brendon park would be into a gentle face slapping — not smacking!! — these little taps to make sure you’re listening, not too drunk on a date night and you’re talking, or when your blissfully fucked out, he’d give you a firm tap tap with his hand on your cheek;
“what’s your colour angel? come on, if you don’t say anything i’m taking it as a ‘red’ and we’re gonna stop.”
“g- green,” you mumble after hesitating.
“yeah? green? good girl.” he grunts out as he thrusts into you deep. “almost over and then i’ll let you cum. gonna be a good girl and count with me? three… two… what’s after two angel? that’s right, one.”
fuuuuck i just realized that the future idealized version of myself cant exist without current me being the catalyst for change and doing hard things. has anybody heard about this
Summary: After a night of restraint, public declarations, and one lethal promise of later, Brendon finally takes you home — and proves that his control is not coldness. It is attention. It is patience. It is precision. And it might ruin you forever.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex, penetrative sex, soft dom Brendon Park, praise, light biting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, protected sex, aftercare, age gap romance, power/control dynamics but fully consensual, Brendon being devastatingly competent, Biscuit cameo
Author’s Note: Well. Here we are. This chapter is the payoff to “later,” and I am both proud of it and emotionally unwell about it. Brendon Park is not loud about wanting you. He is not messy about it. He is not careless for even one second. He is focused. He is patient. He asks still? like it means more than consent, because with him, it does. It means are you with me? are you safe? are you still choosing this?
And yes, Biscuit is still the smallest orange menace in Pittsburgh.
The room was dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the windows and the low lamp on the dresser. Brendon’s bed was made, because of course it was. Dark sheets. Clean lines. Nothing extra. Nothing out of place.
You barely had time to take it in before Brendon turned back to you. His hands settled at your waist. He guided you backward until your legs met the foot of the bed.
Then he pressed down.
Not hard. Not rough. Enough.
You sat.
Your breath caught as the mattress dipped beneath you. Brendon stood in front of you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his thighs, tall and quiet and devastating in his dark suit.
For a second, he only looked at you.
Your bare shoulders. Your parted lips. Your hands curled against the edge of his bed.
His eyes lifted back to yours. “Stay there.”
Your stomach dropped. Then flipped. You nodded once, too quickly.
His brow moved. Barely.
Your face warmed. “Yes,” you said.
Brendon’s gaze held yours for one more second. Then his hands went to his jacket. You watched because he had told you to stay, and because you could not have looked away if the room had caught fire.
He slipped the jacket from his shoulders with controlled precision, one side, then the other, the fabric pulling cleanly down his arms. He folded it once and set it over the back of the chair beside the dresser.
Your fingers tightened against the mattress. Brendon noticed. His eyes flicked down. Then back up. He said nothing. That made it worse.
His hands moved to his cuffs next. One button. Then the other. He rolled one sleeve up his forearm, slow and exact, exposing the warm line of his wrist, the tendons shifting beneath skin, the veins visible when his fingers flexed.
Your mouth went dry.
Brendon rolled the other sleeve. Same pace. Same control. Like he knew exactly what watching his hands was doing to you. Like he had known all night. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
Brendon’s gaze dropped. Then his eyes returned to yours.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. His voice was quiet. Unraised. Absolute.
You went still.
He held your gaze until your knees relaxed apart again. Heat rushed through you so fast you almost looked away. Brendon did not let you. Not with his hands. With his eyes.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The word landed low and deep. His fingers went to the first button of his shirt. You stopped breathing. Brendon unbuttoned it slowly. Then the next. Then the next. White fabric opened inch by inch, revealing skin and shadow, the center of his chest, the controlled rise and fall of his breathing.
Not perfectly controlled now. You saw it. The smallest change. The first crack. His chest moved harder than it had in the living room. His jaw was tight.
His eyes stayed on you.
He was making you watch, but he was watching you too.
Every shift. Every breath. Every place your body betrayed you before your mouth could. Your fingers curled harder into the edge of the mattress.
Brendon opened another button. You swallowed. His gaze dropped to your throat. Then his mouth changed. Not a smile. Something darker.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
Your eyes snapped back to his. He finished the last button. For a moment, he did not take the shirt off. He only stood there with it open, sleeves rolled, mouth serious, and chest bare beneath the parted fabric.
Your thoughts scattered.
Brendon stepped closer. The inside of his knee brushed yours. You tilted your face up automatically. His hand came to your jaw. Firm. Careful. He held you there, looking up at him from the edge of his bed while his thumb moved once beneath your lower lip.
“You can touch me when I tell you,” Brendon said.
Your pulse jumped. Your fingers tightened against the mattress.
“Yes,” you said.
Brendon’s gaze held yours. Then he drew his hand away. He took one step back. Not far. Enough. Then he pulled the shirt from his shoulders and laid it over the chair with his jacket.
Your breath left you.
Brendon stood over you in dark trousers, chest bare, composed enough to ruin you and affected enough that you could see the restraint working under his skin.
He watched you look. He let you. Your gaze moved over him slowly, helplessly, across the clean lines of his shoulders, the controlled rise of his chest, the tension in his abdomen every time he breathed. His hand flexed once at his side. You saw it. So did he. His eyes sharpened.
“Hands where they are,” Brendon said.
Your palms pressed into the mattress. Brendon stepped between your knees. The inside of his thigh brushed yours, and your breath caught again, smaller this time, weaker.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. To your bare shoulders. To the black top. To the rise and fall of your chest. His hand lifted, but he did not touch you right away. He let his fingers hover near the delicate chain at your throat, close enough that your body reacted to the almost of him.
Then he touched the necklace.
Lightly.
One finger beneath the chain.
He followed it to the hollow of your throat, then lower, over the top edge of your shirt without crossing it.
You stopped breathing.
Brendon noticed. “Breathe.”
You dragged in a breath.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Again.”
You obeyed.
His thumb moved once along your collarbone.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The praise went through you slowly, hot and heavy. His hand returned to your jaw. He tilted your face up a fraction more, studying you like he had all night and no reason to rush. Then he leaned down. Not to kiss your mouth. His lips touched the side of your neck. Your eyes closed.
His mouth moved slowly, deliberately, down the line he had opened for himself earlier, kissing beneath your jaw, then the side of your throat, then the sensitive place just above your collarbone.
His teeth grazed there. Soft. Precise.
Your hands twitched against the mattress.
Brendon’s mouth paused. “Hands.”
Your fingers pressed harder into the bedding.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His mouth returned to your neck. The next drag of his teeth was a little firmer. Still careful. Still controlled. Enough to make your body jolt.
Brendon’s hand caught your waist before you could move too far.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His mouth shifted against your skin. Not quite a smile. Not enough to help you. “Good.”
Then he sank slowly to his knees in front of you.
Your breath stopped.
Brendon’s hands settled on your knees. Warm. Steady. Certain. He looked up at you from between them, shirtless and composed and devastating, his thumbs moving once against your skin like he was testing how much patience you had left.
None.
You had none.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Open,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your mind caught up.
Your knees parted beneath his hands.
Slowly.
Not because he forced them.
Because he asked like a man who already knew the answer.
The slit in your skirt fell open across one thigh.
Brendon’s gaze dropped.
Your face went hot.
His hands slid higher, over your knees, up the outside of your thighs, pushing the satin with them by slow degrees. Not rushing. Never rushing.
You gripped the mattress harder.
Brendon watched the fabric gather under his hands. Then he looked up at you.
“You wore this for me,” Brendon said.
Your throat went dry. “Yes,” you said.
His thumbs pressed into the soft skin above your knees. “Good.”
The praise hit harder this time.
Your breath shook.
Brendon’s hands kept moving, sliding higher beneath the fall of satin, warm palms dragging over your thighs until your skirt bunched around your hips. He did not look away from you when he did it. That was the worst part. No. That was not true. The worst part was how calm he looked while taking you apart.
His fingers reached the edge of your underwear. Paused. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Can I?” Brendon asked.
Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”
His jaw shifted once. Then his fingers hooked beneath the fabric and dragged it down your thighs. Slow. Controlled.
Unbearably precise.
You lifted your hips without him asking.
His eyes darkened. “Good.”
The word nearly made you whimper.
He pulled your underwear over your knees, past your ankles, then set it aside with the same quiet care he had given his jacket. Like everything had a place. Like he had already decided yours was here. On the edge of his bed. Open for him. Shaking before he had even put his mouth on you.
Brendon’s hands returned to your thighs. He spread them wider. Not much. Enough. Your body went tense with anticipation. His thumbs moved once, slow arcs against your skin.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You forced your eyes down to his. He was still on his knees. Still composed. Still watching you like there was nothing in the room more important than the way you were breathing.
“Do you want me to stop?” Brendon asked.
“No,” you said, too fast.
His eyes sharpened.
Your fingers twisted in the bedding. “No. Don’t stop.”
Brendon held your gaze for one more second. Then he leaned in. His mouth touched your inner thigh first. Not where you wanted him.
Not yet.
Your breath broke anyway. Brendon kissed you there once. Then higher. Slow. Measured. His hands held your thighs open while his mouth worked upward by degrees, each kiss closer, each pause crueler, until your entire body had gone tight with waiting.
“Brendon,” you breathed.
His eyes lifted. He did not answer. He only moved closer.
His mouth found you.
And every thought you had disappeared.
Not all at once. Piece by piece.
First, the room went.
The low lamp on the dresser. The dark sheets beneath your hands. The city light cutting soft shapes across the floor.
Then your body forgot how to hold itself politely. Your spine curved. Your fingers twisted in the bedding. Your thighs tensed beneath his hands.
Brendon noticed all of it.
His palms tightened against your thighs, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you open for him when your body tried to close around the first clean stroke of his tongue.
Your breath broke. “Brendon.”
His eyes lifted. He did not stop. That was worse.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, dark and focused, his mouth still on you, his hands still holding you exactly where he wanted you. The sight of him like that should have been impossible. Too much. Too intimate. Too controlled.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s mouth left you.
The sound you made was immediate and helpless.
His fingers replaced his mouth before you could miss him for more than a second.
One slow stroke. Then another. Your breath caught hard as he pushed two fingers inside you, measured and careful, watching your face the whole time.
Your hands fisted in the bedding.
“There,” Brendon said.
Your hips shifted toward his hand before you could stop yourself.
His other palm pressed your thigh down.
“No,” Brendon said.
Quiet. Absolute. Your body went still except where his fingers kept moving.
In. Out. Slow. Controlled.
Your head fell back again, mouth open, breath breaking on every careful thrust of his hand.
Then the mattress shifted.
Brendon moved up your body without pulling his fingers from you.
Your eyes flew open.
He came over you slowly, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh, his bare chest close enough that the heat of him changed the air. His hand kept working between your legs, steady and devastating, while his other hand slid up your side, over your ribs, to your throat.
Not pressing. Just there. Then his fingers moved to your jaw.
He gripped you firmly and tilted your face down. “Look.”
Your eyes dropped.
His hand was still between your thighs. Your skirt was bunched around your hips. Your legs were open around him. His fingers moved in and out of you with the same precise rhythm, the same focused control, while he watched.
And then you watched too.
A broken sound left you.
Brendon’s hand flexed once at your jaw.
“There,” he said again.
You could not look away. Not from his hand. Not from the way your body took him. Not from the way his fingers disappeared inside you and returned slick and sure, over and over, while he stayed above you, forcing you to see exactly what he was doing to you.
Your face burned. Your body tightened. Brendon noticed both.
His gaze moved from his hand to your face. “Still?”
“Yes,” you said, the word barely holding together.
His fingers curled. Your whole body jolted.
Brendon’s grip on your jaw kept your face angled down. “Again.”
You did not know if he meant the answer or the sound or the way your body had moved for him. It did not matter. His fingers did it again.
Your breath broke harder.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His eyes darkened. For the first time, his control shifted. Not gone. Never gone. But thinner now. His breathing had changed. His jaw was tight. His gaze kept dropping to where his fingers moved inside you, then lifting back to your face like he wanted both. Like one view was not enough.
The knowledge made you shake.
He watched that too. Then he released your jaw.
For one terrifying second, you thought he might stop.
He did not.
Brendon moved back down your body, his fingers still inside you, dragging another sound from you before his mouth reached your thigh.
He kissed you there once.
Then higher.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Keep your legs there,” Brendon said.
Your thighs trembled. You obeyed.
His mouth returned to you while his fingers kept moving, and the combination tore through you so sharply your hand flew to his hair before you could think better of it.
You froze.
Brendon stopped.
Only his fingers stayed still inside you, holding you right on the edge of too much.
Your chest heaved. His eyes lifted. You started to pull your hand back.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. He shifted his head once, pressing into your touch like both permission and command.
Your fingers slid into his hair. Careful at first. Then tighter when his mouth moved again, and his fingers resumed that slow, brutal rhythm.
Brendon made a low sound against you. Barely there. Enough. It went straight through you.
His control did not break.
It sharpened.
His mouth grew more insistent, his fingers deeper now, still precise, still measured, but with a hunger under it that had not been there before. Like letting you touch him had given him something he had been holding back from himself, too.
Your hips tried to move.
This time, he let you have a fraction of it. Only a fraction. Enough to make you desperate. Not enough to let you take over. His name left you again. Then again.
Less like a word each time.
More like the only thing your body remembered how to say.
Brendon’s fingers curled inside you. His mouth stayed exactly where you needed him.
“Good,” he said against you.
Your stomach tightened. The praise hit exactly where his mouth had been working you open, and your body went taut all at once.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
He looked up. He knew. His hand found yours, tangled in his hair. He pulled it free gently, then threaded his fingers through yours and pressed your joined hands down against the mattress beside your hip.
He held you there.
Anchored you.
Then his mouth returned.
Your entire body bowed. The first wave hit hard enough to steal your voice. For one suspended second, there was nothing but pressure and heat, and Brendon’s hand locked with yours, his fingers still inside you, his mouth still moving, his other hand holding your thigh where he wanted it while you came apart for him.
You heard yourself then.
A broken sound.
His name.
Maybe yes.
Maybe nothing coherent at all.
Brendon did not stop until your body started to twitch away from him.
Then he lifted his head. Slowly.
For a few seconds, he stayed exactly where he was.
On his knees. Between your thighs. His fingers still threaded through yours, his other hand firm against your leg, holding you open even as your body softened and shook around him.
You could not make your breathing even. You could not unclench your hands. You could barely make yourself look at him.
Brendon looked at you anyway.
His gaze moved over your face, your parted mouth, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your body still trembled at the edge of his bed. Not smug. Not smiling. Focused.
Like he was taking inventory. Like every reaction mattered.
His thumb moved once against the back of your hand. Your breath hitched.
His eyes sharpened. “There,” Brendon said quietly.
The word should not have undone anything else in you. It did.
He pressed one final kiss to the inside of your thigh. Soft. Almost tender.
Your fingers tightened around his. Brendon released your hand only when he was sure you would not reach for the mattress to hold yourself together.
Then he stood.
The movement was controlled, but his breathing was not as even as it had been before. You noticed. So did he. His hand came to your jaw, thumb brushing once beneath your lower lip.
“You okay?” Brendon asked.
Your voice barely worked. “Yes.”
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
Your pulse jumped, even now. Especially now.
“Yes,” you said.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then he leaned down and kissed you.
You tasted yourself on him.
Your hands lifted before you could stop them. This time, Brendon let you. Your palms slid over his bare chest, and the first contact made his breath catch against your mouth. There. Small. Almost nothing.
Everything.
Your fingers spread over warm skin, feeling the tension beneath, the hard beat of him under your palm, the way his composure thinned when you touched him back.
Brendon broke the kiss just enough to breathe. His forehead hovered near yours. Your hand moved lower, over his ribs, his stomach. His jaw tightened.
“Careful,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His eyes were dark. Not warning you away. Warning you what would happen if you kept going. Your fingers reached his waistband. Brendon went still. You looked up at him from the edge of the bed. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you slid your hand lower and pressed your palm over him through his pants.
The sound that left him was quiet. Rough. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
But you heard it. Your body warmed everywhere. Brendon’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Firm enough to stop you.
His eyes held yours. “Is that what you want?”
Your throat went dry. You nodded.
His grip tightened by a fraction. “Words.”
Your breath shook. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Yes, what?”
The question was low. Precise. Devastating.
You swallowed.
“I want you in my mouth,” you answered.
Brendon’s jaw shifted. For the first time, his control did something visible. Not breaking. Adjusting. He released your wrist.
“On your knees,” Brendon said.
You moved. Brendon stepped back just enough to give you room, and you slid from the edge of the bed to the floor in front of him. The carpet was soft beneath your knees. Your skirt was still bunched high around your hips. Your body was still shaking from his mouth.
He looked down at you.
Dark dress pants. Bare chest. Hair slightly disturbed by your hands.
Still composed enough to ruin you. Still affected enough that you knew he wanted this too.
Your hands went to his belt. Brendon did not help you. Not yet. He watched while your fingers worked at the buckle, then the button, then the zipper. You were not graceful with it. Your hands shook once.
Brendon noticed.
His hand came to your jaw. He tilted your face up before you could look away.
“Slow,” he said.
Your breath caught. You nodded once.
His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip. “Good.”
The word steadied you and ruined you at the same time. You opened his pants carefully, your fingers still not quite steady, then pushed both layers down just past his hips.
Just enough.
Then you reached for him.
Brendon’s breath changed when your fingers wrapped around him.
Your eyes lifted. His gaze was fixed on your hand. Then on your face. The heat in his expression made your pulse trip.
You leaned forward.
Brendon’s hand slid from your jaw to the back of your head. Not pushing. Just there. A weight. A promise.
You licked him first. Once. Slow. Your tongue brushed over him, and his fingers flexed against your hair. You did it again. Then you looked up.
Brendon’s eyes were dark.
“Open,” Brendon said.
Your mouth parted immediately. His hand tightened at the back of your head.
Then he guided himself into your mouth.
Slow and careful.
Enough that you could feel every inch he gave you. Enough that your hands curled around his thighs for balance. Brendon watched your face the entire time. His jaw was tight. His breathing had gone low and uneven.
He stopped before it was too much. Held there. Let you adjust. Your eyes watered slightly.
His thumb moved once at your temple.
“Still?” he asked.
You hummed around him.
His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened again, darker than before.
“Good,” Brendon said.
His hand stayed at the back of your head. He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Controlled. Measured. Gentle enough that you could take him. Firm enough that you knew he was the one setting the rhythm.
Your fingers tightened against his thighs. Brendon’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted back to your eyes.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You did. He moved again. In. Out. Slow at first.
Then a little deeper. A little firmer. Still watching. Still careful. Still making you feel every second of what you had asked for. Your body went warm and loose with it, the weight of him on your tongue, the hand in your hair, the quiet sounds he almost swallowed before they could escape him.
Almost.
Not all of them.
One slipped free when your tongue moved against him. A rough breath. A broken edge of control. Your pulse jumped. Brendon felt the change in you. His hand tightened slightly.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your eyes lifted to his. His chest moved harder.
“You don’t get smug,” Brendon said.
The words were quiet. Nearly flat. But his eyes were burning. You made a small sound around him. His jaw went tight. Then he moved again. This time, the rhythm changed. Not harsh. Not careless.
But firmer now.
Deeper.
His hand held your head exactly where he wanted it, guiding you through every slow thrust, giving you enough to overwhelm you without ever taking more than you could give. Your eyes watered more. You breathed carefully through your nose.
Brendon watched all of it. Every blink. Every sound. Every place your fingers dug into his thighs.
“Good,” he said.
The praise hit low, even like this. Especially like this. Your body reacted before you could hide it. Brendon saw. His eyes darkened further.
“That’s it,” Brendon said.
He pushed in again, slow and deep, then held there for one suspended second while your throat worked around him. Your hands tightened. His hand at the back of your head softened immediately. He eased back. Let you breathe. Your mouth slipped from him with a broken inhale.
For a second, the room was nothing but your breathing and his. Brendon looked down at you. His hand moved from the back of your head to your jaw. His thumb brushed your lower lip.
“Enough,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. You shook your head before you could stop yourself. His eyes sharpened. You looked up at him, mouth wet, chest rising too fast, knees pressed into the carpet.
“Not enough,” you whispered.
Brendon went very still. The words landed. You watched them hit him. Then his hand slid into your hair again. His voice dropped.
“Again,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught.
Then he guided himself back into your mouth. Slow at first. Controlled. Like he was reminding both of you who decided the pace.
His hand stayed in your hair, firm at the back of your head, not forcing, but guiding. He gave you enough to make your eyes water again, enough to make your fingers tighten against his thighs, enough to make your whole body remember that you were still sensitive and open and shaking from what he had done to you moments before.
Brendon watched you take him. Every inch. Every blink. Every careful breath through your nose. His jaw was tight. His chest moved harder now, the clean lines of his control starting to show strain. He pulled back, then pushed in again, a little deeper this time, and the sound that left him was low enough to feel private.
Your pulse jumped.
