feel a hand touch your shoulder.

You flinch instantly.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You look up.

It’s the interviewer.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset back there,” he says gently.

You straighten your posture out of instinct.

“No, no… I’m fine.”

Even now. Still pretending.

There’s a long silence. The air between you is thick, but not uncomfortable.

“My name’s Isaac.”

You reach for his hand automatically.

You tell him your name, and he lets out a small chuckle.

“I know,” he says softly. “You are the First Lady after all.”

And for some reason, that makes you smile.

Because it’s been years since you introduced yourself to someone on your own.

Usually Rafe is beside you.

Speaking for you.

Introducing you like you’re an extension of him.

You forgot what it felt like to exist separately.

Isaac reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

He pauses. “Do you—?”

You take one before he can finish.

The first inhale burns.

But it feels like rebellion.

Like control.

Like something that belongs to you.

“I’m guessing it’s not so easy being First Lady,” he says quietly.

You let out a small, tired laugh.

“It’s not what I thought it would be.”

He studies you carefully not invasive, just observant.

“You make it look easy.”

You meet his eyes.

“Don’t believe everything you see.”

Something passes between you. Understanding.

You both lean against the railing, smoke curling into the cool air.

You start laughing at small things a headline, something ridiculous happening in the news cycle, a joke he makes about political dinners being “theater with better catering.”

And for the first time in forever, you feel like yourself.

Not the President’s wife.

Not America’s First Lady.

Just you.

And you didn’t realize how much you missed her.

You and Isaac are too busy laughing to hear the door open.

Too busy pretending, for just a moment, that the world isn’t suffocating.

Then you hear your name.

Low.

Controlled.

Terrifying.

Your stomach drops before you even turn.

Rafe.

The cigarette is still between your fingers.

His eyes fall to it.

Then back to you.

“Are you smoking?” he asks, disgust curling in his voice.

You crush it out immediately.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop smoking?”

“Sorry,” you say quietly. “It was only one. I haven’t had one in years.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Rafe snaps, his jaw tightening. “You don’t smoke. It’s not ladylike. It’s not First Lady–like.”

Your gaze drops instinctively.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Isaac speaks up calmly. “I’m the one who offered her one.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“I’m Isaac, by the way.”

Isaac holds out his hand.

Rafe doesn’t move.

His stare is cold. Assessing.

“You’re the journalist I hired?” Rafe asks flatly.

“Yes, sir,” Isaac replies, slowly lowering his hand, understanding the message.

“Then get back to work,” Rafe says. “And stop trying to be buddies with my wife.”

He doesn’t yell.

He doesn’t have to.

Power radiates off him like heat off pavement.

Control. Ownership. A warning.

He turns and walks back inside.

The air feels colder now.

“I’m sorry about him…” you say softly.

Isaac looks at you.

“You don’t have to apologize for another grown man’s actions.”

That makes you look up.

Really look at him.

He’s not scared of Rafe.

He’s not impressed either.

You give him a small, almost shy smile.

“We should probably finish the interview,” you say.

Isaac nods.

And together, you walk back inside.

Back into the performance.

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A week goes by.

And everything slowly slips back into what it always is.

The morning after Isaac left, Rafe had a “talk” with you.

About how you shouldn’t trust journalists.

About how men like him are always looking for information they don’t need.

About how you embarrassed him.

“Don’t ever make me look like that again,” he had said calmly.

Like you were the one who did something wrong.

Now, days later, the house feels quiet again.

You’re walking upstairs when you pass Holly’s room.

You hear soft humming.

You pause, then gently push the door open.

She’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed, coloring.

You sit beside her.

“Hi, baby,” you say softly, smiling at her.

“Hi, Mommy,” she replies sweetly.

“What are you coloring?”

She shrugs her little shoulders.

“I’m making a picture for Daddy.”

Your smile fades just slightly.

“Another one?” you ask carefully.

“Yep,” she beams. “I think if I color him more pictures, he’ll play with me and love me more.”

Your heart drops.

No six-year-old should think love is something you earn.

Holly turns to look at you and notices your expression.

“It’s gonna work, Mama,” she says confidently. “I heard Daddy say one time he loves art.”

You gently take her small hand in yours.

“Holly, baby…”

You want to tell her the truth.

You want to tell her her father doesn’t deserve her softness.

You want to tell her she shouldn’t have to try this hard.

But you can’t.

For some reason, you can’t.

“Yes, Mommy?” she asks, staring up at you with those big, hopeful eyes.

You hesitate.

“Daddy’s been very busy lately,” you say quietly. “That’s why he hasn’t been able to play much.”

The lie tastes bitter.

“And your daddy loves you very much, baby.”

Holly studies your face for a moment.

Then she nods.

Before you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door.

One of the maids steps inside gently.

“Someone’s on the phone for you, Mrs. Cameron.”

You look up and nod.

“Okay, thank you.”

You lean down and kiss Holly’s head.

“I’ll be right back.”

As you walk out, you glance once more at her little body bent over that drawing.

Trying to earn something she should’ve been given freely.

And something inside you aches deeper than before.

You pick up the house phone downstairs.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

Your brows furrow slightly.

“I’m sorry… who is this?”

There’s a soft chuckle on the other end.

“Oh— yeah, sorry. It’s Issac.”

You don’t realize you’re smiling until your cheeks start to ache.

“Issac,” you say, softer now. “Hey.”

“I actually asked your assistant if she could give me your house phone number before I left that day”

“Oh… you mean Jennifer” you smile.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “Her.”

“I hope this isn’t weird,” he continues. “I just wanted to check on you.”

Your heart does something small and unfamiliar.

“I’m okay,” you say. And for once, it’s not entirely a lie.

There’s a pause.

“I was also wondering… there’s this jazz bar downtown. It’s really good. Live band, low-key. I go sometimes. I mean I understand if you’re busy or if you can’t really go out alone—”

“No, no,” you cut in quickly.

You don’t even think.

“I’d love to.”

Silence.

Then you can practically hear his smile.

“Okay,” he says. “Eight?”