His hand tightened in your hair. “Look at me.”
You did. The moment your eyes found his, he moved again. Slow. Deep. Precise. Your mouth stretched around him. Your throat worked, and Brendon’s control cracked just enough for his eyes to close. Only for a second. Then they opened. Dark. Focused.
“You wanted this.” His voice was rougher now.
Your fingers dug into his thighs. You made a small sound around him. Brendon’s breath left him harder.
“Yes,” he said, almost to himself. “Good.”
The praise went straight through you. Your body reacted before you could hide it, your thighs pressing together, the heat between them sharpening again despite how thoroughly he had already taken you apart.
Brendon noticed. His gaze dropped to your thighs. Then back to your face. His mouth tightened. He pulled out slowly, giving you room to breathe. You dragged in air, mouth wet, chest rising too fast, eyes still fixed on him. Brendon looked down at you for one long second. His hand stayed in your hair. His thumb moved once, almost gently.
Then his expression changed. Not softer. Decided.
“Enough,” Brendon said.
Your fingers tightened against his thighs. “No.”
His eyes sharpened. The word had come out before you could stop it. Small. Wrecked. Honest. Brendon’s hand slid from your hair to your jaw. He tilted your face up.
“No?” he asked.
You swallowed, still on your knees in front of him, your skirt bunched around your hips, your body warm and shaking and nowhere near satisfied with being done touching him.
“No,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your lower lip. Your mouth parted under the touch. His eyes followed it. For a second, you thought he might say again. For a second, you thought he might put himself back in your mouth and keep you there until neither of you could pretend he was controlled anymore.
Instead, his jaw shifted.
“Up,” he commanded.
Your stomach flipped. You blinked up at him.
His hand stayed on your jaw. “Now.”
You moved. Not entirely steady. His hands caught you under your arms and brought you to your feet as it cost him nothing, though his breathing said otherwise. The second you were standing, he turned you toward the bed. Your knees hit the mattress. His hand settled between your shoulder blades.
“On the bed,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You crawled onto the dark sheets, skirt still pushed high, top still in place, hair mussed from his hands, and your mouth still swollen from him. Behind you, Brendon stepped out of his pants and underwear the rest of the way.
You heard the fabric shift.
The quiet sound of it hitting the floor. Then nothing. The silence made your pulse climb. You looked back over your shoulder. Brendon stood at the foot of the bed, bare chest rising and falling, dark eyes fixed on you with such focused heat that your fingers curled into the sheets.
He looked at where your skirt had ridden up. Then at your face. “Turn over.”
Your breath caught. You did. Slowly. You rolled onto your back, the sheets cool beneath your overheated skin. The skirt twisted around your hips. Your thighs fell open a little from the movement, and Brendon’s gaze dropped immediately.
Your face warmed. He saw. He stepped closer. One knee pressed into the mattress. Then the other. The bed dipped beneath his weight. Brendon moved over you with the same controlled precision he did everything else, one hand braced beside your head, the other settling at your waist.
He did not kiss you right away. He looked at you. Really looked. Your bare shoulders. Your swollen mouth. Your chest rising too fast beneath the black top. Your skirt bunched around your hips. Your thighs open beneath him.
His jaw tightened. “You’re beautiful.”
The words were quiet. Almost flat. Like he did not need them decorated to make them true. Your throat closed. “Brendon,” you whispered.
His eyes stayed on yours. “I know,” he said.
Then he kissed you.
Not softly. Not carefully. Not after the way he had looked at you and said beautiful like it was a diagnosis. His mouth took yours, deep and controlled, one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You opened for him immediately, and he made a low sound against your mouth when your hands slid up his chest.
He let you touch him now.
Finally.
Your palms moved over bare skin, over the hard line of his shoulders, the tension in his arms, the heat of him above you. His body was solid over yours, all restraint and muscle and focus, and your fingers dug into him because you could.
Because he had let you.
Brendon’s hand slid from your waist to the top edge of your shirt.
He broke the kiss just enough to look at you. “Off.”
Your breath caught. Then you lifted your arms. He pulled the black top up slowly, carefully, his knuckles brushing your skin as the fabric rose. Your body arched without meaning to, chasing the contact, and his eyes sharpened. The shirt disappeared over your head.
He set it aside. Not tossed. Set aside. Of course. Then his gaze came back to you. You were still in your strapless bra, the smooth fabric sitting close against your skin, your necklace crooked at your throat, your skirt bunched around your hips, your body trembling beneath him.
Brendon looked at you for one suspended second. Your breathing changed. His jaw shifted.
Your pulse jumped. Your hands moved behind your back, but his hand caught your wrist before you could fumble with the clasp.
“No,” Brendon said.
You went still. His eyes held yours. “I’ll do it.”
The words went straight through you. He slid one hand beneath your back and lifted you just enough, his other hand finding the clasp with calm, devastating efficiency. One quiet release, and the tension gave. Your breath caught. Brendon did not pull it away immediately. He let the loosened bra rest there for one second, his eyes on your face, his hand still warm beneath your back.
Then he drew it down slowly and set it beside your shirt. Your chest rose and fell beneath his gaze. Brendon’s hand returned to your side. Slow. Palm warm against your ribs. His thumb moved once beneath the curve of your breast, not touching where you wanted him yet.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. His eyes lifted to yours. “Breathe.”
You dragged in a breath. His thumb moved higher. Your breath broke.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then his mouth lowered. The first kiss landed high on your chest, just beneath your collarbone. Warm. Slow. Almost gentle. Almost. His hand slid beneath your back again, lifting you into him as his mouth moved lower. His lips traced a careful path over your skin, unhurried and exact, like he was learning what he had only let himself look at before.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s mouth closed over you. Heat shot through you so sharply your fingers found his shoulders. He did not stop you. Not this time. Your nails pressed into warm skin, and his breath changed against you. Small. Noticeable.
Enough to make your whole body go soft beneath him.
His tongue moved slowly, then his teeth grazed just enough to make you jolt.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His hand tightened beneath your back, holding the arch.
“There,” Brendon said against your skin.
Then he did it again. A careful drag of teeth. A slow kiss after. A soft bite that made your thighs tighten around his hips. His mouth moved to the other side with the same devastating attention, giving you no place to hide from the heat building under your skin again. He kissed your chest, your sternum, the sensitive underside of your breast, then back up, his teeth catching lightly enough to make your breath stutter.
Not rough. Not careless. Precise.
He warmed you back up like he had all the time in the world. Like he had not been on the edge himself minutes earlier. Like his mouth on your body was not making his own breathing lower and rougher by degrees.
Your hands slid into his hair. Brendon let you. For a moment. Then his hand left your back and closed gently around your wrist. He guided your hand down to the mattress beside your head.
Pinned it there.
Your pulse jumped.
Brendon lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. “Stay there.”
Your fingers flexed beneath his palm.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His gaze held yours. Then his mouth returned to your chest, and you understood that he was not done making you ready for him. His other hand moved lower. Slow over your ribs. Your stomach. Your hip. Then between your thighs.
Your breath caught before he even touched you.
His eyes stayed on yours as his fingers found you again, warm and sure, moving with the same controlled attention he had put everywhere else.
Not inside you this time. Not yet. Just slow pressure where you were still sensitive from his mouth. Your back arched. His palm over your wrist pressed you gently back into the mattress.
“Easy,” he murmured.
You tried.
You really did.
But his fingers moved in a slow circle, exact and steady, and your body was already too open for him. Too aware. Too trained now to respond to every small shift in his pressure. You made a broken sound. His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“There,” he said.
He did it again. Same pressure. Same rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips. He watched your face while he touched you, like he wanted to see the exact second the pleasure stopped being bearable and started becoming something you had to survive. Your free hand gripped his shoulder.
Brendon let you have that. His fingers moved a little slower. Deeper pressure. Not enough to push you over. Enough to bring you close to the edge again. Enough to make your breath come in pieces.
“Brendon,” you said, your voice thin.
His hand stilled for one second. Your body clenched around nothing. His eyes sharpened.
“Yes,” Brendon said quietly.
Then his fingers moved again. Your head tipped back. His hand left your wrist and came to your jaw, turning your face back to him before you could disappear into it.
“Look,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His fingers kept moving. Slow. Steady. Cruel.
You watched his face as he watched yours, bare chest above you, dark eyes fixed on every reaction he pulled from your body. Your breathing broke. His jaw tightened.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His fingers slowed. You made a helpless sound. Brendon’s mouth brushed yours. Barely.
“Good,” he said.
Then he stopped. The loss of contact hit so sharply that your hips shifted after his hand. Brendon caught your thigh.
“No,” he said.
Your breath came hard. His hand slid up your leg, over your hip, settling there with firm pressure while he reached toward the bedside table.
The drawer opened with a quiet slide. Your whole body went tight. He looked back at you, condom packet in his hand.
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
Your throat went dry. “Yes,” you said.
He did not move. Not yet. Your fingers tightened against his shoulder. “Yes, Brendon.”
That did it. His jaw shifted once.
He tore the packet open. The sound was small. Sharp.
Final.
Your body went still beneath him.
Brendon rolled the condom on with controlled efficiency, but there was nothing casual about the way he did it. His breathing had changed. Lower now. Rougher at the edges. His eyes stayed on you like looking away would cost him something.
When he moved back over you, your whole body answered.
One hand braced beside your head.
The other slid down your thigh.
He guided your leg up around his hip, placing you exactly where he wanted you. Your knee bent. Your thigh opened. His hand stayed there, firm and warm, holding you around him.
Then his other hand found yours. He took it from his shoulder and pressed it into the mattress near your head. Pinned. Not hard. Not painful. Enough.
Your fingers spread beneath his. His palm covered the back of your hand. Your breath caught.
Brendon looked down at you. “Okay?”
Your body was already trembling. “Yes,” you said.
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
“Yes,” you said again, softer. “Please.”
The word changed him. Barely. A tightening in his jaw. A harder breath through his nose. His hand on your thigh flexed once. Then he reached between your bodies. You felt him guide himself to you. Your breath stopped. Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Breathe,” he said.
You dragged in air. His hand tightened over yours.
Then he pushed in.
Slowly. Carefully. Devastatingly.
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. The stretch stole it from you, sharp and deep and overwhelming enough that your fingers curled beneath his palm.
Brendon stopped immediately. Not all the way in. Not even close.
His forehead dipped toward yours. His voice was low. “Still?”
Your eyes burned. Not from pain. From too much. From him above you, holding your hand down, your thigh wrapped around his hip, his body pressing yours into the mattress like he had decided the whole world could narrow to this.
“Yes,” you breathed.
His eyes searched yours.
You nodded once. “Yes.”
Brendon believed you. He moved again. Another slow inch. Your body tightened around him. His eyes closed. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to see what it did to him. Then they opened again.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Your breath broke.
He pushed deeper.
Your back arched, but his hand at your thigh held you down, pressing you into the mattress, keeping the angle exactly where he wanted it. His other hand stayed over yours near your head, fingers lacing with yours now, holding you there while he filled you by slow degrees.
Too slow. Too much. Not enough.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His mouth brushed yours. Not quite a kiss.
“Take it,” Brendon said.
The words went through you like heat. Your body gave around him. He felt it. His hand tightened over yours.
“There,” he said.
Then he sank the rest of the way in. Your whole body went still. So did his. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. You felt everything. The weight of him above you. The stretch of him inside you. The steady pressure of his hand pinning yours near your head. The firm hold on your thigh. His chest moving against yours. His breath against your mouth.
Brendon’s jaw was tight enough to look painful. You whispered his name. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to yours.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You did not know what he wanted. His hand pressed your thigh a little higher around his hip. His body shifted deeper. Your breath shattered.
“There,” Brendon said.
Oh. That. He wanted that sound.
He wanted the way your body tightened around him when he pressed into you just right. He wanted you open and pinned and watching him while he learned exactly how to ruin you. Your free hand found his shoulder. Your nails dragged lightly over his skin. His control slipped for half a second. His hips moved. One slow thrust. Deep. Measured.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s hand left your thigh long enough to grip your jaw. He brought your face back to his. “Look.”
Your eyes opened. His hips drew back. Then pushed in again. Slow. Harder this time. Your body moved beneath him, but he kept you where he wanted you, one hand holding yours to the mattress, the other returning to your thigh and pressing it high around his hip.
You could not look away.
Not from his face.
Not from the way his composure cracked in tiny, brutal pieces every time he drove into you. Not from the way he watched you take him.
Brendon started slowly. Not gentle. Controlled.
Each thrust deep enough to make your breath catch, measured enough that you felt the whole of him every time he moved. He did not rush toward his own pleasure. He built yours with it, finding the angle that made your hand clench beneath his, the rhythm that made your thighs shake, the pressure that made your voice break.
“There,” he said again.
His hips moved. You cried out. His hand tightened over yours.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then he did it again. And again.
The room changed around you.
The cool sheets beneath your back warmed with the heat of your body. The city light blurred at the edges. The air between you grew thick, close, made of breath and skin and the quiet, rhythmic sound of his body moving into yours. Your chest stuck lightly to his every time he lowered himself closer. His skin was warm.
Then hot.
A fine sheen of sweat gathered along his throat, at his chest, where your hands slid over him and could not find purchase for long. Your own body felt overheated beneath him, your skin damp where his palm held your thigh, where his chest brushed yours, where your bodies met again and again in a rhythm that was too steady to escape.
Brendon’s breathing roughened. Not loud. But lower now. More uneven. Each exhale hit your mouth, your cheek, the side of your throat when he dropped his head closer. His control was still there, but you could feel the strain of it in every precise thrust, every flex of his hand over yours, every hard set of his jaw as your body tightened around him.
Your thoughts slipped.
First around the edges. Then faster. You knew his name. You knew his hand. You knew the press of his body over yours and the deep, devastating drag of him inside you.
Everything else became impossible to hold.
“Brendon,” you said. It came out broken.
His eyes opened. You had not realized they had closed. His gaze found yours, dark and focused, and his hips slowed immediately. Not stopping.
Slowing.
Making you feel him. Making you come back to him.
“Stay with me,” Brendon said.
Your fingers clenched beneath his palm. “I am,” you tried.
His eyes sharpened. “No.”
Your breath caught.
He shifted his weight and pressed your thigh higher around his hip. The new angle made your whole body jolt. His mouth came close to yours.
“Here,” Brendon said.
Then he thrust into you again. Your cry broke against his mouth.
“There,” he said.
He did it again. Same angle. Same depth. Your body tightened hard around him. Brendon’s jaw flexed. For one second, his rhythm faltered. Only one. But you felt it. You saw it in his face. The slip. The crack. The way your body was affecting him no matter how tightly he held himself. Your free hand slid up his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, damp skin warm beneath your palm.
His breath hitched.
You felt powerful for half a second.
Only half.
Then his hand left your thigh, closed around your wrist, and pinned that hand beside the other near your head. Both hands now. Held. Your pulse kicked. Brendon looked down at you.
“Careful,” he said.
The word was quiet. Rough. Your body clenched around him. His eyes darkened. He lowered his head, mouth brushing the side of yours.
“You like that,” Brendon said.
It was not a question.
Your breathing fell apart.
His hips moved again, harder now, still controlled but deeper, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress with every thrust. The bed shifted beneath you. Your shoulders pressed into the sheets. Your hands stayed pinned above you, his fingers locked around your wrists, his body caging yours without making you feel trapped.
Held.
There was a difference.
Brendon knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too. The heat built too quickly. The pressure of him. The sweat-slick drag of his chest against yours. The way he watched your face. The way he heard every sound and used it.
You turned your head to the side, overwhelmed.
Brendon stopped.
Your whole body protested the loss of rhythm. His hand left one wrist and came to your jaw. He turned your face back.
“Don’t hide,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His face was close. Too close. Not close enough.
A drop of sweat slid down the side of his neck. His chest rose and fell hard against yours. His hair had lost some of its control, one piece falling forward, and the sight of him like that, still precise, still focused, but visibly affected, almost undid you more than his body did.
“I can’t,” you whispered.
Brendon’s thumb brushed once along your jaw.
“You can,” he said.
Then he kissed you.
He kissed you as he started moving again, swallowing the first broken sound that left you when he found the angle immediately. His hand returned to your wrist, pinning it beside the other, and his hips settled into a rhythm that felt designed to take you apart slowly.
Not frantic. Not careless. Relentless.
Your body went soft beneath him. Then tight. Then shaking.
Brendon felt the change. His mouth left yours. His breathing was rough now. Controlled, but barely.
“Not yet,” Brendon said.
Your eyes flew open. His hips slowed before you could fall over the edge. A ruined sound left you. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
“Not yet,” he repeated.
You stared up at him, trembling and furious and so overwhelmed you could barely form words.
“Brendon,” you pleaded.
His jaw tightened. That hit him. You saw it. For one second, the control went thin enough that his hips pressed deeper, like his body had answered before his restraint could catch up.
Then he stopped himself. His forehead lowered near yours. His breath was hot against your mouth.
“Turn,” Brendon said.
Your mind struggled to catch up. His hands softened around your wrists. He kissed your jaw once, brief and firm. Then he moved off you just enough to guide your body with him.
“On your side,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your thoughts did.
Brendon moved with you, one hand at your waist, the other guiding your thigh as he shifted you onto your side. For one dizzy second, he was gone from inside you, and the loss made your whole body tighten.
You made a small sound. Brendon heard it. Of course he did.
His hand slid over your hip. “I know.”
The words were quiet. Barely comfort. Mostly promise.
He settled behind you, his chest coming to your back, his body hot and damp against yours. The sheets shifted beneath you. Your skin stuck lightly to his where he pressed close, sweat and heat making every point of contact feel too intimate to survive.
His arm slid beneath your neck, not trapping you, just giving you somewhere to rest. His other hand caught your top thigh and lifted it back over his hip. The angle opened you. Your breath caught.
Brendon’s mouth brushed the back of your shoulder. “Keep your leg there.”
Your fingers curled against the sheet. “Yes.”
His hand left your thigh long enough to reach between your bodies.
You felt him guide himself back to you.
Your eyes closed.
Brendon’s hand came to your jaw immediately, fingers firm along the line of it, turning your face back enough that you could see him from the corner of your eye.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes opened.
His mouth was near your ear. His breath was rougher now, warmer, not as controlled as it had been when he first brought you into the bedroom.
“Look,” Brendon said.
Then he pushed back inside you.
Your whole body jolted. The angle was different like this. Deeper somehow. Closer. More devastating because he was behind you and around you and still watching your face while your body took him again.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His jaw brushed your temple. His hand stayed at your face, holding you turned toward him while his hips settled flush behind you.
For a second, he did not move. Neither did you. You could feel him everywhere. Inside you. Against your back. At your jaw. Around your thigh.
His chest rose and fell against you, sweat-damp skin dragging lightly over yours with every breath. Then his hand slid from your jaw to your throat. Not pressing. Just resting there. A steady weight.
His mouth touched your ear. “Still?”
Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”
His hand flexed once against your throat.
Then he moved.
Slow at first.
One deep thrust from behind, controlled enough that you felt every inch of him leave and return. Your thigh tightened over his hip. His arm tightened around you in response, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Then again. Deeper.
Your mouth opened around a sound you could not stop. Brendon’s hand moved from your throat back to your jaw, turning your face more fully toward him.
“There,” he said.
His hips moved again. Your whole body trembled. You understood, dimly, why he had shifted you like this. You could not get away from him. Not because you were trapped. Because there was nowhere his body was not. His chest pressed to your back. His thigh between yours. His hand at your jaw. His mouth at your neck. His cock moving inside you with the same precise rhythm he had used to take you apart with his fingers.
And then his other hand slid down your stomach. Your breath caught before he even reached between your thighs. Brendon noticed.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Easy.”
You tried.
You failed.
His fingers found you again, and the first slow circle of pressure made your entire body clench around him. Brendon’s hips faltered. Only once. His breath hitched against your ear. You felt it. You heard it. Your fingers twisted in the sheet. His hand at your jaw tightened by a fraction.
“Don’t,” Brendon said.
You could barely breathe. “Don’t what?”
His fingers moved again. Your body jerked. His hips drove in deeper, and the sound that left you broke apart in the quiet room.
His voice was rougher when he answered. “Don’t make me rush.”
Your eyes closed. That did something to you. Something ruinous. Brendon felt the way your body tightened around him. His mouth found the side of your neck and stayed there, lips warm against sweat-damp skin as his hips resumed their rhythm.
Slow. Deep. Precise.
His fingers kept moving between your legs, matching the pace of his thrusts until the two sensations became impossible to separate. Every time he pushed into you, his fingers circled. Every time he drew back, his hand softened just enough to make you chase him.
Too much. Not enough. Everywhere.
You were not thinking anymore.
Not really.
Your body was doing that for you now, opening around him, trembling against him, taking whatever rhythm he decided to give. Brendon’s breathing was rough against your ear. Still controlled. But barely. You could feel the effort of it in the tension of his arm around you, in the way his jaw brushed your cheek, in the way his fingers pressed a little harder when your body clenched around him.
“Brendon,” you said.
It barely sounded like his name. His hand at your jaw turned your face again. His mouth came close to yours.
“Here,” Brendon said.
His fingers changed pressure. Your vision blurred.
“There,” he said.
He thrust into you again, deeper than before, and his fingers kept working you at the same time. Your whole body went tight. Your hand flew back toward him, searching for anything to hold onto. His shoulder. His hair. His wrist. Brendon caught it. He brought your hand to his forearm where it was wrapped around your body and pressed your palm there.
“Hold,” Brendon said.
You did.
Your fingers dug into his arm. The muscle shifted beneath your hand as he held you against him, as he fucked you slow and deep from behind, as he rubbed you with the kind of careful cruelty that made every breath sound broken. Sweat gathered between your bodies. Your back slid against his chest. His mouth moved along your neck, not kissing now so much as breathing against you, biting once when your body clenched too hard around him.
The nip made you cry out.
Brendon groaned. Quiet. Rough.
The sound went straight through you.
His hand stilled for half a second between your legs. His hips did not. He thrust into you once, harder than before, and his control showed its first real fracture. Not a break. A crack.
Enough.
Your body reacted instantly. “Again,” you gasped.
Brendon went still behind you. Only for a second. Then his hand returned to your jaw and tilted your face back toward him. His eyes were dark. Sweat shone at his temple. His hair had lost more of its control. His mouth was serious, but his breathing was not.
“Again?” Brendon asked.
Your fingers tightened on his arm. “Please.”
His jaw shifted. The word had landed. You knew it. You felt it in the way his hips pressed deeper, in the way his hand between your legs resumed with more purpose, in the way his mouth came to your ear.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then he gave it to you.
The rhythm changed. Still precise. Still his. But firmer now, his body moving against yours with enough force to rock you into the mattress, his hand holding your jaw so you could not turn away, his fingers rubbing you through every deep thrust.
You broke.
Not fully. Not yet. But something in your mind slipped loose. The room narrowed to sweat and pressure and Brendon’s voice at your ear.
“Breathe.” He said against your ear.
You dragged in air.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You tried.
His hips drove into you, deep enough to make your fingers clamp around his forearm.
“There,” he said.
Your body tightened.
His mouth pressed to your shoulder, his breathing rough against your skin. “Good.”
Your eyes burned. Too much. Too good. Too close. Your thighs shook around his. Your fingers clamped around his forearm, and Brendon’s mouth pressed to your shoulder like he needed somewhere to put the sound he would not let out.
You felt him losing control in increments. A harder breath. A rougher thrust. A shorter pause between commands. His hand between your legs became less teasing and more determined, giving you the pressure your body had been begging for while his hips kept the same deep, devastating rhythm behind you.
“Brendon,” you said, wrecked now.
His hand tightened at your jaw. “I know.”
Your thighs shook. He felt it. His hand at your stomach pressed you back harder against him, and the angle changed just enough to make your whole body go tight.
You made a broken sound.
Brendon’s breath caught against your ear. “There,” he said again.
His fingers moved faster. Not frantic. Never frantic. Determined. Your body gave one helpless jolt against him. His thigh stayed firm beneath yours, holding your leg where he had put it, keeping the angle exactly where he wanted it while he fucked you from behind and rubbed you through every deep, controlled thrust.
The room disappeared. The bed. The city. The sweat cooling and gathering again between your bodies. Everything narrowed to his hand, his voice, his cock moving inside you, his mouth at your ear, his chest hot against your back.
You could not get enough air. You could not get away from the sensation.
You did not want to.
“Brendon,” you said, barely a word now.
His hand left your stomach and came to your jaw, turning your face back toward him. His eyes caught yours from over your shoulder. Dark. Focused. Almost undone.
“Come,” Brendon said.
It hit you like a command your body had been waiting for.
Your orgasm broke hard and fast, tearing through you before you could prepare for it. Your head fell back against his shoulder. Your hand locked around his forearm. Your body clenched around him so tightly his hips stuttered once behind you.
Brendon made a rough sound against your neck. Small. Almost swallowed. But you heard it. You felt it. His fingers kept moving, slower now, dragging you through it while his hips pressed deep and stayed there. He held you against him, jaw tight, breath uneven, one hand firm at your face and the other between your thighs, not letting you disappear into the pleasure without him.
“That’s it,” Brendon said, his voice rough at your ear.
Your body shook.
He held you through every wave. When you tried to twist away from the overstimulation, his hand eased immediately, but his arm around you stayed firm.
“I’ve got you,” Brendon said.
Your breath broke on something that might have been his name. Brendon kissed the side of your neck once. Slow. Grounding.
Then he went still behind you. Not finished. Not even close. You could feel it in the hard press of him still inside you, in the way his breathing had gone uneven, in the strain of his arm around your waist.
He had held back.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Brendon,” you whispered.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. His voice came low. “Turn over.”
Your stomach flipped, even wrecked as you were. He pulled out slowly, careful enough that your whole body trembled with the loss. His hands stayed on you, steadying you through it, one at your hip and one at your stomach.
Then he turned you carefully. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Decided.
Onto your back again.
You blinked up at him, dazed, sweat cooling on your skin where his body had been pressed to yours. Your legs felt unsteady. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. Your body was loose and shaking and still somehow reaching for him again.
Brendon moved over you.
The bed dipped beneath his weight. His hand slid behind your knee and lifted your leg back around his hip. His other hand found yours immediately, threading your fingers together and pressing your joined hands into the mattress beside your head.
There. Again. Face-to-face.
His chest hovered over yours, sweat-damp and warm, his breathing low and uneven. His eyes searched your face.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
Your throat tightened. Because this was what he meant. Watching you. Holding your hand. Making sure you were with him before he gave himself what he had been holding back.
Your answer came as a whisper. “Yes.”
Brendon’s jaw shifted once.
Then he guided himself back inside you.
Your breath left you in pieces. Even after everything, even after his mouth and his fingers and the way he had made you come against him on your side, the stretch still stole the air from your lungs. Your body was too sensitive now, too open, too aware of every inch of him as he pushed back into you.
Brendon’s hand tightened over yours. His jaw flexed. For a second, he did not move. He stayed there, buried deep, chest hovering over yours, breathing rough through his nose while your body adjusted around him again. Your eyes found his. He was looking at you like he was trying to hold himself together by force. Like focus was the only thing keeping him from losing the careful control he had carried all night.
“Brendon,” you whispered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted. His hips moved. Slow once. Deep. Your head tipped back against the sheets. His hand tightened over yours.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened again. He was closer now, his mouth almost touching yours, his chest damp where it brushed yours.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You did. His hips drew back. Then pushed in again. Harder this time. Your breath broke. His eyes sharpened.
“There,” Brendon said.
Then he did it again. And again. The rhythm changed by degrees. Not suddenly. Not carelessly. Brendon did nothing carelessly. But the patience started to thin. Each thrust came deeper than the last, steadier, heavier, driving you down into the mattress while his hand held yours near your head and his other hand kept your thigh high around his hip.
You could feel the shift in him. The way his breath left him rougher. The way his chest lowered closer to yours. The way his fingers dug into your thigh like he needed something to hold onto. The way his control did not vanish, exactly. It narrowed. Focused.
Became this.
His body over yours. His hand locked with yours. His hips moving hard enough now that the bed shifted beneath you, dark sheets twisting under your back, your skin slick with sweat where he pressed against you. You were ruined.
Completely.
There was no cleaner word for it. Your body had gone loose and trembling beneath him, then tight again every time he hit that place inside you that made your thoughts white out. Your free hand clung to his shoulder, nails dragging over sweat-damp skin, and every time you tried to form his name, it broke apart before you could finish it.
“Bren—”
His hips drove in deep. The rest of the word disappeared. Brendon’s mouth found your jaw. Not a kiss. A breath. A place to put himself for half a second before he lifted his head again and watched your face.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You barely understood him. Your eyes were wet. Your mouth was open. Your chest moved too fast beneath him. His hand on your thigh slid higher, pressing your leg farther around his hip, changing the angle until your whole body jolted. A broken cry left you. Brendon’s jaw tightened.
“Yes,” he said, rougher now.
His hips moved faster. Not frantic. Never that. But harder. Deeper. The controlled precision was still there, but underneath it was something hotter, something strained, something that made his breath catch when your body clenched around him.
You felt it every time.
The little breaks in him. The almost-groan against your mouth. The hard exhale at your ear. The way his hips stuttered once when your nails dragged down his back. The way his hand tightened over yours so sharply that your fingers spread beneath his palm.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The word was lower now. Less smooth. Almost wrecked. Your body reacted to it instantly, tightening around him, and his eyes closed for one dangerous second. Only one. Then they opened again. Dark. Unsteady. Focused on you like he could not afford to look anywhere else.
“You hear me?” Brendon asked.
You tried to nod. His hand left your thigh and came to your jaw.
“Words,” Brendon said.
Your voice barely worked. “Yes.”
His thumb pressed beneath your lower lip.
“Yes, what?” Brendon asked.
Your body clenched around him again because the question should not have done anything to you. It did.
“Yes, Brendon,” you said, wrecked and breathless.
His control slipped. A real slip this time. His hips drove into you hard enough that your hand clenched beneath his and your whole body shifted up the bed. Brendon caught you immediately, pressing you back down with his weight, his mouth close to yours, his breathing rough and uneven.
“There,” he said. Then again. “There.”
Again.
Your vision blurred at the edges. The room had become heat and sweat and the deep rhythm of his body moving into yours. The lamp. The city. The clean lines of his bedroom. All of it vanished beneath the press of him over you, inside you, around you. Your body did not feel like yours anymore. It felt like something he had learned. Something he knew how to open.
Something he knew how to ruin.
He shifted his hand from your jaw to the side of your neck, then back to your thigh, dragging your leg higher, holding you exactly where he wanted you while he fucked into you with a rhythm that made your breath come in small, helpless sounds.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His forehead dropped near yours. His hips did not stop. “Still?” he asked.
Even now. Even like this. Even with sweat on his chest and his breath breaking and his body losing its perfect rhythm by fractions. Your throat tightened.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”
Then he kissed you.
It was not clean. Not controlled the way his kisses had been earlier. It was deeper, rougher, his mouth catching yours while his hips kept moving, swallowing the sounds he dragged out of you. Your free hand slid into his hair, and this time he did not stop you. He let you pull. Let you hold. Let you feel the way he was coming apart in the only way Brendon Park seemed capable of coming apart. Quietly. Precisely. Devastatingly.
His rhythm grew harder. Faster. The sound of it filled the room now, low and intimate and obscene beneath your broken breathing. Sweat gathered between your bodies. Your chest slid against his. His hand pinned yours above your head, fingers threaded tight, while his other hand moved between you again. Your entire body jolted.
You gasped, though your hips lifted into the touch.
Brendon’s eyes found yours. His fingers moved over you, steady despite the roughness of his breath, despite the strain in his face, despite the way his hips were starting to lose that perfect measured pace.
You shook beneath him. “I can’t,” you said.
His hand tightened over yours. “You can,” Brendon said.
His fingers kept moving. His hips drove deeper. Your body tried to arch, but his weight held you down, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you beneath the heat and force of him.
“There,” he said, voice rough at your mouth. “That’s it.”
Your eyes burned. You were too sensitive. Too full. Too close. Too overwhelmed by the fact that he was still watching you, still touching you exactly right, still giving you more when you had already given him everything your body knew how to give.
“Brendon,” you pleaded.
His face changed. The sound of his name like that did something to him. You felt it in the way his rhythm faltered. In the rough sound he pressed into your cheek. In the way his fingers tightened around yours. His mouth came to your ear.
“I’ve got you,” Brendon said.
Then he stopped holding back. Not fully. Not recklessly.
But enough.
Enough that the next thrust drove the air out of you. Enough that your hand twisted beneath his. Enough that your body clamped down around him and the pleasure finally broke over you again, sharp and deep and blinding. You came with his name in your mouth.
Brendon’s hips stuttered. His head dropped. A rough sound broke out of him before he could bury it completely against your neck. He kept moving. Slower now. Deeper. Dragging it out while your body shook beneath him, while your thigh trembled around his hip, while his fingers stayed between your legs until the pleasure turned too sharp and your body twitched away.
He stopped touching you immediately. But he did not stop moving. His hand returned to your thigh. His other stayed locked with yours.
His face lifted from your neck. His eyes found yours. He looked wrecked. Not undone in the way you were. Not loose or helpless.
Wrecked in Brendon’s way.
Jaw tight. Hair damp and disordered. Chest shining with sweat. Eyes dark and almost desperate, like he was holding the last of himself together by looking at you.
Your voice came out broken. “Brendon.”
His hand tightened over yours. “Stay,” Brendon said.
One word. Rough. Almost gone. You held his gaze.
You stayed.
He thrust once. Deep. Then again. His breath broke. His forehead lowered to yours, his mouth brushing yours without quite kissing. His body pressed you into the mattress, heavy and hot and shaking now in small, controlled tremors.
“Good,” he said, but the word barely held its shape.
Your fingers squeezed his. His eyes closed. This time, they stayed closed. His hips drove in one final time, deep enough that your breath caught all over again, and then his whole body went taut above you.
Brendon came with his forehead against yours, his hand locked around yours, his other hand gripping your thigh like he needed the anchor.
No loud sound. No dramatic collapse. Just a rough breath. A hard shudder. The last clean edge of his control snapping silently through his body while he held himself over you and let you feel every second of it. For a moment, neither of you moved.
The room was nothing but breath. Heat. Sweat. His body still over yours. His hand still holding yours. Your heart still trying to survive him.
Then Brendon shifted carefully. Not away. Never abruptly. He eased his weight off you first, one controlled movement at a time, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip, then to your waist, like he was checking each place he had held you. Your body gave a small, involuntary tremble.
Brendon noticed. His eyes moved over your face. “Okay?”
Your voice came out thin. “Yes.”
His thumb brushed once against your waist. “Still?”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Yes.”
His mouth softened by half a degree. Then he moved. Practical even now. He disappeared only long enough to deal with the condom, then came back with a damp washcloth and a glass of water. He cleaned you gently, quietly, one hand steady at your knee when your body twitched from sensitivity.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
Brendon looked up immediately. “No.”
The word was flat. Final. Your throat tightened. He finished with careful hands, then set the washcloth aside and handed you the water.
“Drink,” Brendon said.
You took the glass with both hands because you did not quite trust your fingers. He watched until you swallowed. Only then did he take it from you and set it on the nightstand.
You shifted, reaching for your shirt. Your body immediately reminded you that moving was a terrible idea. Your thighs trembled when you pushed yourself upright, and you tried to hide it by reaching too quickly, but Brendon’s hand closed around your wrist before you could make it convincing.
Not tight. Just there. You looked at him. His eyes moved over your face, then down your body, clinical enough to be annoying and intimate enough to make your cheeks burn.
“You can stay,” Brendon said.
Your heart gave a stupid, tender kick. You blinked. “I can’t.”
His brow moved. “Why?”
You looked down at the sheets, suddenly shy in a way that made no sense after everything he had just done to you. “I’ve never left Biscuit overnight,” you admitted.
Silence. You risked a glance up. Brendon stared at you. Not judging. Not amused. Just processing. Then his expression settled.
“Okay,” Brendon said.
Your chest tightened. “Okay?”
He stood and reached for his trousers. “Then we sleep at your place.”
You stared at him. Your voice came out soft. “Brendon.”
He looked back at you while buttoning his pants with infuriating calm, shirt still off, hair damp and mussed from your hands.
“What?” he asked.
You tried to find words for it. For him. For the fact that he had wanted you in his bed and, instead of making you feel silly for caring about your tiny orange cat, he had simply changed the plan. You failed. Brendon crossed back to the bed and held out your shirt.
“Arms,” he said.
Your laugh came out shaky. “You’re dressing me now?”
His eyes flicked over you once. You watched the smallest shift happen at the corner of his mouth. Almost smug. Almost.
“You’re not steady,” Brendon said.
Your cheeks went hot. “That is your fault,” you said.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
No apology. None. The heat in your face got worse. A few minutes later, you crossed the hall in your rumpled skirt, your black top, and bare feet, with Brendon behind you carrying your shoes in one hand and his keys in the other.
You were absolutely walking a little funny. You knew it. He knew it. The entire hallway probably knew it. Brendon said nothing. Which somehow felt worse.
You glanced back at him. “Stop being smug silently.”
His eyes met yours. “I’m not,” Brendon said.
You sighed, “You are the loudest silent smug person I’ve ever met.”
This time, his mouth did move. Barely. A dangerous almost-smile. Your stomach flipped. You turned back around before he could see what it did to you.
Biscuit was waiting at the door when you opened it. He looked at you. Then at Brendon. Then at you again. Then he sat down with the offended dignity of someone who had been abandoned for several entire hours.
“Oh, stop,” you told him softly.
Biscuit chirped. Brendon stepped into 6B behind you and closed the door.
“No,” Brendon said.
Biscuit sat straighter. You looked over your shoulder at Brendon. He looked back at you, calm and shirtless and barefoot in your apartment like this, too, was a place he belonged. Your heart did something quiet and irreversible. Brendon’s hand settled at your waist. Steady. Certain.
Back for my monthly Frank p!link req if your open to possibly doing it
Oh i am ALWAYS open to doing it!! Posting this one as a lil post kinktober treat; Happy Halloween my loves, stay spooky and stay safe <33
Spicy links that give frank castle vibes, part 6
A selection of prn links, all sourced from twitter. As always, 18+ content so MDNI! Please make sure your logged in to be able to see! And as always asks are open (although it might take me a moment to get to!) if anyone wants to share any thoughts or request specific link ideas also!
Frank agreed (just about) to indulge you by masking up as one of your favorite horror characters for Halloween photo editions part one and part two (ghost face mask)
When makouts get heated (kissing/light nipple play)
You discover mirrors are actually quite fun.. (Mirror, clit play)
Youve always got to tease before you suck Frank's cock (blowjob)
Sometimes youve got to get vulgar to get him to cum inside (begging/dirty talk/piv sex)
Pre Halloween party, frank just needs a little taste (face sitting)
it just feels really good to touch eachother (mutual masturbation/hand job/pussy play)
Cockslaps, cause its fun. (Blowjob/deep throat, clock slaps)
Sometimes Frank's gotta slap himself to get you there again, but he'll always do it. (Face slap/piv sex, multiple orgasms)
Things get sloppy when youve both already cum (creampie, piv sex)
Ghost face frank come back to play (piv sex, ghost face mask)
summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader
warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint
notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂↕️
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
“Ew.”
The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.
You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.
“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.
McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.
“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.
You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.
After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.
“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.
“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.
“They’re raspberry flavoured.”
“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”
You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.
He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.
You: Are you coming in early today?
JA ❤️: Always.
You quickly typed out another message.
You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible
The reply came almost instantly.
JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.
You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.
JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.
You: are you psychic?
JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.
Your smile widened as his reply came through.
You: thank u 🩷
JA ❤️: 👍
“What are you smiling at?”
You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.
“What?”
“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”
“Nothing.”
Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.
Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”
“What?”
“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.
“That?” Whitaker supplied.
“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”
You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.
“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”
Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”
You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”
Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”
Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."
You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.
“Never give your triggers away Santos.”
“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.
You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.
You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.
“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.
“You all good?”
“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”
“Not for a little while.”
“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”
“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”
You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”
Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”
You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”
“Apparently so.”
You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.
Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.
“Hey.”
You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.
“What?” You asked warily.
Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”
“The what?”
Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.
“Absolute smoke show.”
Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”
Your brows knitted together.
“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.
“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.
You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.
At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.
And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.
“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.
You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.
Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.
Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.
“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”
By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.
“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”
Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.
“Well I’ll be.”
That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.
“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”
Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.
“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”
“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”
“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.
He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.
"Someone has to."
Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.
“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.
"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.
“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.
“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.
Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"
Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.
"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"
"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"
"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."
McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.
Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”
You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.
“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”
You snorted. “Please.”
“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”
You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”
He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."
He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”
You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”
“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."
"No."
"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”
"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.
“Wait let me guess.”
Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.
His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”
He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”
From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”
Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.
Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.
For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.
Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”
Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.
“I’m right."
You didn't answer.
"I am."
“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”
“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”
“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”
Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."
"He also has excellent aim."
"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."
And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.
"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.
“You’re happy?”
You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.
“I am.”
“He good to you?"
You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”
For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.
You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”
“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.
"So the usual then?"
“The usual.”
He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”
“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."
Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”
“Sloan.”
The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.
Mark's grin returned instantly.
“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.
"A lot less hair since I last saw you."
Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”
Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.
Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.
“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”
“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”
“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”
Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.
“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”
Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”
McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”
“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.
Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”
The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."
Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.
“You two know eachother?”
“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.
“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.
Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”
You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.
“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“
“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."
Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."
“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”
Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.
You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.
He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.