“Eight,” you repeat quietly.

You hang up still smiling to yourself.

“You seem happy.”

Your stomach drops.

Rafe is standing in the doorway.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You turn slightly.

“It was just Jennifer…” you say as you walk past him going upstairs.

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A couple hours later, you’re upstairs.

Your bedroom is quiet except for the soft hum of the vanity light.

You’re sitting in front of the mirror, brushing through your hair, adding a little more mascara than usual. A soft gloss. Perfume at your wrists.

You don’t even recognize yourself.

It’s been a long time since you got ready for yourself.

You hear the bedroom door open.

Rafe.

You don’t turn around immediately.

Rafe steps further into the room.

“Now tell me again,” he says slowly, “why you and Jennifer thought it was a good idea to have a little movie night with Holly on a school night?”

He sounds confused.

But there’s something else underneath it.

Suspicion.

You keep your tone steady.

“It’s just a movie, Rafe.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Instead, he watches you through the mirror.

His eyes drag slowly over your outfit. Your hair. Your makeup.

“And you have to get all dolled up for what?”

His voice turns stern. Aggravated.

You turn in your chair to face him fully.

“Why can’t I just go to my friend’s house with my daughter without you questioning me?”

The air shifts instantly.

Rafe closes the distance between you in two steps.

He’s in your space now.

Too close.

His jaw tightens.

“Because,” he says quietly, leaning down near your face, “I don’t fucking trust you.”

The words hang there.

Heavy.

You stare at him.

He stares right back.

Testing.

Waiting for you to flinch.

For you to shrink like you always do.

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re scared he can hear it.

But your voice stays calm.

“You need to relax.”

For a split second, something dark flashes in his eyes.

Then he chuckles.

Low. Cold.

Like you just said something funny.

He straightens, shaking his head.

“Go to your movie night,” he mutters.

And walks out of the room.

The door shuts behind him.

You sit there for a moment longer, staring at yourself in the mirror.

Because this doesn’t feel like a marriage anymore.

It feels like surveillance.

When you get to Jennifer’s house, you knock softly.

The door opens almost immediately.

Holly doesn’t even wait.

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She throws her arms around Jennifer before running inside, already getting cozy

Jennifer’s eyes shift to you.

And she pauses.

“Wow,” she says, smiling gently. “You look beautiful.”

You glance down at yourself.

Smooth dress. Soft makeup. Hair done just enough.

You don’t know why you feel nervous.

It’s just a bar.

Just music.

You’re not cheating.

Rafe does that enough for the both of you.

But that’s not why your stomach feels tight.

It’s the anticipation.

The unfamiliar feeling of doing something for yourself.

Jennifer notices the way your shoulders tense.

She steps closer and gently squeezes your hands.

“You deserve one night,” she whispers.

The words almost undo you.

Because you can’t remember the last time someone said you deserved anything.

And for the first time in a long time…

You let yourself believe that maybe you do.

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You step into the bar and immediately feel the difference.

Dim lights. Soft gold glow. A saxophone humming low through the room.

Isaac spots you almost instantly.

He stands.

And walks toward you.

“You look amazing.”

Your cheeks warm before you can stop them.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He pulls your chair out for you, not in a showy way — just instinctively.

The band starts up again, smooth and slow.

A singer’s voice fills the room.

You order drinks.

You laugh at something ridiculous he says about political dinners and how everyone pretends to enjoy dry chicken.

And you realize something.

You’re relaxed.

Your shoulders aren’t tight.

You’re not waiting for someone to correct you.

You’re not choosing your words carefully.

You’re just… talking.

At one point you’re laughing so hard you have to wipe under your eyes.

“I haven’t laughed like that in a while,” you admit quietly.

Isaac’s expression softens.

“I kind of figured.”

The music lowers between sets.

Conversation shifts.

It gets quieter.

More real.

He tells you about growing up with a single mom. About how he worked through college. About how he always wanted to write stories that mattered.

Not gossip.

Not power pieces.

But truth.

You listen.

Really listen.

Then he looks at you.

“What about you?” he asks gently. “Before all this.”

Before the White House.

Before the title.

You stare down at your glass.

“I used to paint,” you admit. “I wanted to open a gallery one day.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“What stopped you?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh.

“Life.”

That’s the easy answer.

The real one sits heavier.

“It wasn’t always like this,” you say quietly. “When me and Rafe first met… he was different. He listened. He cared. He made me feel like I mattered.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t know when it changed. Maybe when he became president. Maybe before that. But one day I woke up and it just… wasn’t him anymore.”

Isaac doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t judge.

He just listens.

“That must be lonely,” he says softly.

The word hits deeper than you expect.

Lonely.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He reaches across the table, slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

His fingers rest lightly over yours.

Not possessive.

Not demanding.

Just there.

“You deserve to feel seen,” he says.

And your chest aches.

Because you haven’t in years.

You get quiet after that.

Lost in your thoughts.

Isaac notices.

“Do you want to dance?” he asks gently.

You blink.

“I can’t dance.”

He smiles.

“Sure you can. And if you can’t, let me teach you.”

He stands and holds out his hand.

You hesitate for just a second.

Then you place your hand in his.

The song is slow.

Soft.

He places one hand at your waist

respectfully, giving you space the other holding yours.

He guides you carefully.

You follow.

At first, you’re stiff.

Then you relax.

The room fades.

The music wraps around you.

You feel light.

Young.

Free.

You laugh when you step on his shoe.

“See? I told you.”

“You’re doing great,” he says, smiling down at you.

And for a moment…

You forget the White House.

You forget the surveillance.

You forget the fear.

You feel like yourself again.

You love this feeling.

You love dancing.

You love being able to move without someone watching.

Without someone judging.

Without someone controlling.

You rest your head lightly against his chest for just a second.

And you realize something terrifying.

You missed feeling alive.

You missed being yourself.

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You get home later than you meant to.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

You walk upstairs, still smiling faintly from the night. Your body feels lighter. Your chest less tight.

You step into the bathroom and turn on the shower, letting the hot water wash away the smell of smoke and jazz and freedom.