"Ex?"
You sighed. "...Ex."
Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”
“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”
Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.
You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.
“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.
Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.
You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.
When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.
“Don’t you dare say a word.”
She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”
You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.
For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.
By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.
“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”
You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.
“The old lady with the chest pain?”
“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.
You frowned. "That sucks."
“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.
“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."
Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”
Your eyes narrowed.
"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.
"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."
"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.
"I hate all of you."
Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"
Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.
You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.
You waited a couple minutes before moving.
The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.
A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So… that’s your ex.”
“That’s my ex.”
He nodded. "You left out a few details."
"Such as?"
His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.
“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”
Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"
Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."
Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”
“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”
“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”
“You’re not.” You insisted.
Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.
You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”
“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.
Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.
"Jack."
"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”
You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.
“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.
“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.
“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”
You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”
Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.
“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”
His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”
“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”
The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”
“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”
His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”
Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.
“Well, lucky for him it worked.”
The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.
He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.
“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”
You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”
“Yes.” He answered plainly.
You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”
Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.
“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”
You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”
Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”
Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.
“Did you eat?”
You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”
Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”
“I will.”
“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”
Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”
“Of course.”
You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”
His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.
“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.
You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”
You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.
“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”
Jack raised a brow.
“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”
“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.
“I know I am.”
“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.
You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.
Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
summary. After Jack treats you at the emergency department, he learns that you're a camgirl — a very popular camgirl with a public SFW account. Curiosity has him subscribing and he finds himself falling into a very addicting trap of you.
word count. 16.5k (this got away from me)
content warnings. nsfw content, excessive use of 'bunny', medical inaccuracies (of literally almost everything, big shout out to healthline and mayoclinic for iud info), mentions of vaginal bleeding and pain, easter eggs/cameos of other readers from a previous robby fic (👀)
notes. so this was the most absolute fun to write !! i've got a few easter-eggs in here (including other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) and some of my lovely mutuals mentioned) so i hope you like it, my inbox is open for more blurb requests or ideas you have for the dolls-verse! photos above are from pinterest and @deathreverse made the amazing website mock up i included below! (thankyouthankyouiloveyourmassivebrain)
As someone who's made a living off of exposing every inch of your body to the world, you feel horribly exposed sitting on an exam table in just a hospital gown that you had changed into from the cliche trench coat and lacy negligee you had on earlier.
Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.
So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.
"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"
Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.
But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.
"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."
"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."
The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.
"… what seems to be the problem—?"
Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.
Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.
He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.
Face down, ass up.
He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.
"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"
"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.
Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"
You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.
"Words, please."
Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.
Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.
Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.
"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"
Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."
The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."
He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.
You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.
Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"
"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"
Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"
The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.
Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."
A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."
But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.
"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"
He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."
Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.
"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."
You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."
"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"
Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"
"Maybe."
"It's not very good."
"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."
You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"
"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"
Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."
He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.
"Thanks again, doctor."
The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.
"What?" Jack frowns.
The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."
"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."
"There's nothing to tell—!"
The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."
Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"
In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.
The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.
He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.
Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.
It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.
Dollface. Doll. Dolly.
He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.
While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.
It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.
[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]
His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.
The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.
BESTIES — free! access includes:
- get ready with me
- weekly vlogs
- shopping hauls
SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($)
- everything besties has to offer!
- short-form lewd content
- locked photos from the vault
- audios
LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$)
- everything sweethearts and besties has to offer!
- midnight live-streams
- personalized short-form videos
- personalized audios
Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.
All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.
He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.
The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.
As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.
Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.
(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)
Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.
You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.
When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:
@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.
Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.
Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.
You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.
In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.
Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.
@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡
@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!
@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡
@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY
In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.
Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.
Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.
He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.
@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.
The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.
The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.
He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.
@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot
@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls
@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call
The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.
He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.
You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.
Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).
Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.
Bunny.
You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.
The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.
As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.
[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]
[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]
A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:
doll : doctor abbot???
Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.
He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.
swatdoc : How did you know it was me?
doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡
Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.
swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?
doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.
swatdoc : Sounds fair.
doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?
swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.
doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?
He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—
swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.
doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡
swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny.
doll liked your message!
The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.
Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.
None of the actresses look like you.
The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.
"You seeing anyone?"
Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"
"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"
"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.
"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."
The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.
He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.
But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.
You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.
doll: dr abbot??
swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart.
doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.
Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.
swatdoc: You mean it, bunny?
doll: spending time with you? of course ♡
Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.
swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual.
doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me
swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny.
doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!!
swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus.
doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot.
doll: so when's our date?
swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you?
doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up?
swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7?
doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.
He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.
Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.
A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.
A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.
Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.
The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.
"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.
Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.
"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.
"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."
Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.
He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.
"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.
"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.
Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.
"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.
"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"
Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.
"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.
"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."
The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.
But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.
"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.
You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.
"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"
Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."
The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"
Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."
After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.
"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.
"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"
"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"
Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.
The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.
"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."
You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."
He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"
"Yeah, sounds good."
"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."
And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.
When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.
[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.
His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?
Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.
[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.
He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.
"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"
Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.
@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG
@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!
Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.
Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—
"Jack?"
"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"
You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"
"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."
"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"
"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."
"The aquarium…"
He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"
"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"
"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"
"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."
"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."
Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.
You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.
By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.
It's made you undeniably horny for him.
You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.
And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.
At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.
"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.
"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"
Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"
"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."
"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.
"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"
You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.
His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.
Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"
You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"
His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"
You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."
"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."
You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.
In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"
The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.
And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.
You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.
That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.
Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—
"'m cumming, daddy—!"
The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.
"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.
Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."
"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."
"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.
You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.
"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."
You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."
He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.
The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"
He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."
A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"
Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."
"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."
Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."
You kiss him again.
For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.
A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.
So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.
Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.
But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.
Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.
They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.
The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.
"So. Shen's said you've been weird."
Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."
"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.
"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"
"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."
The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.
Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.
His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.
"Feelin' restless, bunny?"
"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."
"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.
You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"
"I'm fine—"
"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"
"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."
Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."
"I don't think so."
"Jack."
"Bunny."
It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."
Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.
When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.
"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—
"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"
He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"
"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"
"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."
Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."
"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.
"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.
His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"
"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.
"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."
You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"
"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.
You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.
But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."
He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.
"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"
"Mhm, yes—"
"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."
It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.
"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."
And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.
He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.
"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"
His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."
Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.
"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."
You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.
He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.
It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.
"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"
His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.
His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.
The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"
"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.
When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.
"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.
Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…
Had it not been for your growling stomach.
His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.
"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"
"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."
He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."
Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.
"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."
It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"
You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.
"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"
A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."
Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.
Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.
While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.
"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.
He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."
The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"
"You're right, I'll behave."
The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.
For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.
"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.
Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."
Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"
"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"
"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.
"She's not my type, she's just hot—"
"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.
Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"
Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"
"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."
The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.
Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).
There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.
The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.
You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.
You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.
"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.
Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."
"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."
When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.
Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.
@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???
@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg
@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine
@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE
You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.
"You're stealing my fans, Jack."
"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."
"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.
"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."
Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."
"Use your words, bunny."
"I'd like that a lot, sir."
That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.
Sir.
It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.
"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."
When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"
Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.
Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.
"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.
The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."
Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.
"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.
The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.
"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.
He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.
"Add another finger for me, bunny."
You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"
"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.
"Yes, but—"
"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."
The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.
The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.
"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.
Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.
"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"
Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.
"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.
But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.
His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.
"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."
The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.
—
"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"
The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.
"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."
Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"
"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."
"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."
Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.
"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."
—
Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.
Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.
She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.
"You ready, sweetheart?"
You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."
"What do you need a bag for?"
"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.
"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."
The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.
Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.
—
In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.
She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.
Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.
"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.
"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.
You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.
"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"
The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.
When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—
"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.
He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"
"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."
—
With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.
It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.
Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.
Something isn't right.
You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.
With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.
When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"
—
"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.
Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.
"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"
"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"
Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.
"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."
Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.
—
After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.
"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"
Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"
Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."
"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"
He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"
"No, actually—"
"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"
"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."
You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"
"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.
At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."
Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."
"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"
Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."
Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."
You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"
"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.
"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"
A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.
"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."
—
As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.
"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.
When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."
"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"
"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."
His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.
When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.
"That the girlfriend?"
"Sure is."
An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."
"What's it mean?"
"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."
thank you so much for reading! likes / reblogs / comments are highly appreciated! if you guys want to see more of bunny!reader in this dolly-verse, my inbox is open for blurb requests and ideas! ♡
DEAN THIS WAS SOOOOOO FUN!!!!!!!!!!!!! the freaking blog graphic are u kidding??? stunning!!!! i am dolly’s number one biggest fan!! (as per my comments on her blog mhm mhm i know that’s right) i also just love love love the juxtaposition of how sexy and sultry she is on camera vs her with jack 🤭🤭🤭🤭 she literally melts
"It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."
CASUAL DOMINANCE AND CARETAKING BE STILL MY HEARTTTTT
@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine
correct 🚬🚬🚬🚬 he is
"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that."
LMFAOOOOOO
wowowow this was a 10/10 read from start to finish!!! my mooties are just so talented and wonderful!!! will be thinking about this 4ever
Thinking about Simon trying Tinder for the first time but it’s not what he expected. He signed up without telling anyone because if he had uttered a word about it, you already know Johnny or Kyle is going to snoop through his phone to look at his profile.
But Simon being Simon, he doesn’t know how to present himself in a good light. His photos were bad; he took two selfies as he created his profile and they were not good to say the least. One was a mirror photo of him holding his tiny phone with both of his hands as he stoically stared into the mirror. The other was just a selfie of him except it wasn’t angled high or even remotely attractive. It was angled down as if he was taking some sort of quick snap.
The only thing saving his profile was a photo of Riley wearing a vest and goggles.
His bio was the worst of them all.
“I like working out. I have a busy job.”
That was it.
No personality, no indication that he wanted more than just a quickie.
Simon wasn’t expecting much out of the app and he was right because the next day, he opened up the app to find no matches.
Got the man thinking that he really was ugly.
It ruined his self esteem a little if he said so himself. Simon didn’t care about what other people thought but gosh, not even one person wanted to match with him?
…. And then he learned that he also had to swipe to get matches.
So on Simon’s off day, he practically spent half of the day swiping through people. He was picky, believe it or not.
Boring bio? Bye.
Too much filters or AI? Bye.
Too corny? Bye.
Clearly only looking for a one night stand? Bye.
Kind of hypocritical considering his profile looks like he only spent five minutes creating (which he did).
Just when Simon was about to give up on his love life for good, the last profile he stopped on was yours. Simple, nice photos, interesting bio and funny prompts. He hesitated— not because he wanted to skip, but in fear of rejection. Because if he swiped right and there was no “it’s a match!”, he’d probably wonder if he’ll ever find the love of his life.
His thumb hovered over the middle of his phone before he pressed down and swiped right.
It’s a match!
His phone lit up with the two profiles and underneath was his chance to send a message first.
Fuck. He didn’t know what to say. Should he try to be funny? Or start it off with a simple hey?
Simon began typing, deleting, typing and deleting the same message for the next two minutes before finally settling with a: “Hi. How are y”
He typed too fast that he didn’t even finish his sentence before he pressed sent.
summary: You technically aren't a member of the New Avengers, but you live at the Watchtower and help the team out during missions. The most interesting part? Bucky seems to have a crush on you, the quiet, brooding, mysterious woman.
word count: 13.9k+
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: one of my fav tropes i've seen with thunderbolts!bucky is the secret wife trope, so here's my take on it :)
this is also only my second time writing for bucky, and my first time writing smut for him, so let me know if it's accurate!
warnings/tags: takes place after thunderbolts*, bamf!reader, grumpy x grumpy (but really bucky is kinda sunshine?), secret relationship/marriage, reader is "brooding" and "cold", bucky is a lover boy, smut, slight sub!bucky, slight dom!reader, unprotected piv, creampie, light violence, mention of injury
series masterlist
The Watchtower had been quiet for exactly six minutes when John's voice shattered the peace. "He's doing it again."
Yelena sighed dramatically, not looking up from her phone. "Who’s doing what again?"
John jerked his chin toward the kitchen counter, where Bucky leaned casually, arms crossed. His eyes were fixed across the common area, following you as you silently poured a mug of coffee.
Ava glanced up from the couch, eyes rolling. "Oh. Barnes."
"Again?" Alexei chuckled from his seat next to Yelena, slapping the table enthusiastically. "He’s staring like sad puppy, no? Maybe we throw him a bone?"
Yelena finally glanced up, smirking. "Careful, Dad. Barnes has super hearing. He might overhear your plans."
Alexei scoffed, shrugging his massive shoulders. "So he hears. I say it to his face: Barnes, ask the scary one out already."
Bucky turned slightly, arching a brow. "I’m good, thanks."
"No, clearly you are not," Alexei persisted, enjoying himself. "All this mooning and sighing and staring. Pathetic."
"I’m not mooning."
John snorted. "You’re definitely mooning."
Bucky glared halfheartedly, shifting uncomfortably as you moved past them silently, mug in hand, offering nothing but a faint nod. Once you vanished back down the hall, the conversation reignited in earnest.
Bob glanced up from his seat nearby, his brow pinched slightly in mild confusion. "Wait—so Bucky likes Y/N?"
"Thank you, Bob," Ava murmured dryly. "Keep up."
"But…" Bob tilted his head thoughtfully. "Has he even tried talking to her?"
Yelena smirked at Bucky. "Yeah, Bucky, have you even tried talking?"
Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile. "I talk plenty."
Ava laughed softly. "You stare plenty. Talking, not so much."
"Just ask her out," John said, crossing his arms smugly. "Worst she could do is ignore you—like she already does."
The team burst into laughter. Even Bob managed a shy chuckle. Bucky shook his head, smiling faintly as he turned toward the hallway you'd taken moments before.
"Maybe," he muttered dryly, setting down his empty coffee cup. "Someday."
"Maybe someday," Alexei echoed dramatically. "This is tragedy."
Bucky ignored the loud chatter behind him, wandering slowly toward your shared quarters at the far end of the hall.
---
Inside your quiet room, you sat cross-legged on the bed, reading calmly. You didn’t look up when he closed the door behind him.
"Your teammates are idiots," you murmured, turning a page.
Bucky smiled softly, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. He walked toward you, sinking easily onto the bed beside you, immediately leaning his head onto your shoulder. "They just think you're intimidating."
"I am intimidating."
"Yes, sweetheart." He tilted his head slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck. "Terrifying."
You hummed quietly, setting your book aside as his metal fingers gently traced over your wrist. You shifted, finally looking directly at him, raising a brow. "They also think you're pining hopelessly."
Bucky laughed, rich and genuine, nudging your shoulder affectionately. "Who says I'm not?"
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved upwards faintly. "James."
He smiled, teasing gently, eyes bright. "What?"
You sighed, feigning irritation, but the softness in your gaze betrayed you. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe," he agreed easily, leaning closer, lips brushing tenderly along your jawline. "But I'm yours."
You huffed softly, fingers sliding gently into his hair, pulling him closer until your lips met, warm and familiar and private.
"Unfortunately," you teased softly as you parted, foreheads resting together.
He smiled brightly, utterly content. "Someday we should tell them."
"Eventually," you conceded dryly, settling back against his chest comfortably. "But would you really take away my only source of entertainment?"
Bucky chuckled quietly, his fingers brushing lightly along your shoulder. "I wouldn’t dream of it."
You hummed, eyes falling shut as you relaxed against him, the quiet settling around you both.
"I still think we should at least tell Yelena," he mused after a moment. "She’s pretty sharp. Might figure it out on her own."
You scoffed softly. "Please. She thinks you’re pining after me. Clearly, her observational skills aren’t that impressive."
Bucky laughed, pressing another quick kiss against your temple. "Harsh."
"True," you corrected.
He smiled against your skin, his metal arm tightening around you slightly. "Fair enough."
The comfortable silence stretched between you, only broken by your quiet breathing and the distant laughter of the team down the hall. After a moment, you turned slightly, glancing at him with a faint smirk.
"Barnes," you said, voice dry and amused. "Were you really mooning?"
He tilted his head back, groaning dramatically. "Not you too."
You shrugged casually, barely hiding your smile. "I'm just confirming. For clarity."
"Well, I wasn’t," he insisted, eyes sparkling. "I was just... observing."
"Right," you drawled. "Observing."
"Exactly," he nodded solemnly, biting back a smile. "Observing my scary, intimidating, secretly soft-hearted wife."
"Don’t push it," you warned, poking his chest gently. "I’ve got a reputation to uphold."
"Trust me, sweetheart," Bucky teased, voice warm and gentle, "no one's doubting your reputation."
You huffed again, leaning up to kiss him softly, muttering against his lips, "You're lucky you're cute."
"I know," he grinned brightly, eyes crinkling as he drew you closer again. "Very lucky."
You rolled your eyes, hiding your smile against his chest as the comfortable silence returned, content to enjoy each other’s company without interruptions.
---
Two days later, you wandered into the common area, pausing briefly as you spotted the team huddled around the TV, eyes glued to the screen. "What's this?" you asked dryly.
"Movie night," Ava replied, glancing back at you. "Join us?"
You shook your head slightly, making your way toward the kitchen. "I'll pass."
Yelena smirked, not taking her eyes off the TV. "Shocking."
Bucky looked up, catching your gaze. "C’mon, doll. Stay for a little bit."
You paused, arching an eyebrow pointedly at him. "Why would I?"
He shrugged innocently, leaning back into the couch. "For the pleasure of our charming company?"
John snorted. "Real subtle, Barnes."
Alexei chuckled, tossing popcorn into his mouth. "He tries."
You ignored them, continuing your path to the coffee machine. You barely managed to pour yourself a cup before you heard Bucky's quiet footsteps approaching. He leaned casually against the counter beside you, arms folded, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.
"Nice pajamas," he teased quietly, glancing at your oversized sweatshirt and leggings.
"Keep it up," you muttered dryly. "See if you ever get to borrow them again."
He chuckled softly, leaning in slightly closer, voice low and warm. "We’re overdue for date night."
You sipped your coffee, glancing at him sideways. "You’re getting needy."
"Maybe," he admitted shamelessly, nudging you gently. "But I prefer 'romantic.'"
"Gross."
"You love it," he murmured warmly.
"Unfortunately," you agreed softly, finally turning toward him. "Fine. Date night. But I'm picking."
"As long as it’s not another stakeout, sweetheart."
"No promises," you teased, sipping your coffee again as you turned away. "Now go watch your movie."
He chuckled, shaking his head fondly as you disappeared down the hallway. When he turned back toward the couch, he found the entire team staring at him, various expressions of disbelief on their faces. "What?" he asked suspiciously.
Alexei pointed at him accusingly. "You talked. Actual conversation."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "She didn't stab you."
Yelena shook her head, smiling slightly. "Barnes, you might actually have a chance."
"Yeah, maybe in twenty years," John snorted.
Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, settling back onto the couch comfortably. "Told you—I talk plenty."
Bob nodded slowly, genuinely impressed. "Good job, Bucky."
"Thanks, Bob." Bucky smiled, eyes flicking briefly toward the hall. "I'm working on it."
---
The following evening, you leaned quietly against the wall, watching with mild interest as Bucky sparred against John on the training mats. The rest of the team lingered around the room, half-training, half-observing the two men in action.
Alexei crossed his arms, grinning broadly. "Come on, Barnes! Use metal arm—show Walker who's boss."
"He's trying to train," Yelena drawled from beside you. "Not murder our teammate."
You didn't react outwardly, but your lips twitched slightly in amusement.
Across the mats, John ducked away from Bucky’s fist, panting slightly. "You holding back, Barnes?"
Bucky smirked, circling him easily. "Just going easy on you."
John scoffed. "Bullshit. You’re distracted."
"Distracted?" Bucky echoed mildly, his eyes briefly flicking in your direction.
John followed his gaze knowingly, smirking. "Yeah. Distracted."
Bucky sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders as he pretended to think. "Right. Got my mind on other things."
"Or other people," Ava muttered dryly from the punching bag.
Yelena smirked, elbowing you gently. "Look at that. Bucky still pining away."
You kept your expression neutral, voice flat. "Tragic."
On the mat, Bucky caught John's fist in his metal hand, twisting lightly. "Ready to yield yet?"
John grumbled, pulling his hand free. "Fine, fine. Jesus."
Bucky chuckled, stepping back easily, eyes sliding again to you. "Who's next?"
Yelena nudged you lightly. "Why not you, Y/N? Barnes clearly wants your attention."
You exhaled slowly, stepping away from the wall toward the mat. "Fine."
The team fell into immediate silence as you moved toward Bucky, standing opposite him calmly. He raised an eyebrow, his mouth curved into a teasing grin. "Careful, doll. I bruise easily."
"You’ll live," you muttered, stretching your arms briefly.
John backed off the mats, smirking. "This oughta be good."
Bucky circled you slowly, voice low enough only you could hear. "You gonna let me win?"
"Absolutely not."
"Good," he murmured, lunging forward easily, eyes bright with amusement.