By the time you’re finished and slip into bed, Rafe is already there.

On his back.

Awake.

You lay down, staring at the ceiling.

You can still hear the music in your head.

Still feel Isaac’s hand guiding yours.

“Why are you home so late?”

Your body freezes.

You hadn’t realized he was awake.

“We decided to watch more than one movie,” you say evenly.

A lie.

Rafe turns onto his side, facing you.

“Where’s Holly?”

“She wanted to stay at Jennifer’s for the night,” you reply evenly. “Jennifer said she’ll drop her off at school in the morning.”

Silence.

You feel him watching you.

Then his hand lifts.

He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

You flinch before you can stop yourself.

He notices.

His fingers trail down slowly to your arm, rubbing small circles against your skin.

Not affectionate.

Evaluating.

“Did you have any drinks?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head.

“No.”

He stares at you for a long second.

“Are you really going to lie to me?” His voice stays calm. “I can smell it on you.”

Your chest tightens.

You inhale slowly.

“We had a couple,” you admit. “That’s it.”

“You and Jennifer?”

You nod.

He hums softly.

Then he pulls you closer.

Your back presses against his chest.

His arm wraps around your waist.

Possessive.

“I’ve been thinking about Jennifer’s offer,” he murmurs near your ear. “You know… about her being our surrogate.”

Your stomach drops.

You had almost forgotten.

Blocked it out completely.

“I think we should do it,” he continues. “Don’t you?”

You stare at the wall in front of you.

Another baby.

In this house.

With this man.

After the way he treats Holly.

After the cheating.

After the lies.

You don’t even know if you still want to be his wife.

Why would you bring another child into this?

You don’t answer.

Your silence stretches long enough that Rafe assumes you’ve fallen asleep.

His breathing eventually evens out behind you.

But your eyes stay open.

Wide.

Staring into the dark.

You’re not thinking about surrogacy.

You’re not thinking about marriage.

You’re thinking about escape.

About how to get yourself and Holly out.

Out of this life.

Out of this house.

Out of this quiet, polished hell.

Because neither of you deserve this.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄

🦢𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄🦢

Hello everyone! I really hope you enjoyed part three. I think I might do one more part for this series, and don’t worry I’ll make it a happy ending. I’ve really enjoyed writing this mini series it’s been so much fun, and I truly hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I did🤍

© 2026 Suny777 This is my original work. You do not have my permission to copy it or post it anywhere.

Tag list: @slumnit @charmed-asylum @maximuminfluencerstarlight

[angelicstarkey]

sucking bsf!rafe off while he's on the phone

content warning: oral sex 18+ MDNI

wc: 1.1k

It wasn’t like you’d meant to distract Rafe while he was on the phone; you knew better than that. But when you heard who he was talking to, you couldn’t help but feel a sharp thread of envy bubble in your stomach, and before you knew it, you slid your hands beneath the waistband of his jeans, easing the zipper down and tugging the fabric just enough to free him. 

“Yeah, I’ll- fuck - sorry, stubbed my toe. I’ll see if I can take the boat out for jus’ the two of us.” Rafe breathed out, trying not to moan as you licked a stripe up from the base of his cock to his tip, feeling the ridges of his veins on the flat of your tongue. A pattern you’d almost memorized on every part of your body that could have ever touched it, your mouth, your hands, the plush walls of your insides. The phone’s speaker was tilted away as Rafe whispered your name in a scolding tone, “Cut that shit out.” 

The way his face looked at you with both desperation and domination only made the butterflies in your stomach flutter even more, like they fed off of the realization that even with some other girl demanding his attention, it was still you he reacted to first, like it was his instinct, his loyalty to you written into his bones.

You softly smiled up at him, eyes wide and doe-eyed, as you kitten-licked the precum that leaked from his tip, his cock glistening red and hardened as it twitched from the sensation. You wrapped your lips around the head, sucking gently and hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper, revelling in the way his hand immediately flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to ground himself.

“Y-yeah, Stacey, that sounds perfect,” Rafe choked out, his voice was tight and strained as he fought to keep his composure. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, jaw tight as you bobbed your head, taking him further into your mouth until he hit the back of your throat. You relaxed your jaw and hollowed your mouth, allowing Rafe to buck his hips and fuck your mouth slowly, the wet heat of your tongue dragging against the sensitive underside of his shaft. 

The heat in your core started to pulse, your thighs suddenly slick, and the need for Rafe to solely focus on you became more urgent as you ground yourself against your hand to try and relieve some tension. Was it so wrong that he only had eyes for you, or that the boat was your thing only? As Rafe continued to thrust into your mouth, he couldn’t help but take in the sight of you, taking him whole and almost completely at his mercy, solely because you were jealous of who he’d been talking to. It wasn’t like he was blind to it; he knew it’d spark the possessive side in you, the side he wished you’d show more often. 

Rafe could do whatever he wanted, have whatever he pleased, and genuinely could not give a flying fuck as to what others thought. However, the one thing he’d always wished for was for you to stop pretending you didn’t care. To stop softening the edges of your jealousy, to stop playing it off when he knew damn well how deeply you felt things. He wanted you to be selfish, wanting him loudly, claiming him without apology.

“Dinner sounds good, what time were you thinking?”

You immediately hummed around him in amusement, the vibrations travelling straight through his cock and making him buck his hips involuntarily. You choked a little louder than you would’ve liked, leading Rafe to glare at you as a silent warning to behave. But his pupils widening and now darkened blue eyes gave away how much he was enjoying this. You doubled down, swirling your tongue around the tip before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt and swallowing around him.

“Seven works,” Rafe gritted out, his hand in your hair tugging at your roots as he tried to take control again. “I’ll uh- I’ll pick you up, yeah?” Jus’ you and me, no one else.” He paused, listening to her response. Feeling a surge of possessiveness in you, you hollowed your cheeks and swallowed hard, pulling back with a loud pop which led Rafe to hiss through his teeth into the phone. “Nah I’m just… handling some business right now. But I’m looking forward to Thursday.” 