You sidestepped him effortlessly, landing a swift blow to his ribs. Bucky laughed softly, twisting away, clearly enjoying himself.
"Think they're flirting?" Alexei loudly whispered to Yelena.
"If by flirting you mean trying to kill each other," Ava remarked dryly, "then yes."
Bucky caught your wrist gently, pulling you slightly toward him. "Having fun yet?"
You rolled your eyes slightly, easily slipping your wrist from his grip. "Always."
"Good," he chuckled, stepping closer, voice dropping softer. "Me too."
"You’re ridiculous," you murmured quietly.
"I know," he agreed cheerfully, just before you swept his leg neatly, sending him sprawling onto the mats with a loud thud.
The team collectively winced.
Bucky blinked up at you, laughing as you offered him your hand to pull him up. "Had enough?" you asked calmly.
He took your hand, pulling himself smoothly to his feet, voice warm and teasing as he leaned close. "Not even close."
"Gross," John muttered.
"Agreed," Ava smirked, returning her attention to her training bag.
Bucky stepped back reluctantly, smiling easily as he rubbed his ribs. "Thanks for the match, doll."
You rolled your eyes, hiding your faint smile. “Just to be clear, I’m still waiting for date night. This doesn’t count.”
Bucky chuckled quietly, running a hand through his slightly mussed hair. “Fair enough. Tomorrow?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Demanding, Barnes.”
He smirked softly. “Consider it enthusiastic.”
“Same difference,” you muttered dryly, turning away. “Tomorrow works.”
You started back toward the edge of the mats, ignoring the curious looks from the team. Ava raised an eyebrow as you passed her.
“You okay, Barnes?” John called out teasingly. “Your ego survive that?”
Bucky snorted, dusting himself off easily. “Think I'll recover.”
Alexei shook his head, looking impressed. “She is formidable opponent. Why you not recruit her officially, Yelena?”
Yelena shrugged lightly, glancing toward you. “Because I value my life.”
Bucky sighed dramatically, shaking his head in mock despair. “I told you—I’m working on it.”
You watched quietly from your spot against the wall, expression neutral, coffee mug clasped in your hands. Bucky’s gaze caught yours briefly, warmth flickering across his eyes for just a moment before he turned away.
Yelena sighed dramatically, standing and stretching her arms lazily over her head. “Tragic,” she said flatly. “Come on, let’s wrap up. Alexei promised pizza.”
Alexei beamed proudly. “Extra pineapple for Bob!”
“I don’t actually like pineapple—” Bob started softly, then sighed and smiled. “Never mind.”
John clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “You’ll learn, Bob.”
The team slowly started to file out of the training room, chatting loudly amongst themselves. Bucky lingered behind, waiting until the others had vanished before moving quietly toward you.
“Pizza?” he asked quietly, nudging your shoulder gently.
You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Fine.”
He smiled warmly, leaning closer and murmuring quietly. “You’re secretly excited, admit it.”
You snorted softly, hiding a faint smile behind your mug. “Don’t push it.”
Bucky’s smile widened into a grin as he straightened again, falling easily into step beside you. “Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart.”
“Good,” you muttered dryly, sipping your coffee. “Wouldn’t want to have to hurt you again.”
He laughed warmly, eyes bright with affection as you moved quietly toward the elevator. “You love me too much to hurt me.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping into the elevator beside him, voice calm and casual. “Don’t be so sure.”
He smiled softly, watching you from the corner of his eye, quiet amusement lingering between you both. The elevator doors slid shut quietly, enclosing you both in comfortable silence.
---
You stepped quietly into the common area, where the team had already settled around the table, chatting loudly. Bob smiled at you shyly as he moved over to make space.
You sank smoothly into the chair next to Bob, giving a faint nod. Across from you, Bucky's eyes lifted briefly, lingering on you with mild curiosity. You met his gaze evenly, then casually unzipped your half-zip pullover just a little bit further, revealing the faintest glimpse of delicate white lace beneath.
Bucky's eyes flicked immediately downward, then shot quickly back up to yours, clearly startled. He shifted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat softly.
"Alright there, Barnes?" John asked casually, reaching for a slice.
"Yeah," Bucky murmured, forcing his gaze down to the pizza. "Fine."
You ate quietly, barely participating in conversation but very aware of Bucky's occasional discreet glances your way. Every subtle movement you made—reaching for a napkin, shifting slightly—gave him brief but intentional glimpses of lace against your skin.
Bucky swallowed hard, eyes narrowing slightly each time he caught sight of you, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.
"You’re quiet tonight, Y/N," Ava commented casually, glancing over at you.
"Possibly," you agreed blandly, ignoring Bucky's slightly tense posture. After a few more minutes, you rose smoothly from your chair, setting your napkin down quietly. "I'm turning in."
"So soon?" Alexei called, looking disappointed. "Night still young!"
"Goodnight," you replied dryly, heading quietly toward the hallway.
You felt Bucky’s gaze on your back, heavy and heated. You barely made it halfway to the bedroom when you heard his chair scrape back, followed closely by Alexei's loud chuckle and John's amused muttering.
You entered the room first, stepping calmly inside, hearing the door click shut quietly behind Bucky a few moments later. You glanced back at him casually, watching as he leaned heavily against the door, eyes dark.
"You really enjoy torturing me, don't you?" he murmured dryly, his voice low and rough.
You tilted your head slightly, feigning confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
He stepped toward you slowly, expression skeptical. "Really?"
You arched an eyebrow innocently. "Problem?"
"Yeah," he muttered softly, his eyes trailing slowly downward, lingering pointedly on the now-visible lace beneath your shirt. "That’s a problem."
You shrugged casually, turning away from him and starting to pull off your pullover, leaving you standing comfortably in leggings and your white lace bra. "Just a bra, Barnes."
He huffed softly, moving closer until he stood right behind you, hands gently settling on your hips. "It’s more than just a bra, doll."
You tilted your head back slightly against his chest, lips twitching faintly. "Punishment for delaying date night."
He groaned softly, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "You’re cruel."
"Maybe," you conceded calmly, turning slowly in his arms to face him. Your eyes softened slightly as you reached up, gently cupping his jaw. "But you deserve it."
He sighed dramatically, but his mouth curved into a faint smirk as his lips brushed lightly against yours. "Fine. Guilty."
Your lips met again slowly, soft and teasing at first, then gradually deeper. You sighed quietly against his mouth, sliding your hands into his hair, tugging gently. He gripped your hips a little tighter, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together firmly.
You pulled away gently after a few more lingering kisses, smiling faintly at his dazed expression. "I'm taking a shower. Alone."
Bucky groaned softly again, giving you something close to a pout as he reluctantly released you. "Really?"
"Really," you replied firmly, stepping back toward the bathroom. "Consider it payback."
"Sweetheart," he started pleadingly, reaching for your hand, eyes wide and hopeful.
You shook your head, lips twitching slightly with amusement. "My decision stands."
He sighed heavily, dramatically collapsing onto the bed, watching you move toward the bathroom door with exaggerated despair. "You're killing me."
"You'll live," you said dryly, shooting him one final teasing glance before disappearing into the bathroom.
You shut the door quietly, smiling faintly to yourself as you heard him mutter a quiet, resigned curse on the other side.
---
You woke slowly the next morning, blinking sleepily in the muted sunlight filtering through the curtains. Bucky’s steady breathing was warm against your neck, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. You shifted slightly, feeling him stir behind you.
"Morning," you murmured softly.
He hummed sleepily, pressing a lazy kiss against your shoulder. "Morning, sweetheart."
"Still pouting?"
"Maybe a little," he admitted, voice thick with sleep as he nuzzled gently against your neck. "You’re mean."
"You deserved it," you murmured quietly, shifting back against him slightly.
He hummed softly, lips brushing warmly against your skin. "Maybe. But you enjoy it way too much."
"Maybe," you echoed dryly, feeling his hand slip from your waist down toward your hip, fingers tracing slowly beneath the edge of your shirt.
Bucky’s lips moved lazily over your shoulder, teeth grazing gently as his leg slid slowly between yours, pressing softly until your breath caught. His metal hand drifted lower, fingertips teasing the waistband of your underwear.
"James," you warned quietly, eyes closing slowly.
"Hm?" he murmured innocently, pressing a warm kiss just below your ear.
You sighed softly, relaxing slightly against him. "We should probably—"
A loud knock at the door shattered the quiet moment. Bucky groaned deeply, dropping his forehead heavily onto your shoulder.
"Barnes!" Yelena’s voice called sharply through the door. "Alexei made pancakes. And he’s offended you’re not here."
Bucky sighed dramatically against your skin, hand withdrawing reluctantly. "Tell him I’m busy."
Yelena paused a moment before knocking again, harder. "No. Get up. He’ll mope."
You rolled your eyes, lightly patting Bucky’s thigh. "Duty calls."
"Don’t care," he muttered petulantly, tightening his arm around your waist again. "I want pancakes with you, not them."
"Barnes!" Yelena snapped again, louder now. "Don’t make me break the door."
"Alright, alright," Bucky called back irritably, sighing heavily as he finally released you, rolling onto his back dramatically. "Be right there."
You turned onto your side, watching him quietly, eyebrow raised faintly. "Tragic."
"Very," he agreed solemnly, glaring half-heartedly at the ceiling.
You leaned over, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to his jawline before standing smoothly from the bed. "I'll make it up to you later."
Bucky’s pout softened into a hopeful smirk. "Promise?"
"Maybe," you said dryly, walking to your dresser. "Now get up, Barnes. Can’t keep the kids waiting."
He sighed loudly, reluctantly dragging himself out of bed as you quietly slipped into your leggings. "You sure you don’t want to stay in bed? I’ll fake an injury."
"You’re pathetic," you murmured, lips twitching faintly as you headed toward the door. "Now move."
He groaned softly again, following you toward the door. "Fine. But I reserve the right to sulk."
"You always do," you muttered, stepping out into the hallway without another glance, leaving him shaking his head fondly behind you.
---
Later in the day, you were leaning against the kitchen counter, eating an apple while reading a book. The rest of the team was scattered around—Yelena, Alexei, and Bob chatting animatedly by the fridge, John and Ava lazily lounging on the couch in the living room, TV quietly droning.
You barely looked up when Bucky approached, quietly leaning next to you, close enough for your shoulders to brush. He crossed his arms casually, eyes fixed on your face with a faint smile.
"Got us reservations at Il Mulino tonight," he murmured softly, voice low enough that only you could hear.
You took another bite of your apple, flipping the page. "I don’t want Italian."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Since when don’t you want Italian?"
"Since now," you replied evenly, eyes not leaving your page. "I want a burger."
Bucky chuckled softly, bumping your shoulder gently with his. "You’re killin’ me, doll. It’s impossible to get into that burger place of yours last minute."
"Red Hook Tavern," you corrected calmly. "And I have faith in you, Barnes."
He sighed dramatically, nudging you again. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll figure something out. But you owe me."
You finally glanced up at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "For what? You owe me."
He smiled sheepishly, ducking his head. "Fair point."
Across the kitchen, Yelena elbowed Bob discreetly, both watching your quiet exchange with curiosity. "Are they… arguing?" Bob whispered uncertainly, brows furrowing.
Alexei snorted, shaking his head confidently. "No, Bob, this is called flirting. Barnes is flirting badly."
John glanced over from the couch, smirking faintly. "Bucky’s gonna strike out again."
Ava rolled her eyes lightly, voice amused. "Poor guy never learns."
Back at the counter, Bucky leaned in closer, lips nearly brushing your ear. "You know I spoil you, doll."
You hummed softly, voice deadpan. "Burger or nothing."
He huffed a laugh, stepping back slightly, smiling affectionately. "Fine. Burger it is."
"Good." You bit your apple again, returning your attention fully to your book. "Glad that's settled."
He lingered for another moment, watching you quietly with a faint, private smile before finally turning away, walking casually toward the elevator.
The second the doors slid shut behind him, Yelena smirked openly at you from across the kitchen. "Y/N, did Barnes finally work up the courage to ask you out?"
You glanced at her briefly, expression unreadable. "No."
Alexei groaned loudly, slapping his palm dramatically against his forehead. "Pathetic!"
Bob looked genuinely confused, tilting his head slightly. "But they talk all the time."
Yelena shook her head, sighing deeply. "It's complicated, Bob. Barnes pines. Y/N tolerates."
You ignored their chatter, turning quietly away to head down the hall toward your rarely-used room, your expression carefully neutral.
"You're all wrong," John drawled loudly from the couch. "She's just plotting how to murder him."
Ava smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the TV. "Honestly, who could blame her?"
Yelena sighed dramatically again, leaning her hip against the counter. "Tragic."
You didn't bother responding, closing your bedroom door quietly behind you, a faint, hidden smile touching your lips as you reached for your phone to text Bucky a single word: "Burger?"
His response was almost immediate, playful and warm: "Anything for you, sweetheart."
---
A few hours later, you stepped out of the elevator and into the common area, quietly slipping past the team, who were sprawled out comfortably, watching some mindless action movie.
Yelena glanced up, eyebrows rising curiously. "Whoa. Where you going dressed like that?"
"Out," you replied evenly, adjusting the sleeve of your jacket slightly.
"Out?" John echoed suspiciously, eyes narrowing slightly. "Since when do you go out?"
You shrugged calmly, heading toward the door without looking back. "Since now."
Alexei squinted suspiciously, nudging Bob hard. "You see, Bob? Very mysterious. This one has secret life, I tell you."
Bob blinked slowly, clearly puzzled. "Really?"
Ava rolled her eyes fondly. "Probably just going to scare people for fun."
You didn't respond, stepping smoothly through the doors and disappearing down the hall.
---
Five minutes later, Bucky emerged casually from his room, wearing a dark jacket and looking unusually put together. He adjusted his collar, glancing casually around the room as he headed for the exit.
John's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And where exactly are you headed, Barnes?"
"Got some errands to run," Bucky said easily, not breaking his stride.
He shrugged lightly, shooting her a casual smirk. "I like running errands."
Alexei shook his head, sighing loudly. "Two secret lives under one roof. This team falling apart."
Bob glanced uncertainly between the group. "But—"
"Don't hurt yourself thinking, Bob," Ava interrupted dryly.
Bob sighed softly. "Okay."
"Don't wait up," Bucky called over his shoulder, stepping quickly into the elevator and hitting the button for the ground floor, ignoring the curious stares that followed him.
---
Outside, you stood leaning casually against the side of the building, arms crossed loosely as you waited. The busy Manhattan streets hummed with distant traffic, lights casting a soft glow against the pavement.
When the doors finally opened, Bucky stepped out, immediately breaking into a warm smile as he caught sight of you. "Hey, sweetheart," he murmured softly, walking toward you with a playful glint in his eyes. "Fancy meeting you here."
You gave him a deadpan look. "Took you long enough."
He chuckled quietly, leaning down to press a soft, quick kiss against your cheek. "Sorry. Had to shake the interrogation."
You rolled your eyes, stepping smoothly into pace beside him as you both began walking. "They suspicious?"
"Always," he sighed dramatically, sliding an arm comfortably around your waist. "Luckily, they're clueless."
You hummed softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. "Good."
Bucky nudged you gently, voice teasing. "You look good."
You glanced at him sideways, eyebrow arching faintly. "Better appreciate it. I don't dress up for just anyone."
He laughed quietly, tugging you a bit closer to him as you walked. "Believe me, doll, I'm honored."
"Gross," you muttered lightly, hiding your smile against his shoulder as he laughed again, the two of you disappearing together into the lively Manhattan evening.
---
The two of you settled comfortably into the subway seats, the train gently rumbling beneath you as it moved toward Brooklyn. Bucky sat close, thigh pressed against yours, arm casually draped over the back of your seat.
"You know," he murmured playfully, eyes fixed on the dark windows flashing by, "we could've taken a car."
You scoffed lightly, leaning back. "And miss watching you navigate public transportation? Never."
He laughed softly, nudging your shoulder with his. "I'm not that bad."
"You still stare suspiciously at the turnstiles."
"They beep at me," he muttered defensively. "Makes me nervous."
You hummed dryly. "Super soldier, war hero—intimidated by a turnstile."
He sighed dramatically, squeezing your shoulder lightly. "You’re mean, sweetheart."
"You married me," you pointed out calmly.
"Must've been temporarily insane," he teased, lips brushing your temple softly. "Lucky for me, the condition’s permanent."
You rolled your eyes faintly, though a hidden smile curled your lips. "You realize you're flirting with your own wife, right?"
"Constantly," he admitted shamelessly. "You complaining?"
"No," you murmured softly, leaning your head onto his shoulder. "But don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," he chuckled softly, kissing the crown of your head.
The train finally slowed, pulling into your stop. You stood easily, Bucky’s hand sliding naturally into yours as you navigated the crowds, stepping onto the platform and heading up toward the Brooklyn streets.
---
Red Hook Tavern was warm, cozy, bustling comfortably with chatter. A low, mellow soundtrack filled the space, the scent of burgers and fries thick in the air. Bucky guided you gently through the small crowd, settling into a quiet booth toward the back.
You leaned back, breathing in contentedly. "See? Better than pasta."
Bucky rolled his eyes, smiling faintly. "You win. Happy now?"
"Very," you replied dryly, eyes glinting with faint amusement.
He watched you thoughtfully for a moment, his expression softening. "You're cute when you're smug."
You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Careful, Barnes."
"What?" He smiled innocently, leaning across the table. "Just appreciating my date."
"Again," you muttered fondly, "you're married."
He shrugged casually, glancing down at the menu. "Just means I have exceptional taste."
You hid your smile behind your menu, shaking your head lightly. "Ridiculous."
"You love it."
"Unfortunately," you conceded, setting your menu aside as the waitress approached.
---
An hour later, the two of you wandered quietly through Brooklyn’s quieter streets, fingers intertwined, the glow of streetlights casting soft shadows on the pavement. "Happy?" Bucky asked softly, glancing down at you with a gentle smile.
"Surprisingly," you replied evenly, leaning slightly against his side as you walked.
He nudged you playfully. "I'm sensing a compliment."
"Don't get used to it."
He chuckled quietly, voice warm. "Wouldn't dream of it."
You walked in comfortable silence for a few more blocks, the soft hum of distant traffic and nightlife filling the spaces between you.
"You ever gonna let them know?" Bucky finally asked, tone carefully casual. "The team?"
You sighed quietly, eyes flicking up toward him briefly. "Eventually. Just… not yet."
He squeezed your hand lightly, understanding. "Whatever you want, doll."
"Thank you," you murmured softly, leaning your head against his arm as you continued walking.
Bucky smiled warmly down at you, his voice quiet and teasing. "Don't worry. They’re all still convinced you hate me."
You snorted softly. "Good."
"Harsh," he murmured fondly.
"True," you countered dryly.
He laughed softly again, gently guiding you toward the subway entrance, heading back toward the Watchtower.
---
You stepped back into the Watchtower quietly, slipping from Bucky’s side as the elevator doors opened. He lingered behind a minute, watching as you vanished silently into his room, maintaining the illusion carefully.
The common room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city through the large windows and the soft overhead lights from the kitchen. It seemed deserted until Yelena suddenly appeared, leaning casually against the fridge with a glass of water in hand.
"Late errands, Barnes?" she asked pointedly, eyebrow raised in amusement.
"Something like that," Bucky replied easily, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the nearest chair.
She hummed, eyes glinting mischievously. "Interesting. Because Y/N just got back too. Coincidence?"
He rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms comfortably. "It’s Manhattan, Lena. Not exactly a small town."
"Right," she drawled sarcastically. "So just an innocent coincidence."
He tilted his head slightly, smirking faintly. "Why do you care, anyway?"
"I don’t," she said mildly, taking a sip of her water. "But Alexei’s invested. He thinks you’re finally making progress."
"Glad he's entertained," Bucky muttered dryly, pushing away from the counter and heading toward his room. "Night, Lena."
"Goodnight, Barnes," she called after him, amusement still evident in her voice. "Sleep well."
---
Bucky stepped quietly into his room, shutting the door behind him softly. The bathroom door was closed, the lights shining from underneath the door. He sighed comfortably, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it casually onto a nearby chair. Moving toward his dresser, he opened a drawer, sifting lazily through shirts and sweatpants.
The bathroom door clicked softly open behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder absently, then froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed appreciatively, gaze sweeping slowly from head to toe. You leaned casually against the doorframe, completely at ease in a two-piece lingerie set—deep emerald green, his favorite color—with a short black silk robe hanging loosely off your shoulders.
Bucky swallowed hard, momentarily speechless. "Jesus," he muttered faintly under his breath.
You arched a single eyebrow, expression carefully neutral. "See something you like, Barnes?"
"God, yes," he admitted shamelessly, turning fully to face you, eyes lingering appreciatively. "Special occasion?"
You shrugged casually, pushing off from the doorframe and walking slowly toward him. "You finally came through on date night. I figured you deserved a reward."
He chuckled softly, his voice low as his eyes tracked every subtle movement. "Remind me to always give you exactly what you want."
You hummed quietly, stopping mere inches from him, tilting your head slightly upward. "Smart man."
He reached out carefully, fingers grazing softly along the smooth silk fabric of your robe. His gaze flicked warmly to yours, playful and heated. "How long have you been hiding this?"
You met his stare evenly, unbothered. "Long enough."
He smiled faintly, tugging you gently closer by the ties of your robe. "Tease."
"Maybe," you conceded quietly, not resisting as he slowly pulled you closer, lips hovering just above yours. "But you're into it."
"Very," he murmured softly, finally capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His hand slipped beneath your robe, gently sliding along your waist, pulling you flush against him.
You sighed softly, pressing closer, fingers tangling lazily into his hair. "Told you I’d make it up to you."
He hummed appreciatively against your lips. "You're definitely forgiven."
"Good," you replied dryly, guiding him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sank easily onto it, hands settling firmly on your hips. You stood comfortably between his knees, looking down at him calmly, your fingers drifting slowly along his jawline.
"You’re staring," he teased softly, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"You love it," you murmured bluntly.
He chuckled warmly, tilting his head up to kiss your fingertips softly. "Unfortunately."
"Thought so," you replied evenly, finally sliding onto his lap, knees settling easily on either side of him.
His eyes fluttered briefly shut, breath hitching as your weight settled comfortably over him. "You're killing me."
"You’ll live," you said flatly, fingers slowly trailing down his chest, teasing the edges of his shirt. "Now take this off."
He obeyed quickly, tugging his shirt easily over his head, tossing it aside without a glance. His hands returned immediately to your waist, sliding slowly upward, fingertips grazing gently along the lace covering your ribs.
"Beautiful," he murmured softly, eyes warm as he leaned forward, lips brushing gently against your collarbone.
You tilted your head slightly back, eyes closing softly. "I know."
Bucky laughed quietly against your skin, warm breath ghosting along your neck. "And humble."
"Shut up, Barnes," you muttered quietly, pulling his face back up to yours, capturing his lips firmly.
He smiled into the kiss, deepening it slowly, hands tightening gently on your hips, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you. Your breath hitched, body flush to his, silk brushing skin with every shift. You tugged his bottom lip with your teeth before pulling back just enough to murmur:
“Move up.”
Bucky blinked, caught off guard, then smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”
He shifted up the bed without argument, head brushing the headboard, arms propped behind him. You stayed on his lap the entire time, thighs bracketing his, your robe sliding further open with every slight movement, the soft lace of your bra brushing against his bare chest.
You rolled your hips forward, slow, just enough friction to make his hands fly to your waist again. His breath stuttered.
“Fuck, doll…”
“You’re still overdressed,” you muttered, fingers already working his belt loose, eyes fixed on the buckle like it offended you.
He chuckled low. “Can’t say no when you look at me like that.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you replied flatly, shoving his pants and briefs down far enough to free him, eyes flicking up to catch the way his jaw tensed.
“Shit,” Bucky muttered, gaze locked on the way you curled your fingers around him, stroking just enough to make him hiss.
You didn’t waste time. Just shifted your weight, pushed your underwear to the side, lined him up, and sank down in one slow, steady motion. His head thudded softly against the wall behind him.
“Goddamn—” he hissed between his teeth, hands gripping your hips hard. “You feel—fuck, doll—perfect.”
Your brows knit briefly, jaw clenching as you adjusted to the stretch, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. You lowered until he was fully inside, buried to the hilt, and only then did you pause—just to make sure he felt every inch of you around him.
He reached up, brushing your cheek with one hand, voice low. “You okay?”
You met his gaze, flat and unreadable, but your voice was rough when you replied. “Yeah. Shut up.”
Bucky just laughed, breathless. “Knew you loved me.”
You started to move—slow, controlled rolls of your hips that had him swearing under his breath, fingers twitching against your waist like he was trying not to force your pace. He didn’t have to. You had a rhythm, deliberate and maddening.
“You're tryin’ to kill me,” he groaned, head tilted back.
You leaned forward slightly, hands braced on his chest, spine arching as you rocked against him again. “If I wanted you dead, Barnes, you'd already be a corpse.”
“Shit, that’s hot,” he muttered, grip tightening again.
You smirked faintly, then leaned in, lips brushing his. “Told you I don’t dress up for just anyone.”
“And I told you,” he growled, sitting up to meet you halfway, “I’m honored.”
You reached between you and yanked on his dog tags, jerking him into a hard kiss. He groaned into it, mouth slanted against yours as his hands slid down, one settling firmly on your ass, the other at the small of your back, guiding your rhythm now, hips rising to meet yours on every downstroke.
Your breath hitched when he hit that spot—again. Again. Your fingers twisted tighter in the chain around his neck.
“Fuuuck,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip. “Keep clenching like that and this is gonna be over real fast, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you panted against his mouth, forehead pressed to his. “You’ll last.”
He grinned, voice wrecked. “Bossy. Love that.”
You rocked harder, pace picking up now, sweat starting to bead at your temples. Your robe slid entirely off your shoulders, forgotten.
Bucky looked up at you like you hung the moon. Like the way your brow furrowed in pleasure was something sacred. He reached up, thumb brushing along your jaw, voice barely audible over the wet slap of skin on skin.
“Look at you,” he murmured, utterly gone. “My fuckin’ wife.”
You kissed him again, rougher this time, teeth clacking for a second, neither of you caring. You moaned low in your throat, the sound dragging from your chest when he shifted just slightly and—
“Ohhh—fuck,” you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders as you chased it, that tight pull in your stomach threatening to snap. “Right there.”
Bucky grunted, hips snapping up to meet yours harder. “Come on, doll. Let go for me. You’ve been so fuckin’ good.”
You curled your fingers into his shoulder blades and dropped your head to his neck, teeth scraping skin as your entire body shuddered.
He felt it—your pulse pounding where your mouth met his throat, the way you clenched down so tight around him he nearly lost it on the spot.
“That’s it,” he growled, biting back a moan. “That’s my girl.”
You rode it out with a broken gasp, voice cracking on a low, “Shit—fuck—Bucky—”
He thrust up hard twice more and then stilled, buried deep, arms crushing you to his chest as he came with a sharp exhale against your ear, voice rough as gravel.
“Fuck, doll, fuck—you drive me fuckin’ insane—”
You both breathed heavy, bodies slick and tangled, still flush together. You stayed straddled over him, his arms still locked tight around your waist.
Eventually, he muttered against your throat, voice raspy, “am I forgiven?”
You huffed softly, fingers lazily tracing patterns on his chest. "Provisionally."
"Provisionally?" he echoed, pulling back slightly to give you a playful, offended look. "Sweetheart, after that?"
"Especially after that," you drawled dryly, leaning forward again to kiss him softly. "You delayed date night."
"I got you your burger," he argued lightly, kissing your jaw. "And fries."
"You delayed," you repeated evenly, shifting slightly, making him groan quietly.
He exhaled slowly, leaning his forehead gently against yours. "Fine. How do I make it up to you?"
"Breakfast in bed."
He chuckled softly, tightening his arms gently around your waist. "Done. Anything else?"
"Coffee. Good coffee."
"You drive a hard bargain," he murmured, lips brushing softly against your temple.
You pulled back, leveling him with a serious look. "And you're still talking."
Bucky laughed quietly, eyes bright with affection. "Harsh."
You hummed softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. "True."
He gently stroked your back, the silence settling comfortably around you both for a moment before he spoke again, voice soft. "You planning on staying tonight?"
You tilted your head slightly, arching a brow. "I always stay."
He smiled warmly, pressing a kiss lightly to your forehead. "Just checking."
You rolled your eyes faintly, voice low. "Barnes, you're needy."
"Only with you," he teased gently, fingers tracing softly along your spine. "Don’t tell anyone."
"Trust me," you muttered dryly, closing your eyes comfortably, "not an issue."
He chuckled quietly again, shifting slightly until you both lay comfortably tangled together, blankets pulled loosely around you. You sighed softly, feeling your body finally relax fully against his.
"Wake me up early and you're dead," you warned softly.
"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart," he murmured, lips pressing gently to the crown of your head. "Sleep well."
You hummed softly, already half asleep. "You too."
He tightened his hold slightly, breathing slowly evening out as the two of you drifted comfortably into sleep.
---
You stepped quietly into the training room, finding the team already deep into sparring practice. Alexei and John were loudly wrestling on one side, Ava was rhythmically hammering into a punching bag, and Yelena stood by Bob, calmly instructing him through basic defensive stances.
You slipped past them, silently observing from your usual place against the wall.
“Decided to show after all?” Ava asked dryly, pausing briefly to glance at you.
You gave a faint nod, not responding verbally. She shrugged slightly, returning to her bag.
Moments later, Bucky stepped in, quietly catching your eye across the room. He offered you a small, playful smirk. You raised an eyebrow in silent acknowledgment.
John immediately spotted him, stepping away from Alexei with a wide grin. "Hey Barnes, you gonna spar today or you too busy humming?"
Bucky sighed heavily, stepping onto the mats casually. "You really don't let anything go, do you?"
Alexei chuckled, slapping Bucky’s shoulder enthusiastically. "Of course not! Team bonding means constant harassment. Builds character."
"Thanks, Alexei," Bucky muttered sarcastically. He looked around the room, glancing pointedly at John. "Fine. Let's go."
You settled more comfortably against the wall, watching calmly as Bucky circled John easily. He moved fluidly, clearly holding back slightly, amused as John struggled to land any hits.
Across the room, Yelena stepped quietly to your side, voice low. "Barnes is unusually smug today."
You tilted your head slightly, eyes not leaving the match. "He looks the same to me."
Yelena smirked, eyes narrowing slightly. "He’s glancing over here. A lot."
You shrugged lightly. "Maybe he's worried you’ll interrogate him again."
She huffed quietly, eyes fixed suspiciously on your neutral expression. "Or maybe he's trying to impress someone."
You glanced at her calmly, voice flat. "You think Barnes needs to impress anyone?"
She paused, considering, then sighed irritably. "You’re annoyingly good at not answering."
"Thanks," you replied dryly, returning your attention to the mats as John landed heavily on his back, groaning.
Bucky offered him a hand up, smirking faintly. "You good?"
John rolled his eyes, wincing as he stood. "Peachy."
Alexei laughed loudly, clapping dramatically. "Barnes is champion again! Who wants next?"
Bucky glanced briefly your way, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge. You calmly ignored him, sipping water from a nearby bottle.
"Y/N!" Alexei suddenly called cheerfully. "Come, come! You fight Barnes, yes?"
You sighed softly, setting your bottle aside. "Fine."
Bucky smiled slightly, rolling his shoulders. "Try not to hurt me too bad, doll."
Yelena raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "You two seem friendly all of a sudden."
You stepped onto the mats smoothly, circling slowly. "Barely."
"Careful," he teased gently, lunging forward suddenly. You sidestepped effortlessly, eyes coolly amused as you avoided him again.
"You’re slow today," you murmured dryly, watching his careful movements.
He chuckled softly, voice low. "Maybe I’m distracted."
You scoffed quietly, easily dodging his grasp again. "Focus."
He feigned a pout, attempting to catch your wrist. "Maybe you’re my focus."
Across the room, John glanced skeptically at Yelena. "Are they flirting again?"
Yelena sighed deeply. "Probably. Barnes never learns."
You neatly twisted, ducking beneath Bucky’s arm, and landed a precise hit to his ribs. He laughed softly, barely flinching as he circled you again. "You’re enjoying this too much."
"Maybe," you replied evenly, stepping closer, eyes narrowed playfully. "But you clearly like it."
"Very," he admitted shamelessly, voice low enough only you could hear. "But maybe take it easy—I bruise easily."
"Liar," you muttered softly, moving swiftly again, barely missing him as he slipped neatly out of reach.
He grinned faintly, teasing openly now. "Maybe I just like when you play rough."
"Gross," John muttered dryly from the sidelines.
Alexei nodded gravely. "Agreed."
You finally caught Bucky’s wrist smoothly, twisting lightly until he laughed, yielding dramatically. "Fine, fine, you win."
You released him, stepping calmly back, expression neutral. "Again."
He smiled faintly, shaking his head affectionately. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."
Yelena rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. "You two are exhausting."
Bob tilted his head uncertainly. "Why?"
She shook her head slowly. "Trust me, Bob. Don't worry about it."
You ignored them all, eyes fixed calmly on Bucky as you circled again, the quiet amusement between you both carefully hidden beneath calm, unreadable expressions.
---
A week later, you were quietly pouring yourself coffee when Bob spoke up from the table, his voice uncertain.
"Hey, um... has anyone ever noticed Y/N's room is always spotless?"
John glanced up skeptically. "Why are you even looking at Y/N's room?"
Bob flushed slightly. "I'm not—I just noticed the door's always closed, and... the lights are never on."
Alexei immediately perked up, delighted. "Aha! Suspicious! Perhaps she is vampire. No sleep, no mess."
Yelena rolled her eyes, but her curiosity was clearly piqued. "Bob has a point, though. Have any of you ever actually seen her go into her room?"
The team fell silent, all of them exchanging curious glances. Ava finally shrugged. "Maybe she just likes things clean."
Bob shook his head. "No, like—really clean. Hotel-room clean."
Alexei slammed his hand on the table dramatically, making Bob jump. "Exactly! Vampire. Or spy. Or spy vampire."
Bucky, leaning casually against the counter, swallowed his coffee a little too quickly, coughing quietly.
"You alright, Barnes?" John asked suspiciously.
Bucky nodded, voice rough. "Fine."
Yelena stood suddenly, chair scraping softly against the floor. "I'm checking it out."
"You can't just invade someone's room, Lena," Ava said dryly.
"Watch me," Yelena said easily, already heading down the hall.
Bucky's eyes widened slightly. He glanced quickly toward you, but you merely sipped your coffee calmly, expression utterly neutral.
John watched Yelena go, snorting softly. "She's definitely gonna get herself killed."
Alexei chuckled deeply, clearly entertained. "If vampire Y/N doesn't get her first."
---
Five minutes later, Yelena returned looking oddly disappointed. She dropped back into her chair with a huff, crossing her arms irritably.
"Well?" Alexei demanded eagerly. "Did you find coffin?"
"No coffin," she muttered bitterly. "Just a very boring, very unused bed."
Bob blinked slowly. "Unused?"
"Perfectly made," Yelena confirmed, glaring pointedly at Bucky. "Not a wrinkle. It's like she never sleeps there."
Bucky shrugged lightly, avoiding her stare. "Maybe she just makes the bed."
"Or," John drawled thoughtfully, "she sleeps hanging upside down from the ceiling. Alexei's vampire theory holds up."
Bob furrowed his brow deeply. "Can people actually do that?"
"Bob," Ava sighed gently, "please don’t hurt yourself."
You calmly finished your coffee, setting your mug quietly in the sink. "This is a fascinating discussion."
Yelena turned her sharp gaze directly onto you. "Care to explain your oddly pristine bedroom?"
You raised a single brow calmly, leaning back against the counter. "Not really."
Alexei laughed heartily, slapping the table enthusiastically. "I told you! Vampire!"
Bucky coughed again, barely hiding his smile behind his coffee cup. "Right. Vampire."
Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously at you, arms folded. "You realize I’ll figure it out eventually."
"Good luck," you murmured dryly, moving toward the hallway. "Have fun with your theories."
As you disappeared down the hall, Alexei beamed cheerfully, gesturing toward Bucky. "Barnes! You watch your back tonight. Our scary friend might come for your neck!"
Bucky snorted quietly, setting his mug down. "Pretty sure I can handle her."
"Good luck," Ava muttered, eyes amused. "If anyone's a vampire, it's her."
Bucky smiled faintly, following you down the hall calmly, ignoring the curious, skeptical gazes burning into his back.
---
It was past midnight when a sharp knock jolted Bucky awake. He sat up abruptly, eyes immediately darting to you beside him. You were still fast asleep, breathing steady, face relaxed into the pillow.
Another sharp knock came, followed by Yelena’s irritated voice. "Y/N. You awake?"
Bucky muttered a curse under his breath, gently sliding from beneath the covers, careful not to wake you. He pulled on a shirt quickly, quietly stepping into the hallway and closing the bedroom door behind him before Yelena knocked again.
"What the hell, Lena?" he whispered harshly.
Yelena raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Barnes. What are you doing here?"
He gestured vaguely down the hall, trying to look casual. "I was—getting water. What's your excuse?"
She narrowed her eyes skeptically. "I needed Y/N."
"At midnight?" he hissed.
She shrugged unapologetically. "Couldn't sleep. Thought she might be up. Her lights are always off anyway."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing softly. "She’s not in there."
Yelena folded her arms, suspicion spiking immediately. "And how would you know?"
He paused, scrambling for a believable lie. "I saw her leave earlier. Said something about going for a run."
"A run," Yelena echoed flatly. "At midnight."
"Yeah," Bucky muttered, attempting to sound confident. "She does that sometimes."
Yelena stared at him, completely unconvinced. "Really."
"Really," Bucky said firmly, meeting her gaze evenly.
She eyed him carefully, suspicion heavy in her stare. "You’re acting weird, Barnes."
He forced a casual shrug. "You're knocking on people’s doors at midnight. Who's weird?"
Yelena narrowed her eyes further, voice dry. "I’m watching you."
"Great," he muttered sarcastically, stepping past her toward the kitchen. "Have fun with that."
She remained standing by your unused door, eyes tracking him as he moved down the hallway. Eventually, she shook her head, irritation clear, and turned back toward her own room. "Ridiculous," she mumbled softly. "Everyone in this place is losing their minds."
Once the hallway was finally quiet again, Bucky returned quickly to his room, slipping silently inside. He exhaled slowly, relieved, as he quietly shut the door behind him. He turned back toward the bed—and found you wide awake, watching him with a faint, amused expression.
"Enjoy your midnight chat?" you asked dryly.
He sighed heavily, climbing back into bed beside you. "Your friend is getting suspicious."
You rolled your eyes slightly, shifting closer to him again. "She’s your friend."
"Not tonight," he muttered, tugging you gently into his arms. "Tonight she’s a nuisance."
You hummed softly, settling comfortably against his chest. "You handled it?"
"For now," he admitted reluctantly. "Barely."
You smirked faintly, tilting your head up slightly to kiss his jaw. "Good."
Bucky tightened his hold around your waist, dropping a soft kiss onto your forehead. "Next time she knocks, you're answering."
"No," you murmured firmly, eyes already drifting closed again. "You're better at lying."
He chuckled softly, voice warm. "Fair enough."
You settled into silence again, listening to his heartbeat slowly ease back into a calm rhythm. After a moment, you murmured softly, "You're still awake."
He sighed, voice dry with mild irritation. "Yeah. Someone knocking at midnight does that."
You smiled faintly, turning your head gently into his shoulder. "You'll live."
"Maybe," he teased quietly, fingers trailing softly along your spine. "If your friend doesn't kill me first."
"Sleep, Barnes," you murmured flatly.
He chuckled softly, finally relaxing fully into the mattress, eyes slowly closing. "Yes, ma'am."
---
Two days later, you were leaning against the kitchen counter, quietly observing as Ava scrolled through her phone, Yelena perched eagerly next to her.
“No,” Ava muttered. “Not her. Too cheerful.”
John peered over her shoulder skeptically. “Cheerful’s good. Maybe it’ll rub off on him.”
“What are you idiots doing?” Bucky asked warily, pouring himself coffee and shooting a confused glance in their direction.
Ava looked up casually, voice deadpan. “Finding you a date.”
Bucky nearly choked on his coffee. “A what?”
Alexei nodded enthusiastically, grinning. “Yes! Barnes, you mope too much. Need romantic distraction.”
Bucky raised a skeptical brow. “I’m fine.”
“You’re absolutely not fine,” Yelena countered, voice dry. “You need help.”
You remained perfectly silent, casually sipping your own coffee, your expression blank as Bucky shot you a subtle, desperate glance.
“Ah!” Ava suddenly exclaimed triumphantly. “Got it. My friend’s a barista. Cute, funny, tolerates annoying customers. She’s perfect.”
“Perfect!” Alexei echoed loudly, slapping the table with excitement.
Bucky looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Really not necessary.”
Ava ignored him, already texting rapidly. “Too late. It’s done.”
“Fantastic,” Bucky muttered flatly, stealing another quick, pleading glance toward you. You met his gaze evenly, taking another calm sip of coffee. “You could at least pretend to help,” he murmured irritably, just loud enough for you to hear.
You raised a single eyebrow, voice flat. “Looks like you’ve got it covered.”
Ava looked up again, smiling smugly. “Tomorrow night, seven sharp.”
Bucky sighed heavily, clearly defeated. “Great.”
---
Later that evening, Bucky leaned against the bedroom doorway, watching you quietly as you calmly flipped through a book. His arms were crossed over his chest, an amused, questioning expression on his face.