You smirked up at him, drool gathering at the corner of your mouth as you stroked him with your hand, slick with your spit. You leaned down to lap at his balls, taking one gently into your mouth and sucking, knowing it would wreck him. 

“Ye-yeah fire away, what did you wanna ask?” Rafe managed to get out as he felt you take him in your mouth again, your fist twisting at the base of his cock as you bobbed your head, tasting him in the process. You heard your name being mentioned as you felt him swell in your mouth, the frantic throbbing pressed against your tongue. 

“What does she have to do with this?” Rafe grunted, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His hand shot to the back of your head, not to push you away, but to hold you in place, to anchor himself as you took him to the hilt over and over again. The head of his cock was hitting the back of your throat with every downward plunge, and you just took it, swallowing around him, the constricting muscles milking him for all he was worth. “Listen you got a problem with her, then I-” 

The dam that was built in Rafe for so long finally broke when he looked at the sight of you rubbing your clit while sucking him off with no mercy. He moaned out, thick and heavy, the first spurt of his release hitting the back of your throat. Rafe arched off the couch and buried his face in the crook of his arm, muffling the guttural sounds of his climax as you continued to work him through it, swallowing everything he gave you. His hips jerked with each pulse, a helpless, violent rhythm that spoke of his complete and total surrender to the pleasure you were forcing on him.

Rafe finally came back to himself, his chest heaving. He pulled you off him gently, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. He looked at you: your swollen lips, the smug yet innocent satisfaction in your eyes, and a dark, possessive fire ignited in his gut.

“Then I’m sorry, but this isn’t gonna work out. My best friend’s not a fucking threat.”

Rafe hung up the phone and tossed it to the side, his full attention snapping on you. “You think you’re fucking funny?” he growled, grabbing your hair and pulling you up to crash his lips against yours in a bruising kiss.

[irl-loading-screens]

[lemonsdietcoke]

We’re Not Over. ~ R.C

Summary: You should have just broke up, but Rafe would never let that happen.

Warning: DV, NONCON/DUBCON, PHYSICAL ABUSE, toxic relationship, emotional abuse, physical violence, Alcohol, addiction, pregnancy, mention or abortion, drug use (from rafe). if any of this triggers you or is in your thing, scroll away. This is fiction. 

An: heyyy yall lmk if u want a part 2 and like, comment reblog for more! Hearing what u think keeps me motived to write more fics!!

MINORS DNI

The house was quiet in that heavy way it got after everyone left. Rafe had made sure the door was locked behind the last person out. You'd felt it, the shift in him all night. The way his eyes tracked you from the corner of the room, jaw locked, fingers drumming restless on his knee while you talked to friends. He hadn't said much then. Just drank. Watched. Waited.

Now the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both. The lock turned slow, deliberate. The lamp on his dresser cast a dim yellow glow, catching the sweat on his neck, the flush creeping up from his collar.

Whiskey breath mixed with the faint chemical bite of coke still lingering on him. His shirt hung open at the top buttons, sleeves shoved up, arms tense like coiled wire.

He didn't speak right away. Just stood there, back to the door, staring at you like he was deciding something. You stayed near the bed, arms loose at your sides but ready, heart already picking up speed. The carpet felt rough under your bare feet, the air thick and stale.

"You had fun tonight," he said finally. Voice low, slurred just enough to show the liquor had settled deep. No question in it. Statement. Accusation.

"I talked to people. That's what parties are for."

He pushed off the door. Slow steps toward you. "Yeah. You talked. Laughed. Let that Pogue asshole get right up in your space. Smiled at him like he was funny. Like I wasn't standing ten feet away."

Your throat tightened.

"It was nothing. He made a joke. I laughed. End of story."

Rafe stopped close. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the sharp edge of his anger under the booze. 

"Nothing," he repeated. Soft. Almost thoughtful. Then his hand came up, slow, like he had all the time in the world, and wrapped around your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Fingers warm, thumb resting over your pulse. You felt it jump under his touch.

"You think I'm stupid?" he murmured. Eyes locked on yours. Pupils blown wide. "You think I don't see how you light up for them? How you pull away from me the second someone else is around?"

"Rafe." Your voice came out small. You hated it. "You're drunk. Let go."

His thumb pressed in a little. Just enough to make breathing feel deliberate. "Nah. We're talking now. You wanted to act like everything's fine all night? We're talking about why it's not."

You tried to step back. His other hand shot to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise tomorrow. He pulled you forward instead. Chest to chest, his heartbeat thudding fast against yours.

"You always do this," he said. Voice dropping lower. Rougher. "Act like I'm the crazy one. Like I imagine shit. But I don't. I see it. Every time."

His grip on your throat tightened fraction by fraction. Air got thinner. Your hands came up instinctively, pushing at his wrist. He didn't budge.

"Stop," you rasped.

He tilted his head. Studied your face like he was memorizing the fear there. 

"You know what happens when you push me like this. You've known for a while."

The words hung heavy. He wasn't yelling. Wasn't frantic. Just calm. Cold. Like this was inevitable. Like you'd walked into it on your own.

You shoved harder at his chest. He let go of your throat only to grab both your wrists instead. Twisted them behind your back in one rough motion. Pain flared sharp up your arms. You gasped. He used the momentum to force you back until your legs hit the bed. You fell onto it, him following, knee between your thighs, pinning you down.

He loomed over you. Breathing steady now. Controlled. His free hand came back to your face, cupping your cheek almost gently. Thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

"You think you can leave?" he whispered. Not mocking. Not angry. Just stating fact. "You think you walk out that door and this ends?"

His weight pressed heavier. You felt every inch of him, solid, unmovable. The hand on your wrists tightened until your fingers went numb.

"You don't get to decide that," he continued. Voice soft. Almost tender. "Its not just your choice."

Tears burned hot in your eyes. You blinked them back. "You're hurting me."

"I know." Simple. No apology. Just acknowledgment. Like it was part of the conversation.