“You jealous, sweetheart?” he finally teased softly.
You didn’t look up from your page, voice utterly flat. “Of watching you struggle to make small talk? No.”
He laughed softly, pushing away from the doorway to step toward you, gently tugging the book from your hands. “So you don’t care if I go?”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, voice deceptively casual. “You’re allowed to have friends.”
He smirked faintly, leaning closer until his lips brushed your jaw. “It’s a date, doll. Not a friend.”
You turned slightly, raising a challenging eyebrow. “You’re awfully smug for someone sleeping alone tonight.”
He chuckled softly, gently gripping your chin, tilting your face to his. “You’re awfully possessive for someone who ‘doesn’t care.’”
You sighed deeply, voice low and even. “Barnes.”
“Yes, sweetheart?” he murmured teasingly, lips brushing yours softly.
“Go on your stupid date,” you muttered flatly, pulling back slightly. “Smile at her once and I’ll murder you.”
He laughed warmly, clearly delighted. “Understood.”
You took your book back from his hand calmly, settling against the pillows again. “Glad we’re clear.”
Bucky shook his head fondly, climbing onto the bed beside you, settling comfortably close. “You know, if you don’t want me to go, you could just say so.”
You turned the page calmly, eyes on the text again. “Go.”
“Right,” he teased softly, lips brushing your shoulder. “But no smiling.”
“No smiling,” you confirmed flatly, finally glancing toward him, a faint, hidden smile tugging at your lips. “At least not nicely.”
He chuckled again, relaxing fully beside you. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re needy,” you murmured calmly, gently resting your head against his shoulder.
“Only with you,” he reminded you softly, pressing a tender kiss against your temple.
“Good,” you muttered dryly. “Keep it that way.”
---
You walked into the bedroom as Bucky left the bathroom, freshly showered getting ready for his date. “I changed my mind,” you said firmly, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed.
Bucky turned to face you, a slow, cocky smirk spreading across his lips. “Oh?”
“Don’t get smug, Barnes.”
He held his hands up innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it,” you shot back, eyes narrowed slightly.
He stepped closer, clearly enjoying this. “So you don’t want me to go now?”
“No,” you admitted bluntly, jaw tight.
“Is this you being jealous again?” he teased lightly, stepping even closer until there was barely any space between you.
“No,” you repeated flatly. “This is me deciding I don’t feel like hiding your body.”
He laughed quietly, eyes bright. “Sweetheart, it’s just dinner.”
“With another woman.”
“A dinner you approved,” he reminded you playfully.
“I changed my mind,” you said again, voice colder this time. “Cancel it.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll stab you,” you said, deadpan. “And that’ll solve the problem anyway.”
He laughed softly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your temple. “God, you’re hot when you’re threatening my life.”
You rolled your eyes, pushing gently against his chest. “Shut up, Barnes. Cancel the date.”
He chuckled again, pulling his phone from his pocket without hesitation, typing quickly. “Fine, fine. It’s canceled.”
“Good.”
“Happy now?” he teased softly.
“Ecstatic,” you muttered sarcastically, turning away and heading toward the bathroom. You paused at the doorway, glancing back briefly. “And wipe that smug look off your face, Barnes.”
Ten minutes later, Bucky wandered casually into the common room, dropping onto the couch beside John. Yelena glanced up from her phone immediately, brows raised. “Shouldn’t you be gone already?” she asked suspiciously.
Bucky shrugged casually, grabbing the remote. “Canceled.”
John snorted. “Got stood up already?”
“Something like that,” Bucky replied mildly.
Alexei shook his head dramatically. “Barnes, terrible luck with romance. Maybe you should become monk.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” Bucky muttered dryly. “I’ll think about it.”
Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. “She canceled or you?”
“It was mutual,” Bucky lied smoothly, flipping through the channels casually.
Across the room, Bob glanced uncertainly toward your closed bedroom door. “Where’s Y/N?”
Bucky didn’t look up. “No idea.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Bucky, clearly unconvinced. “Very convenient timing.”
He met her gaze evenly, unbothered. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Alexei laughed heartily. “Yes, very lucky! Lucky you get rejected!”
“Right,” Bucky sighed flatly. “Thanks.”
John elbowed him lightly. “Want me to text Ava’s friend for you? Try again?”
Bucky rolled his eyes, ignoring their pointed stares. “Whatever you say.”
Across the room, Bob glanced around again uncertainly. “But really, has anyone seen Y/N?”
“She’s probably plotting someone’s murder,” John replied calmly.
Alexei chuckled heartily, nodding. “Likely.”
Bucky fought a faint smile, eyes staying carefully fixed on the screen. “Sounds about right.”
---
The common area was unusually quiet as the team lounged about lazily. Alexei was mindlessly flipping channels, Ava texting on her phone, and Yelena and John bickering quietly over breakfast.
Bob glanced up first, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "Hey, uh... is Bucky wearing green?"
Yelena's head whipped around immediately, eyes widening dramatically as Bucky entered the kitchen, completely unbothered, in a dark green Henley and grey sweats.
"Whoa," John muttered, mid-bite, clearly shocked. "Did someone die?"
Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Barnes, did you hit your head?"
"Your clothes," Alexei said gravely, as though discussing a great tragedy. "They have color."
Bucky looked down casually, shrugging. "It's just green."
"Exactly," Yelena agreed, nodding sharply. "That's the point. You don't wear green."
"I can wear green," Bucky replied dryly. "There's no rule against green."
John shook his head, feigning seriousness. "Yeah, but you're usually like... Batman."
"Batman?" Bucky echoed flatly, brows rising.
"All black, all brooding," John clarified. "It's your vibe."
Alexei clapped loudly, enthusiastically agreeing. "Yes! Like angry shadow! Very broody!"
Bucky rolled his eyes, clearly amused, but said nothing.
"Maybe he's finally cracking," Ava teased lightly, still focused on her phone.
"Maybe," Yelena muttered suspiciously, eyes narrowed as she watched him carefully. "Or someone's influencing him."
"Conspiracy theory, Lena?" Bucky asked mildly, sipping his coffee.
"Yes," she said immediately, completely serious. "I suspect foul play."
Bob tilted his head thoughtfully. "But he looks good."
Bucky pointed at him appreciatively. "Thank you, Bob."
Bob smiled shyly, clearly pleased with himself. "You're welcome."
The conversation continued, dissolving into pointless bickering. You chose that exact moment to enter quietly, moving casually toward the coffee machine. As you passed behind Bucky, you swiftly and casually slapped his ass, hiding your smirk as he jolted slightly.
His eyes immediately shot to yours, wide and startled.
"Nice color, Barnes," you murmured evenly, calmly grabbing a coffee mug. You moved away without another glance, expression utterly neutral, even as his cheeks reddened faintly. Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly, quickly turning back to his coffee.
"Barnes?" Yelena asked sharply, catching the awkward shift. "You good?"
"Fine," he muttered quickly, eyes fixed pointedly on his mug.
John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Something's up."
"Nothing's up," Bucky replied a little too quickly, clearing his throat again.
Ava sighed deeply. "Oh, please don't start another conspiracy theory."
You smirked faintly behind your mug, eyes briefly meeting Bucky's again from across the room. He shot you a small, playful glare, barely suppressing his smile.
Bucky huffed quietly, sipping his coffee and trying to look unbothered. "It's literally just a shirt, Lena."
You moved quietly toward the exit, tossing a casual comment over your shoulder. "I think it's his color." The entire room fell silent as you disappeared down the hall, all eyes immediately flicking back to Bucky.
John raised an eyebrow slowly. "Did she just give you a compliment?"
Bucky shrugged lightly, fighting a smirk as he avoided everyone's suspicious gaze. "Guess so."
"She definitely did," Ava confirmed flatly, clearly amused.
Alexei chuckled knowingly, slapping the table enthusiastically. "Ah-ha! Progress!"
Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously, leaning back in her chair thoughtfully. "I still don't trust it."
"You trust nothing," John pointed out dryly.
"True," she conceded evenly. "But especially not Barnes and Y/N."
Bucky shook his head, sighing dramatically as he headed for the elevator. "You're all ridiculous."
Bob looked around uncertainly. "But he does look good in green."
"Yes, Bob," Yelena sighed heavily. "That's the problem."
---
You walked quietly into the training room, finding the team spread out, already deep into their routines. John was spotting Bob at the bench press, Ava stretched by the punching bags, and Alexei lounged against the wall, offering unhelpful commentary. You silently moved toward the mats, your necklace catching briefly in the overhead lights.
Yelena immediately paused mid-stretch, staring openly. "You're wearing a necklace."
"So?" you replied evenly, stretching casually.
"So," Yelena echoed slowly, suspiciously. "You don't usually wear accessories."
You raised an eyebrow calmly. "You're paying attention to my jewelry habits now?"
"Someone has to," she muttered flatly. "Something's definitely up."
Across the room, Bucky entered casually, eyes briefly locking onto the necklace, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He hid it quickly, grabbing a water bottle instead.
"You don't care?" Yelena asked skeptically, eyeing him suspiciously. "You’re usually pretty invested.”
"That’s you," he reminded her dryly, calmly taking a sip of water. "I'm fine with it."
"Hmm," she murmured, clearly unconvinced.
You ignored them all, beginning your warm-up calmly, your necklace gleaming softly beneath the lights.
Bob watched curiously, his voice quiet. "Maybe it's important to her."
Alexei chuckled loudly. "Important like secret admirer!"
You exhaled slowly, voice flat. "Maybe it is."
The room fell immediately quiet. Yelena's eyes narrowed sharply, suspicion spiking. "Did you just admit you have a secret admirer?"
You didn't reply, calmly continuing your stretches. Bucky turned his back quickly, clearly trying to hide his faint smirk behind his water bottle.
John shook his head slowly. "There's no way."
Alexei clapped loudly. "There is way! Romance in the tower, very exciting!"
Ava sighed deeply, clearly bored. "Not everything's a conspiracy."
"This definitely is," Yelena muttered darkly, still glaring pointedly at you.
"Leave her alone," Bucky said lightly, stepping calmly onto the mats. "If she wants to keep secrets, let her."
Yelena raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You're suspiciously supportive."
"I'm supportive of privacy," Bucky replied evenly. "Especially when it means fewer interrogations from you."
You stepped forward, tilting your head slightly, eyes coolly amused. "Barnes. Are we talking or training?"
He smirked faintly, eyes glinting with amusement as he dropped into a defensive stance. "Training."
"Good," you murmured flatly, moving fluidly toward him. "Less talking."
"She really scares me," John muttered from the side, watching warily.
Alexei laughed heartily, delighted. "Yes, very terrifying! Especially with jewelry."
You ignored them, focused solely on Bucky as you sparred, both of you carefully hiding your faint smiles each time you moved closer, your necklace gleaming softly between you.
“I swear to God, Barnes. If you grope me, I’ll kill you.”
Bucky chuckled quietly, moving around you smoothly on the mats. “You’re wearing my favorite. Can’t blame a guy for being distracted.”
“You can,” you countered flatly, dodging easily as he reached for your wrist again. “Focus.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your necklace, lips quirking slightly. “And my necklace? You’re spoiling me.”
You sighed softly, carefully shifting your weight to block his next move. “You’re hopeless.”
“Only for you, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice teasingly warm. His eyes glinted playfully. “How’d you sleep last night?”
“Barnes,” you muttered quietly, tone sharp. “We’re training.”
He smirked faintly, leaning in closer as he passed you again. “You weren’t complaining when you were hogging the sheets.”
Your eyes narrowed, voice dropping lower. “I’ll smother you with those sheets.”
“Promises, promises,” he teased lightly, moving smoothly behind you again. “Maybe later.”
Across the room, Yelena watched suspiciously, eyes narrowed. “Are they arguing again?”
“Probably,” Ava muttered absently, eyes still on her phone.
John shook his head slowly. “It looks kinda… intense.”
Alexei shrugged cheerfully. “They always intense. Like dramatic spy movie.”
Back on the mats, Bucky’s gaze flicked appreciatively again to your bralette, a faint, smug smile appearing. “Seriously, doll, it’s distracting.”
“Good,” you said flatly, quickly twisting your wrist from his grasp. “Means you’ll lose faster.”
He laughed softly, circling you again, eyes playful. “Harsh.”
“True.”
He lunged suddenly, grabbing your waist firmly, pulling you flush against him. You froze briefly, eyes narrowing dangerously.
“Barnes,” you growled softly, warning clear. “What did I say?”
He smiled innocently, leaning closer. “I forgot.”
“I’ll remind you later,” you muttered darkly, elbowing him swiftly in the ribs and stepping neatly away.
He winced, laughing quietly, voice low. “Worth it.”
“Gross,” John muttered, shaking his head. “They’re definitely flirting.”
Ava rolled her eyes slightly. “And yet she hasn’t killed him.”
Yelena sighed deeply, irritated. “Yet.”
Bob looked uncertainly toward the mats. “But they fight all the time.”
Alexei chuckled heartily. “Exactly! This called sexual tension, Bob. Very intense.”
You finally stepped back, exhaling slowly, eyes calmly meeting Bucky’s amused gaze. “You’re lucky we have an audience.”
He smiled warmly, eyes softening just for a moment. “I know.”
“Good,” you murmured evenly, stepping smoothly off the mats. “Keep that in mind tonight when you’re begging for mercy.”
Bucky grinned widely, completely unfazed, following casually behind you. “Looking forward to it, sweetheart.”
Yelena glared suspiciously as the two of you passed. “You two have fun?”
You shot her a bland look. “Define fun.”
“Did Barnes survive?”
“For now,” you said flatly, not breaking stride.
Bucky chuckled quietly, nudging you gently. “She’s secretly soft on me.”
“Delusional,” you corrected dryly.
“Right,” Yelena muttered skeptically as you both disappeared down the hall. “Definitely flirting.”
---
“Is that a skirt?” Yelena asked, as you walked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.
You raised the skirt to reveal the shorts connected underneath. "It's a skort."
Yelena raised her eyebrows, nodding thoughtfully. "Cute."
"Didn't ask," you replied flatly, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
Behind you, John snorted quietly. "Friendly as always."
"Careful," Ava murmured absently. "She might actually kill you this time."
You ignored them, leaning against the counter casually as Bucky stepped quietly into the kitchen, eyes quickly flicking to your skort. He paused briefly, lips curving into a small, smug smile. "Nice outfit," he teased lightly.
You tilted your head calmly, voice utterly neutral. "It was a gift."
Yelena's head whipped toward you suspiciously. "From who?"
You took a sip of water, expression unreadable. "A friend."
"Friend?" John echoed skeptically. "You don't have friends."
"True," Alexei agreed cheerfully. "Scary friend has no friends, only victims."
Bucky chuckled softly, stepping past you and casually leaning in to grab a coffee mug. "Maybe she made an exception."
You glanced sideways at him, voice low. "Don't push it, Barnes."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured softly, barely audible.
Bob furrowed his brow slightly. "Why does Bucky always tease Y/N?"
"Because he has a death wish," Ava replied absently.
"Or," Yelena mused suspiciously, eyes narrowed at you both, "he likes living dangerously."
"Definitely dangerous," Alexei nodded seriously. "Y/N will kill Barnes soon."
"Looking forward to it," you muttered dryly, pushing off from the counter and heading toward the hall. You barely managed two steps before you felt Bucky subtly slide his hand under the skirt, squeezing your ass firmly, hidden perfectly from the team's view.
You shot him a sharp, dangerous glare over your shoulder, voice cold and low. "Barnes."
He grinned smugly, completely unbothered. "Careful, sweetheart."
You huffed irritably, storming away without another word, hearing the team snicker quietly behind you.
"What was that?" Yelena immediately demanded suspiciously.
Bucky shrugged casually, pouring coffee calmly. "No idea."
"She looked pissed," John noted dryly.
"When doesn't she?" Ava muttered flatly.
Alexei laughed cheerfully, shaking his head. "Barnes, one day she'll kill you. Very messy."
Bucky smiled faintly, eyes glinting. "Probably."
Bob tilted his head thoughtfully. "Maybe you should apologize?"
"I'm good," Bucky said lightly, sipping his coffee, smirk still firmly in place.
Yelena sighed dramatically, clearly irritated. "You two are exhausting."
---
Bucky stepped quietly into the bedroom a short while later, closing the door behind him softly. You immediately shot him a sharp look from your spot on the bed, book in hand.
"You're lucky I didn't stab you," you muttered flatly.
He chuckled softly, moving toward you calmly, eyes warm and amused. "Worth the risk."
"Barnes," you warned quietly, gaze narrowed.
He grinned playfully, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "You slapped my ass in front of everyone. Payback was fair."
You scoffed softly, reluctantly relaxing slightly as he settled comfortably beside you. "Barely."
He nudged your shoulder gently, voice teasingly soft. "Admit it. You liked it."
"Keep dreaming," you murmured dryly, turning the page calmly.
Bucky chuckled again, gently pulling your book down to catch your eyes. "Love you too, sweetheart."
"Gross," you muttered quietly, but your voice softened, and your lips twitched faintly.
He smiled warmly, leaning closer to brush his lips against your jawline. "Thanks for wearing the skort."
"You bought it," you reminded him evenly, though your voice lacked its usual edge.
"And it looks perfect," he murmured softly, lips tracing gently along your neck. "Especially on you."
"Bucky," you sighed, eyes falling shut briefly. "Stop."
"You sure?" he teased softly, breath warm against your skin.
You exhaled slowly, head tilting slightly to grant him better access. "No."
He smiled against your skin, fingers sliding gently beneath the hem of the skort again, voice teasing and affectionate. "Didn't think so."
---
The comms crackled softly in your ear as you moved silently through the tree line, keeping low, eyes trained on the compound just up ahead. You and Ava were positioned to sweep the south perimeter while the others flanked the north and secured the intel inside.
"East clear," Yelena’s voice came through. "No movement."
"North entrance is covered," John added. "Alexei’s being loud as usual."
"Strategic loud," Alexei corrected proudly.
“South perimeter’s clear,” Ava said, glancing briefly toward you. “Y/N, you good?”
You gave a silent nod, pressing your back against the stone wall as you signaled for her to hold position. Then the line crackled again—Bucky’s voice came through, strained but still steady. “Contact in the west corridor. I’m good—just grazed.”
There was a pause. Then: “repeat, Barnes is hit,” John confirmed. “Not bad. Just a graze on his side.”
You were already moving. You didn’t say anything—not to Ava, not to the comms. You just moved.
Through the trees, across the clearing, slipping like a shadow through the half-ruined side entrance. You moved fast, but quiet, eyes scanning rapidly for any sign of him.
Behind you, Ava’s voice came faintly through the earpiece. “...Y/N? Where the hell— Y/N, you were supposed to hold south!”
"She’s gone," Yelena muttered over comms. "Of course she’s gone."
Alexei chuckled into the line. "Perhaps vampire instincts. She senses blood."
You ignored them all.
The compound’s west wing was dim and empty, light filtering in through broken windows and high beams. You rounded a corner and spotted him almost immediately—leaning heavily against the wall, one hand pressed to his side, blood staining the fabric of his black combat shirt.
His head snapped up when he saw you. “What are you—?” You crossed the space in seconds, grabbing his wrist and yanking it away to inspect the wound. “It’s fine,” he started.
You pulled a cloth from your pocket, pressing it against the wound firmly, your movements efficient and practiced. “You didn’t call it in yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow, breath shallow. “Because it’s not a big deal.”
"Wrong," you said flatly, pulling out a small field med kit.
He chuckled quietly, grimacing slightly as you cleaned the wound. “You ditched your post for me, sweetheart?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
His eyes softened slightly, voice dropping. “You worried?” You didn’t answer, just wrapped the bandage tight and clean, your jaw tense. He tilted his head slightly, voice lower now, just for you. “You know you’re supposed to act normal in front of the others, not go rogue.”
“You got hit,” you muttered, standing and pulling him up carefully. “Don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
He smirked, even as he winced. “That’s my girl.”
"Shut up, Barnes," you muttered, hooking an arm under his. "You’re limping."
He leaned into you slightly, lips brushing your ear. “You know I like it when you go feral for me.”
“Keep talking and I’ll reopen the wound.”
He grinned, despite the pain. “Totally worth it.”
“Let’s go,” you muttered, guiding him back toward the rendezvous point. “Before someone sees.”
Bucky smirked. “Married life suits you.”
“Don’t push it, Barnes.”
He smiled wider. “Love you too.”
---
Back at the Watchtower, the common area was thick with tension. John paced irritably, gesturing wildly as the rest of the team lounged around the room, silently watching the spectacle unfold. "You can't just leave your position, Y/N," John snapped, frustration clear. "You compromised the whole operation!"
You stood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, your gaze coldly indifferent.
Ava sighed softly. "Walker, it wasn't that serious—"
"It was reckless," John interrupted sharply. "She ran off like some amateur because Barnes got a scratch!"