He leaned down. Lips brushing your ear. "And you'll still be here in the morning. Won't you?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't. The room spun slowly, fear, pain, the sick twist of knowing he was right about the pattern. The bruises he'd left before. The apologies that came too late. The way you'd always gone back.

His mouth moved to your neck. Not kissing. Just breathing there. Hot. Possessive. "Say it."

You shook your head. Small. Defiant.

His hand slid from your cheek to your hair. Gripped hard. Yanked your head back until your throat arched. "Say you'll be here."

The words stuck in your chest. You swallowed against the ache. "Fuck you."

He laughed once, low, quiet. Lacking humor. "Yeah. But you're still here."

He released your wrists suddenly. Rolled off you. Stood up. Backed toward the door like nothing had happened. "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

You stayed curled on the bed. Breathing shallow. Wrists throbbing. Throat raw. Face wet from the tears you hadn't let fall until he turned away.

He didn't look back. Just flipped the lamp off. Darkness swallowed the room.

You waited until his breathing evened out on the couch across the room. He never slept in the bed after nights like this, like he needed distance to cool off. 

Then you moved.

Quiet. Careful. Slipped off the bed. Grabbed your shoes. Keys. Didn't bother with anything else.

The front door opened without a sound. Cold night air hit your face. You didn't run. Just walked fast to your car. Started it. Pulled out slowly so the engine wouldn't wake him.

Drove home in the dark. Locked every door behind you. Went to your room. Sat on the floor against the wall. Felt the bruises forming on your wrists, the ache in your throat, the hollow pit in your stomach.

Three days.

You stayed inside. Curtains closed. Phone off. Ignored the rumble of his truck outside, once, twice, then nothing.

On the third day, when the marks had turned deep purple and the fear had hardened into something colder, you turned your phone on.

Typed: We're done.

Sent.

Turned it off.

The silence after felt different this time. Sharp. Final.

You didn't cry. Just sat there. Breathing. Waiting for the fallout you knew was coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beach house was already alive when you arrived. It felt warm and forgiving after weeks of hiding in your room. Music drifted out the open doors, vibrating up through the deck planks. The air carried bonfire smoke, spilled tequila, and the faint coconut of someone's sunscreen even though it was dark.

You walked in through the side gate like you always did. Sophia and Avery had texts you earlier.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 GROUPCHAT 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

(6:30 pm)

Sophᥫ᭡: girl pls come out ;(

Sophᥫ᭡: just us girls seriously we need u here!!!

Averyʚɞ: mias margaritas r actually insane tn… come save me

Mia spotted you first. She waved you over with both hands, red cup already in one. "There she is! Finally." Her smile was bright, genuine enough that the knot in your chest loosened a fraction. She pressed the cup into your hand without asking. The glass was cold and slick with condensation. You took a sip…tart lime, too much tequila, the burn sliding smooth down your throat.

"Sit, sit," Sophia said, patting the wicker chair next to her. "We’ve been dying without you."

You sat. The chair creaked under you. The fire pit crackled a few feet away, heat licking at your shins. Avery leaned in on your other side, shoulder bumping yours.

 "You look good. Like, really good. We missed your face."

Conversation flowed easily at first. Safe. School gossip. Someone’s new internship. A story about Topper wiping out on his board last weekend that had everyone laughing. You laughed too. The margarita helped. You finished the first one faster than you meant to. Mia was right there with the pitcher, topping you off before you could protest. 

"Lightweight rules don’t apply tonight," she teased.

The second drink went down smoother. The third even easier. Your limbs felt loose, the edges of the night blurring just enough that the ache in your wrists, the faint ghosts of bruises, was easier to ignore. You let yourself lean back. Let the fire warm your face. Let the laughter wrap around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you were cold without.

You didn’t hear the truck pull up. Didn’t notice the shift in the air until Topper’s voice cut through the chatter. "Yo, look who decided to grace us."

Your head turned slowly. The alcohol made everything lag half a second.

Rafe stepped onto the deck from the side stairs. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched against the breeze. Hair messy from the wind. He looked worse than you remembered, sunken under the eyes, skin pale in the fairy light. But when his gaze found you across the fire, it sharpened. Locked. Held.

Your stomach flipped. The cup in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.

You started to stand.

Sophia’s hand landed lightly on your wrist. Not grabbing. Just resting there. "Hey. Stay."

Mia leaned in close. Voice soft, almost conspiratorial. "He’s not here to start shit. He’s been quiet all week. Like, really quiet. Just… give it a minute?"

Avery nodded on your other side. "We all miss how things used to be. One night. That’s it."

You looked around the circle. Faces lit orange by the fire. Eyes on you,concerned, hopeful, a little pleading. No one was forcing you. No one was blocking the gate. But the weight of their quiet expectation pressed in anyway. Saying no now would mean explaining why. Would mean ripping the fragile normalcy they’d all been clinging to.

You sat back down.

Rafe didn’t come straight over. He drifted instead. Slow. Casual. Grabbed a beer from the cooler near Topper. Cracked it open. Taking a long pull. Then another. He laughed at something Kelce said, low, forced, but enough to make the group relax a notch.

You kept your eyes on the fire. Flames snapping. Sparks drifting up into the dark. The tequila hummed warm in your veins, dulling the sharp edge of panic. Your head felt fuzzy. Pleasant fuzzy. The kind that made bad decisions feel distant.

He moved closer eventually. Sat on the low bench across the pit from you. Knees spread. Elbows on his thighs. Beer bottle dangling between his fingers. He didn’t look at you right away. Just stared into the flames like everyone else. But you felt it, the pull of his attention. Steady. Unavoidable.

After a while, it had been long enough that another round of drinks had been passed, and he spoke. Voice low. Rough around the edges from the alcohol or the week or both.

"You’re here."

Two words. Simple. No accusation. No demand. Just observation.

You swallowed. The margarita now tastes worse on your tongue. "Yeah."

He nodded once. Slow. Took another drink from his beer. "Good."

The group kept talking around you both. Laughing. Teasing. Pretending the tension wasn’t there. But it was. Thick. Electric. Every time someone shifted, every time the fire popped, you felt his eyes flick to you. Quick. Careful. Like he was afraid that if he stared too long, you’d bolt.

Mia leaned over again. Whispered so only you could hear. "See? He’s chill. Just stay a little longer. For old times’ sake."

You nodded. Small. Automatic.

The fourth margarita appeared in your hand somehow. You didn’t remember asking for it. But you drank anyway. Let the burn chase away the last of the clarity.

Rafe finally stood. Walked around the pit. Slow steps. Stopped a few feet from your chair. Hands still in his pockets. Head tilted just enough that the firelight caught the sharp line of his cheekbone.

"Can we talk?" he asked. Quiet. Almost careful. "Just for a second. Down by the water."

You looked up at him. The world tilted soft from the drinks. His face looked different in the low light, less angry, more… lost. The same face you’d seen in the dark of his room weeks ago, right before everything went wrong.

Sophia touched your shoulder lightly. "Go. We’re right here if you need us."

Avery smiled slightly. "Five minutes. Then come back and make fun of Topper with us."

You stood. Legs wobbly but holding. The sand was cool under your feet as you followed him down the steps, away from the fire, away from the lights. Waves rolled in steady. White foam hissing against the shore.

He stopped near the waterline. Turned. Didn’t crowd you. Just stood there. Waiting.

"I fucked up," he said. Voice rough. Low. "Bad. I know it."

You crossed your arms. The wind tugged at your hair. Salt stung your lips. "Yeah. You did."

He looked down at the sand. Kicked at a shell. "I’ve been trying to fix it. Therapy. Cutting back. All of it. Doesn’t make it right. Just… means I’m trying."

Silence stretched. Waves filled it.

"I don’t expect you to believe me," he continued. "But I’m sorry. For real."

You searched his face. The tequila made it hard to read him. Or maybe it made it easier. He looked wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw tight like he was holding something back.

You didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Letting the words settle.

He stepped closer. Slow. Careful. "Can I…?" He opened his arms a little. Not grabbing. Just offering.

The drinks had softened everything. The fear. The anger. The memory of his hand on your throat. It all felt farther away. Muted.

You stepped into him.

His arms closed around you. Tight. Familiar. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other low on your back. He smelled like smoke and salt and him. His heartbeat thudded fast against your cheek.

"I missed you," he whispered. Barely audible over the waves.

You didn’t hug back. But you didn’t pull away.

Behind you, up on the deck, the group watched. Faces glowing in the firelight. Smiling soft. Relieved.

You stayed like that longer than you planned.

When you finally stepped back, his hands slid to your arms. Lingered a second. Then dropped.

"Stay?" he asked. Quiet. No demand. Just a question.

You glanced back at the house. Sophia raised her cup. Mia gave a small nod. Avery mouthed please.

The net was soft. Warm. Almost comfortable.

You nodded once.

Walked back with him.

Sat down again.

Took the next drink when it was handed to you.

Let the night keep pulling you under.

Slow.

Subtle.

Inevitable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three weeks later, your period was late.

You bought the test at the small pharmacy on the Cut because no one there would recognize you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The cashier didn’t look at your face. You sat in your car in the parking lot with the plastic bag in your lap, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your teeth. 

The two pink lines stared back at you from the bathroom counter like they had been waiting there all along.

You had taken the test twice. Same brand. Same result. The first time you sat on the closed toilet lid for twenty minutes, knees drawn up, staring at the stick until the plastic felt warm from your grip. The second time you did it in the shower, water running cold, hoping the steam would blur the lines or wash them away. It didn’t.

Your period was nine days late now. You had never been this late. Not once.

The night at the beach house came back in fragments. Not clean memories. Just flashes. The margaritas tasting stronger than they should have. Mia’s hand on your arm, refilling your cup again. Rafe’s arms around you by the water, the group watching from the deck like it was some kind of movie moment. Then the guest bedroom. His mouth on your neck. His hands sliding under your shirt. You remembered saying “wait” once, maybe twice, the word slurring into the music thumping through the floor. You remembered his weight pressing you into the mattress. After that the edges went soft and dark. You woke up the next morning in his bed upstairs, sheets tangled, head pounding, no clear memory of how you got there or what happened between the guest room and waking up.

You had asked him once, days later, casual, testing the water.

“Do you remember… that night? Like, after we talked on the beach?”

He had looked at you with those tired eyes, thumb brushing your cheek. “Yeah. You were drunk. We both were. You wanted it. We both did.”

You had nodded because pushing felt dangerous. Because the alternative meant admitting you didn’t remember consenting. Or not consenting. The lines were too blurry to touch.

Now the lines weren’t blurry anymore.

You drove to his house that afternoon because the nausea had started and you couldn’t keep pretending it was stress or bad takeout. Your hands shook on the wheel the whole way. The Cameron driveway felt longer than usual. The house loomed white and quiet under the late sun.

Rafe answered the door shirtless, hair damp like he had just showered. He smiled when he saw you, small and hopeful, the way he had been smiling lately. Careful. Like he was afraid the wrong expression would make you bolt.

“Hey. You okay? You look…”

You didn’t let him finish. You stepped inside, closed the door behind you, and held up the test. The plastic trembled in your fingers.

His eyes dropped to it. Then back to your face. Everything in him went still.

“Is that…”

You nodded once.

He took the stick from you gently, like it might break. Stared at the lines. His breathing changed. Shallow. Fast. Then his face cracked open in a way you had never seen before. Not anger. Not smugness. Something raw and bright and terrifyingly real.

“Holy fuck.” His voice broke on the last word. He looked up at you, eyes wet, shining. “We’re… we’re having a baby?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed tight.

He pulled you into him suddenly, arms wrapping around you so hard it hurt a little. His face buried in your hair. You felt his chest shudder against yours. He was crying. Quiet, ragged breaths. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and broken.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is us fixing everything. You and me and… fuck, a kid. Our kid.”

You stood there frozen. His heartbeat hammered against your cheek. Too fast. Too loud. You felt the nausea roll again, sharp and sour.

“Rafe. I don’t… I don’t remember us having sex without… a condom. That night. I don’t remember any of it clearly.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your arms, thumbs stroking slow circles like he was trying to soothe you.

“You were drunk. We both were. But you wanted me. You pulled me down there. You said my name like…” He swallowed. “Like you needed me. We didn’t use one because… shit, I don’t know. It happened fast. You were on top at one point. You didn’t stop me.”

The words landed heavy. You searched his face for a lie. Couldn’t find one. But the memory still wouldn’t come clear. Just heat. Pressure. His voice in your ear. Your own hands on his back. Had you pulled him down? Had you said his name?

“I said wait,” you whispered.

His expression flickered. Pain. Guilt. Something darker underneath.

“I know. I heard you. But then you kissed me again. You wrapped your legs around me. I thought… I thought that meant yes. I’m so fucking sorry if I got it wrong. I swear to God I thought you wanted it.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing shaky.

“I would never hurt you like that on purpose. You know that. Right?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He took your hand. Led you to the couch. Sat you down. Knelt in front of you like he was praying.

“This baby… It’s not an accident. It’s us. It’s proof we’re supposed to be together. After everything I put you through, after I almost lost you… This is how we make it right. Ward’s gonna be so fucking proud. The girls are gonna lose their minds. They already love you. They’ll love this.”

He reached for your stomach. Hesitant. Palm flat against the flat plane. His hand shook.

“Our kid won’t grow up like I did. No yelling. No bullshit. Just… us. Safe. Together.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. Silent. You didn’t wipe them away.

He saw them. Misread them, maybe. Or didn’t care.

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But we can do this. I’ll take care of everything. Doctor’s appointments. Money. All of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words stuck.

“What if I don’t want…”

He froze. Hand still on your stomach.

“Don’t say that.” His voice cracked again. Not angry. Pleading. “Please don’t say that. Not yet. Just… think about it. Think about how good this could be. How much better I’ll be. For you. For them.”

He leaned in. Kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I fucked it all up. This… this is our second chance.”

You sat there. Numb. 

He stood up. Pulled out his phone. Already texting.

“I’m telling Ward. And our friends. They need to know. They’ll be so happy for us.”

You watched him type. Watched the messages send. Watched the little dots appear almost immediately.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t look.

You just sat there.

Staring at the spot on the floor where his knees had been.

Feeling the weight of something you couldn’t name settle deep in your chest.

Something final.

Something you hadn’t chosen.

But something you were already carrying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You met them at Sophia’s house because it felt safer than anywhere public. The living room smelled like vanilla candles and fresh coffee. Sunlight cut through the big windows and landed in sharp rectangles on the white couch. Mia had brought muffins. Avery kept refilling your water like that would fix anything.

They were smiling when you sat down. Real smiles. The kind that made your stomach twist worse.

“So,” Mia started, tucking her legs under her, “how are you feeling? Like, actually feeling? The group chat is already losing it over baby names.”

You stared at the muffin on your plate. The blueberries looked too bright. Your throat felt tight.

“I’m not keeping it.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

For a second, nobody moved. Sophia’s hand froze halfway to her coffee cup. Avery blinked slowly, like she was trying to replay what you just said.

“What?” Mia laughed, nervous. “Come on. You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head. Your hands were shaking, so you pressed them between your knees. “I’m not ready. None of this… none of it feels right. Rafe and I are still so messed up…And now there’s a baby? I can’t bring a kid into this. I feel so guilty even thinking about it, and I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

Sophia leaned forward. Her voice was soft, careful, the way people talk to someone on the edge. “Babe, I get that you’re overwhelmed. Pregnancy hormones are crazy. But this is a good thing. Rafe’s been trying so hard. He’s different now.”

“He’s not different,” you said. Your voice cracked. “He’s the same. And I’m not ready to be someone’s mom. I can barely take care of myself when he’s… when things get bad.”

Avery reached over and touched your arm. “We’re all here for you. We’ll help. The whole group will. This baby could be what finally makes him stable.”

You pulled your arm away. The touch felt too heavy.

“You don’t get it.” Your heart was pounding now. The vanilla candle suddenly smelled sickeningly sweet. “I don’t even remember that night clearly. I was so drunk. I said wait. And now I’m pregnant, and everyone’s acting like it’s this beautiful second chance. It’s not. It’s a trap. I feel trapped.”

Mia’s face changed. The soft concern hardened into something sharper. “Okay, that’s not fair. Rafe told us what happened. You were into it. You went to the guest room with him. You can’t rewrite it now just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not rewriting shit!” Your voice rose. You hated how loud it sounded in the bright, pretty room. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m terrified of raising a kid with him. He’s literally a drug addict!”

The word exploded out of you.

The silence after was worse than the shouting.

Sophia’s eyes went wide. Avery looked away, cheeks flushed. Mia stared at you like you had slapped her.

“Jesus,” Mia whispered. “You really just said that?”

You were breathing hard. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 “It’s true. He does coke all the time. He gets paranoid. And now you all want me to bring a baby into it? What kind of mother would that make me?”

Sophia’s voice was quiet but edged. 

“He’s been clean for weeks. He’s going to therapy. Ward even said he’s proud of him. You’re acting like he’s so fucked up when he’s trying to be better for you. For the baby.”

“He’s not fucking clean,” you snapped. “He just hides it better when you’re watching.”

Avery stood up suddenly. 

“This is fucked up. We all saw how broken he was when you left. He was crying to us. And now you’re pregnant, and you want to… what? Get rid of it? After everything we did to get you two back together?”

The words hit like ice water.

You looked at each of them. The people who had lied about Rafe not being at the party. The ones who kept pushing drinks on you that night. The ones who told you this was fate.

Guilt and rage and fear tangled so tight in your chest you couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t do this,” you said, quieter now. Voice raw. “I can’t bring a child into this. I’m not ready. And I don’t think I ever will be with him.”

Mia shook her head. Tears in her eyes. “You’re being selfish. That baby is innocent. And Rafe… he’s going to be devastated. You have no idea what this will do to him.”

The room felt too small. The sunlight too bright. The vanilla candle cloying.

You stood up on shaky legs.

“I need to go.”

None of them tried to stop you.

But as you walked to the door, you heard Sophia’s phone buzz. Once. Twice. Then three more times in quick succession.

You didn’t have to ask who it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your phone started exploding the second you left Sophia’s house.

It vibrated nonstop in your pocket the whole drive home. You didn’t look. You already knew. By the time you pulled into your driveway, the screen was flooded with missed calls from Rafe, Mia, and Avery. Text after text.

Rafe: answer ur fucking phone (4:56 pm)

Rafe: you told them you want to kill my kid???

Rafe: after everything ur really doing this to me???

You turned it off and went inside.

The knocking started softly at first. Polite. Almost hesitant. Your mom answered, voice muffled through the door.

“Rafe? Honey, what’s going on?”

You heard the low rumble of his voice, calm, measured. “Can I talk to her? Please. It’s important.”

There was a pause. Your dad appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, watching. Your mom stepped aside. Rafe walked in slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes were red, his hair damp with sweat, but his face was composed. Polite smile for your parents. The perfect Kook boy.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N. Sorry to show up like this. I just… need a minute with her. If that’s okay.”

Your dad glanced at you. You stood frozen in the living room doorway, arms wrapped tight around yourself. He nodded once. “Upstairs. Door open.”

Rafe gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

He followed you up the stairs without touching you. The hallway light buzzed overhead. Your bedroom door creaked when you pushed it open. He stepped inside after you. Closed it most of the way, not all the way, respecting the “open” rule, but enough that voices wouldn’t carry downstairs clearly.

The second he faced you, the mask slipped.

He turned. Locked eyes with you. The polite smile vanished.

“You told them,” he said. Voice low. Controlled. Barely above a whisper. “You told our friends you want to get rid of my kid. And you called me a fucking drug addict.”

You backed up until your calves hit the edge of your bed. “Rafe-”

“Shh.” He held up a hand. Not aggressive. Just firm. “Keep your voice down. Your parents are right downstairs. We’re not doing this loud.”

He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. You could smell the faint chemical edge on him, coke, fresh. His eyes were glassy but focused. Calculating.

“You have no idea what you just did,” he continued, still quiet. “The girls are blowing up my phone. Telling me you’re scared. Telling me you’re not ready. Telling me you think I’m gonna be a shit dad because I’m… what? A drug addict?”

He laughed once. Soft. Bitter. No humor.

“I’m trying. Every day. For you. For this.” His hand moved toward your stomach, not touching, just hovering. “And you go behind my back and tell them you want to kill it? That’s cold. That’s really fucking cold.”

You swallowed. “I said I’m not ready. I didn’t say I was-”

“You said it.” His voice dropped even lower. Almost a hiss. “You said the words. And now they’re all texting me like I’m the problem. Like, I forced this on you. Like I’m the one who’s dangerous.”

He took another step. Close enough, you felt the heat coming off him.

“I didn’t force anything,” he whispered. “That night? You wanted me. You pulled me into that room. You kissed me back. You wrapped your legs around me. Don’t try to spin it now just because you’re scared.”

His hand finally touched you, palm flat against your stomach. Gentle. Possessive.

“This is ours,” he said. “God gave us this. You think He makes mistakes? You think He’d put a baby in you if it wasn’t meant to be?”

You tried to step back. He didn’t let you. His other hand came up to the side of your neck. Fingers curling lightly into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Keeping you there.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “Not like that. Not with our kid inside you. But you need to understand something.”

His thumb brushed your jaw. Slow. Almost tender.

“If you try to take this away from me… if you go to a clinic, if you make an appointment behind my back… I will lose it. Completely. And I won’t be quiet about it. I’ll tell everyone. Your parents. Ward. The whole fucking island. I’ll tell them you’re unstable. That you’re trying to kill my baby because you hate me. That you’re the one who’s dangerous.”

His eyes searched yours. Wet. Pleading. But the grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.

“And Ward?” He leaned in. Breath hot against your ear. “Ward already knows. I told him the second your friends did. He’s furious. Not at me. At you. He said we’re handling this the right way. He’s already talking to lawyers. Prenatal custody stuff. Visitation. Support. He can make your life hell without ever raising his voice.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again.

“But I don’t want that,” he whispered. “I want us. I want our family. I want to be good. For you. For the baby.”

His hand slid down to cup your cheek. Thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was there.

“So here’s what’s happening,” he said. Still quiet. Still calm. “Tomorrow you’re coming to the house. Ward wants to talk. He’s already got the guest house ready. Full doctor coverage. Money for whatever you need. But you’re staying there. With me. Until the baby comes. After that… we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You opened your mouth.

He pressed his thumb over your lips. Gentle. Shushing.

“Don’t say no yet,” he murmured. “Think about it. Think about what happens if you fight this. Think about your parents downstairs. They already let me in. They already know about the baby. They’re not gonna let you do something stupid.”

He leaned in. Forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you hate me. Even when you want to hurt me. I still love you. And I’m gonna love this kid so much it scares me.”

His hand stayed on your stomach. Warm. Heavy.

“But if you try to take it away… I won’t survive it. And I won’t let you walk away clean.”

He stepped back slowly. Dropped his hands.

“I’ll be outside in the truck,” he said. Voice back to normal volume. Polite again. “Whenever you’re ready to talk. No rush.”

He turned. Opened the door wider. Walked downstairs as if nothing had happened.

You heard him thank your parents again. Heard the front door close softly.

You sat on the edge of your bed. Breathing shallow. Scalp stinging. Stomach churning.

Downstairs, your mom called up quietly.

“Honey? Rafe said… he said you’re pregnant?”

The silence stretched.

You didn’t answer.

Your phone buzzed once.

Rafe: I meant what I said. I’ll wait. (5:31 pm)

Then another.

Ward: We’ll see you tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late.

The screen went dark.

You stared at it.

The house felt smaller than ever.

And the weight in your stomach, the one you hadn’t chosen, felt heavier than Rafe’s hand ever could.

…….

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