Alexei chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe scratch was deeper than we think."
Yelena's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Still weird for her to lose control like that."
You stayed quiet, expression unchanging.
"Seriously, Y/N," John pressed irritably. "I know you're protective of Barnes for some weird reason, but you can't put the rest of us in danger."
Bucky shifted slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but you shot him a brief, silent look—he shut it again immediately.
Bob blinked, genuinely confused. "Wait, what happened?"
"Y/N ran off," Ava clarified dryly. "Apparently, Barnes got grazed, and she just abandoned everything."
Bob's brow furrowed deeper. "Is that... bad?"
"Yes, Bob," John said flatly. "It's very bad."
Alexei grinned, nudging Bob cheerfully. "Perhaps vampire protective of favorite victim."
Bob's eyes widened uncertainly. "Barnes is a victim?"
Yelena sighed deeply. "Focus, Bob."
"Look," John snapped, turning back toward you again, clearly determined. "All I'm saying is—"
You finally moved—quickly, fluidly—crossing the space between you and Bucky before anyone could even register what was happening. You grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s shirt, yanking him roughly forward. His eyes widened briefly in surprise—then quickly darkened in amusement as your lips crashed firmly onto his.
The room fell utterly silent.
Bucky didn't hesitate, melting immediately into the kiss, his metal hand gently gripping your waist. He smiled faintly against your lips, clearly pleased.
When you finally pulled back, you released him casually, stepping back to your previous spot against the wall. Your expression was cool and completely neutral as your eyes calmly flicked over the stunned faces of the entire team.
"Shit," Alexei finally breathed, breaking the silence. "Did not see that coming."
John just stared, speechless.
Yelena blinked, then slowly nodded. "Okay. That explains... a lot."
Bob smiled faintly, clearly pleased. "That's nice."
Ava raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely impressed. "Well, that’s one way to shut everyone up."
You said nothing, arms crossing again as you leaned back against the wall, expression perfectly indifferent.
Bucky cleared his throat softly, lips curving into a smug grin as he glanced around the room. "Any other questions?"
John opened his mouth—then closed it again, shaking his head. "Nope."
Yelena sighed dramatically. "Finally. About damn time."
Bob glanced around uncertainly. "So... they're dating?"
You sighed quietly, eyes narrowing slightly. "We're married, actually."
Another stunned silence filled the room. Bucky smiled brightly, clearly amused by everyone's shocked expressions. "Surprise."
John rubbed his face tiredly. "You've got to be kidding me."
Alexei beamed proudly. "Knew it. Romance always wins."
Yelena glared pointedly at Bucky. "Barnes. You realize you could've told us earlier, right?"
Bucky shrugged casually, eyes sparkling. "Where's the fun in that?"
You rolled your eyes faintly, settling comfortably next to him, arms still crossed.
Bob smiled again, more warmly this time. "Congratulations."
"Thank you, Bob," Bucky replied cheerfully, sliding an arm comfortably around your waist. "At least someone here is supportive."
Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. "How long exactly?"
You sighed quietly, voice flat. "Long enough."
John shook his head again, clearly irritated. "You're both impossible."
Bucky laughed softly, pulling you a bit closer. "And you’re welcome."
Alexei clapped enthusiastically. "Tonight, we celebrate! For secret marriage and vampire love story!"
"Please don't," you muttered dryly.
Bucky chuckled warmly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "Too late, doll." You shot him a warning glance, but your lips twitched faintly into a hidden smile.
The team was quiet again, watching you both thoughtfully. Finally, Yelena spoke again, voice resigned. "Well," she sighed dramatically, glancing at John. "Guess we were wrong."
"Painfully wrong," John muttered irritably.
You raised an eyebrow pointedly. "Satisfied now?"
John sighed heavily, eyes rolling upward. "Fine. You win."
You relaxed slightly against Bucky’s side, voice calm. "Good."
Bucky leaned in slightly, lips brushing your ear gently. "That was hot."
You glared sideways at him, voice low. "Behave."
"Yes, ma'am," he murmured softly, grinning widely.
Across the room, Alexei chuckled again, clearly delighted. "I told you all. Always romance. Very predictable."
Ava shook her head slowly, smiling faintly. "Congratulations, I guess."
Yelena narrowed her eyes at you again, voice dry. "You realize we’ll still tease you mercilessly, right?"
John crossed his arms, staring pointedly at you as he sat down on the chair. “You’re both very annoying.”
You shrugged slightly, unbothered. “And?”
He rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. “Just don’t do anything disgusting in the common areas.”
You stared at him, eyes blinking slowly before you pushed yourself off the wall. “Might not want to sit on that chair then.”
John’s eyes widened dramatically as he immediately stood up, practically leaping from the chair. "Oh, come on!"
Yelena snorted, looking both amused and disgusted. "Please tell me that’s a joke."
You shrugged calmly, expression entirely unreadable. "Believe whatever you want."
Bucky’s lips twitched slightly into a smirk. "She warned you."
Alexei chuckled loudly, clearly delighted. "I told you all—secret romance always most exciting."
Bob glanced uncertainly toward John, clearly confused. "Is the chair dangerous now?"
John shuddered slightly. "You really don’t wanna know, Bob."
Ava shook her head slowly, muttering quietly. "I regret everything."
You turned toward the hall, clearly done with the conversation. "I’m going to my room."
Yelena’s voice called after you suspiciously. "Which room is yours exactly, Y/N?"
You paused briefly, glancing over your shoulder calmly. "The one I sleep in."
John crossed his arms irritably. "So, Barnes’ room."
Bucky smiled brightly, clearly amused. "My door is always open."
"Gross," Yelena muttered flatly.
Alexei laughed loudly, utterly entertained. "Barnes, I like your style."
Bucky gave an exaggerated bow, playful smirk firmly in place. "Appreciate it, Alexei."
You sighed quietly, clearly irritated. "Barnes. Let’s go."
He followed immediately, falling easily into step beside you. As you both disappeared down the hallway, Yelena’s voice carried after you. "You’re welcome for finally outing you, by the way!"
Bucky chuckled quietly, glancing toward you affectionately. "That went well."
"Shut up," you muttered dryly.
"You’re cute when you’re annoyed."
You stopped briefly, leveling him with a cool stare. "You realize I could still stab you?"
Bucky smiled fondly, completely unbothered. "You wouldn’t. You like me too much."
You sighed softly, reluctantly relaxing. "Unfortunately."
He grinned widely, gently nudging you forward again. "Come on, doll. Your room awaits."
"Our room," you corrected flatly.
"Right," he said warmly, clearly pleased. "Our room."
Behind you, the distant sound of Alexei loudly celebrating echoed down the hall.
just a little thing to say: i wrote bob with the intention of him actually knowing they were married, and all the questions he was asking was him trying to get the team to also question bucky and reader's relationship.
Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
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summary: Chandler decides he likes marking you. You let him.
warnings: MDNI, marking, possesive behaviour, p in v, oral f. receiving, praise, overstimulation, kinda dominate!chandler
masterlist
----
July 29th, 1994
You don’t even remember whose idea it was--probably Phoebes--but by 9:30, the four of you are crammed into a booth at a sweaty club with sticky floors, glowing cocktails, and a DJ who refuses to play anything recorded after 1991.
You’re already halfway through your second drink, something aggressively pink and aggressively strong, and you feel it: that buzz that makes the room sparkle, your limbs lighter, your smile permanent.
Phoebe’s on your right, animatedly explaining how she thinks she might’ve accidentally astral projected during an orgasm last week.
Rachel leans across the table, eyes wide. “Wait. Were you alone or with someone?”
“Alone,” Phoebe says, nodding solemnly. “Which makes it even more impressive.”
You laugh so hard you nearly snort your drink. “We are not calling it a solo-cial departure.”
“Why not?” Phoebe grins. “It’s poetic.”
Monica returns from the bar with four vodka sodas and a little cup of lime wedges. “Okay,” she announces. “We are hydrating and dancing. In that order.”
“Where’d you get those?” Rachel asks, eyeing the limes.
“The bartender likes me,” Monica shrugs. “He said I look like Demi Moore.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Demi Moore if she developed a type-A fixation with cross-contamination and meal prep.”
Monica rolls her eyes and hands you one of the glasses. “Oh shut up. You’re lucky I even let you borrow my shirt tonight.”
You smile innocently and glance down at your (her) shirt. A black silk blouse, cut low and just loose enough to look effortless, tucked into your shiniest mini skirt and paired with sheer tights. Add the bold lipstick, the shimmer on your collarbones, and the heels Rachel insisted on, and yeah--you look good. Good enough that the bouncer didn’t even ask for ID. The bartender either.
Which was a bit of a letdown, honestly. You’d even brought your fake again--Catherine Wexler, age 23, the very same you used on Chandlers birthday.
“Still can’t believe I didn’t get carded,” you murmur into your drink.
“Oh please,” Rachel says, bumping her knee into yours under the table. “In that outfit? They probably assumed you own the place.”
You smirk, cheeks warm. Chandler would’ve said something like that. Or at least muttered something filthy under his breath. He definitely would’ve stared. And then stared again. And then made a joke that wasn’t really a joke.
You smile into your glass.
Rachel clocks it immediately. “Oh my god. Is that a Chandler face?”
“No,” you lie.
Phoebe grins. “You totally just imagined him seeing you in that outfit.”
Monica leans in, eyes scanning you like she’s assessing a centerpiece. “Well, to be fair, that top does frame them perfectly--it’s a very balanced presentation.”
You hold up your hands. “Can we not psychoanalyze my tits in a public venue?”
“Oh, we like your tits,” Rachel says brightly, finishing her drink. “You should see the way he looks at them. Like they’re a limited edition vinyl box set.”
You raise an eyebrow, smug as hell. “Oh, I know the way he looks at them. I’ve seen it. Up close. From several angles.”
Rachel chokes on her drink. Monica groans. Phoebe claps.
“Oh my god,” Monica mutters, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Why did I let you borrow my shirt?”
“Because you’re a generous soul,” you say sweetly. “And because deep down, you wanted me to look like a slutty little homewrecker tonight.”
Rachel raises her glass in salute. “Mission accomplished.”
Phoebe leans in, grinning. “Seriously though, he's like, obsessed. Yesterday when I visited you guys during lunch he looked like he was about to snap a pencil in half.”
You sip your drink innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Chandler’s a perfect gentleman. Very professional. Extremely respectful of my role as his subordinate.”
“Ew, don't say that?” Monica nearly spits her drink.
“Oh no,” Rachel says, eyes wide. “You did not just say that word while looking that smug.”
Phoebes laughing too hard to be useful now, nearly tipping over in her chair. You bask in it, flushed and glowing and absolutely not sorry.
The music shifts, louder now, and you down the last of your drink, buzzing warm and golden from the inside out.
“Okay,” you declare, setting your glass on the high-top table with dramatic flair. “Enough sitting around. Let’s dance.”
Rachel raises a brow. “Since when do you drag people onto dance floors?”
“Since this outfit deserves to be seen in motion,” you shoot back, already grabbing Monica's hand. “Come on. It’s girls’ night. That means no wallflowers.”
Phoebe beams. “I love when she gets bossy.”
The four of you push through the crowd, weaving past clumps of strangers until the floor opens up just enough to move. Lights swirl above. Synths kick in. Some club remix of Madonna’s Into the Groove.
You lift your arms and let it wash over you, the pulse of the bass syncing with your heartbeat, the shimmer on your collarbones catching flashes of colored light. You don’t need a partner. Not when you’ve got Rachel doing ridiculous high-model twirls beside you and Phoebe shimmying like she’s communing with spirits and Monica laughing harder than she has in weeks.
You dance like you’re not thinking about anything. Not work. Not boys. Not complicated friends-with-benefits setups. Just the beat, and your best friends, and the kind of night that makes you forget tomorrow exists.
Rachel sings along dramatically, eyes closed and hair wild. Phoebe spins into you like a cyclone. Monica does that confident, slightly awkward move she thinks is sexy but mostly looks like aerobics. You love it. You love them.
By the time the next song starts you’re all sweaty and glowing and slightly breathless. You don’t care. You’re alive. You’re young. And for once, you’re not overthinking a thing.
The four of you spill into the apartment sometime after 1 a.m., laughing too loudly for the hour, all limbs and glitter and tipsy chaos. Monica shushes everyone like she isn’t the loudest, and Rachel drops her heels by the door with a groan of pure relief.
“That was so fun,” Phoebe sighs, spinning in a slow circle like she’s still on the dance floor. “I feel spiritually exfoliated.”
You smile, still warm from the drinks and the dancing. “You’re so weird.”
“Yes I am,” she replies, twirling and flopping onto the couch.
You exchange a sleepy grin with Monica before slipping into your room, unpinning your hair as you go. The apartment’s quieter now--doors clicking shut, the sound of water running, the soft murmur of Phoebe asking if there’s leftover pad thai.
The door clicks shut behind you and your heels come off with a sigh. Monica’s black shirt rides high on your waist, the slinky fabric still clinging to your skin. You’re sticky with sweat, slightly windblown, and feeling really good for someone who danced for three straight hours.
You walk over to your stereo, flick your hand over the jewel cases on the shelf, then slot in The Queen Is Dead. The Smiths, because you’re dramatic and romantic and still humming with energy. You press play.
The opening lines play out when your bedroom door opens again.
"Hey,"
You jump a little, startled.
Chandler is leaning against your doorframe, casual as ever, one hand braced above his head like he’s been there for a while. He's in his post-10pm uniform: an old t-shirt and sweatpants. His eyes sweep over you in one slow, deliberate drag.
“How-- how did you know we were back?”
“I heard the door. And Rachel complaining about her feet.” He steps further into the room, eyes still on you. “I figured I’d give it a minute before I came over. Didn’t want to interrupt a sacred post-club debrief.”
You laugh, brushing your hair off your neck. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“Yeah, I thought I would too,” he says, voice low, edging closer. “And then I figured I'd want to see your little outfit tonight.”
His gaze drags down your frame again--your makeup smudged just so, borrowed shirt clinging, too short skirt riding up.
He exhales, almost a groan. “Jesus, you look--fuck.”
Your breath hitches, and just like that, the temperature in the room spikes.
You stare at him, still halfway between the stereo and your bed, hair falling in messy waves, cheeks pink from the heat of the bar and his eyes on you.
“You look…” He exhales again, like the words are hard to find. “So good. Like, I don’t even know where to start. That top--those legs--your mouth--”
You raise a brow, teasing. “Did you black out just now?”
"Maybe a little,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Seriously, I bet half the guys in that club wanted you tonight.”
You shrug, letting the compliment soak into your skin like lotion. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter.”
“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “Because I get you.”
That makes you laugh--soft and delighted and tipsy-warm. “Okay, territorial.”
“I mean it.” He’s close now, brushing his fingers down your bare arm. “You could’ve had anyone tonight, but instead you’re here, in this tiny little outfit, standing in front of me.”
You wrinkle your nose, grin widening. “You’re lucky I didn’t get arrested.”
“Arrested?”
“For impersonating someone over twenty-one.” You raise your chin proudly. “I didn’t even get ID’d. Not by the bouncer, not by the bartender.”
Chandler gives you a slow, deliberate once-over. “Yeah, no shit.”
You laugh again, hand on his chest now, fingertips playing with a loose thread on the collar of his shirt. “The girls wouldn’t shut up about you, by the way.”
“Oh yeah?”
You lean in conspiratorially. “Apparently you look at my tits like they’re a limited edition vinyl box set.”
He huffs a laugh, eyes dropping instinctively to your chest. “Okay, they’re not wrong. But for the record?” He tilts your chin up, gaze locking with yours. “It’s not just your tits I’m obsessed with.”
Your breath catches. Your smile softens. “You’re being sweet.”
“I’m being honest.”
You giggle, warm all over. “Don’t get too sappy. We’re just supposed to be friends, remember?”
“Right,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Just friends.”
Your heart stutters, and you're kissing, lips brushing his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands find your waist, pulling you in, and you melt against him as his mouth meets yours fully--hungry, hot, possessive.
You gasp into the kiss, fingers curling in his shirt, and that’s when his mouth starts to trail lower. Over your jaw, down your neck, slow and reverent and aching with want. He murmurs something that might be your name, or just a curse, right before his lips find that sweet spot just below your ear and suck.
You gasp again, hips shifting forward, one of your hands gripping his shoulder.
“Chandler--wait--” you manage, voice unsteady.
He stops instantly, pulling back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed. “What? What’s wrong?”
You laugh, breathless. “I’m all sweaty. I’ve been dancing for like three hours. I'm covered in glitter and smell like tequila.”
He grins, sliding his hand down your back. “You could smell like a Dumpster and I’d still want to bite you.”
Before you can respond, he’s back at your neck, nipping and sucking below your jaw. You let out a shaky moan--until your fingers tug his hair again, stopping him one more time.
“Nowhere visible,” you whisper, breath catching.
His eyes spark.
“Oh,” he says, voice rough with delight, “you’re fun.”
And then he lifts you--effortless, like you weigh nothing--and carries you the few steps to the bed. You laugh through a little gasp, arms wrapping around his neck, legs instinctively tightening around his waist as he lays you down.
He follows you down without hesitation, mouth already dragging along your collarbone.
“Just so we’re clear, you started this. I’m just the helpless victim of your slutty little outfit.”, he murmurs against your skin, voice low and wrecked.
“You’re the one who keeps showing up in my room like a stray cat with boundary issues.” You tease lightly, hands tangling in his hair.
He hums against your collarbone, kissing you there with something far too soft for the way he’s already tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “you shouldn’t leave the window open.”
You laugh--just a breath--and then the shirt is gone. So is your bra, a moment later, as he unhooks after no less than 3 attempts.
“Jesus,” he mutters, like he’s never seen you topless before. Like you’re new again under the lamplight glow and Morrissey's voice spinning quietly behind you. His hands are all over--raking up your sides, cupping your tits, thumbs dragging slowly over your nipples just to watch you twitch. And then his mouth replaces them. Hot, open, greedy.
You gasp as he sucks a hickey just beneath your breast. Another lower, over your ribs. A third just above your belly button. You don’t even care how loud you are, how wrecked your voice already sounds.
He doesn’t rush. If anything, he slows down--lazy drags of his tongue, soft open-mouthed kisses that burn into your skin like permanent ink. Every time he bites down, just enough to leave a mark, you jolt and whimper and clutch tighter at his hair, but he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t even look like he wants to.
“Chandler,” you breathe, thighs twitching where they rest on either side of him. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look up. “If you don’t--”
“Shhh. I’m keeping my promise.” he mutters against your skin, mouthing at your stomach like he’s tasting something rare. “Nothing visible. Just making the most of my real estate.”
He lingers there, at your stomach, for what feels like forever. Sucking little bruises into the soft skin, dragging his teeth just enough to make your breath hitch. You fist your hands in the sheets, head tipping back against the pillow, every nerve in your body lit up like a fault line.
“I swear to God,” you mumble, breathless, “you’ve been at this for ten minutes.”
“Nine,” he says calmly, hands stroking slow over your thighs. “But I love that you’re keeping track.”
You groan, frustrated and ruined and so insanely turned on you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing any contact you can get, but he just pins you gently with his hands and keeps his mouth exactly where it is--nibbling along the seam of your torso, biting just above your waistband now, where skin meets the shiny hem of your skirt.
“You know,” you pant, “most people consider foreplay an appetizer, not a full tasting menu--”
“Shhh,” he says again, smiling against your belly. “I’m eating with my eyes first.”
You let out a desperate little laugh--half a plea, half a whimper--and he finally glances up at you.
His pupils are blown, lips red, voice like gravel. “You’re so hot when you beg.”
You shoot him a withering look, but it melts when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your skirt at last--slowly tugging it down, knuckles grazing your thighs, only for his eyes to darken the second he sees the sheer black tights underneath.
The smile he gives you is downright wicked.
You spot it instantly. “Don’t you dare rip them.”
“Me?” he says, feigning innocence as his hands skim higher. “I’d never. I respect tights. Tights are… sacred.”
“Chandler.”
He leans in, kissing just above the waistband. “I’ll buy you new ones.”
And then, without hesitation, he rips straight through them--fingers curling in the fabric, tearing it apart like it offended him personally.
You yelp, half scandalized, half aroused. “Those were new!”
“They were in my way,” he murmurs, dragging the shredded remains down your legs, voice low and reverent now. “And you--" his hands glide back up, settling on your hips as he pulls you closer “--are so worth it.”
He tosses the shredded tights somewhere behind him, not even bothering to look where they land. You expect him to move between your legs, to finally--finally--give you what he’s been building toward for what feels like a lifetime.
But of course he doesn’t.
Instead, he lowers his head and kisses the inside of your knee.
You actually let out a noise of protest, halfway between a moan and a sob. “You asshole.”
“Mmm.” His teeth graze your thigh, just above the bend. “You say that like it’s new information.”
His hands slide up your calves, then thighs, palms warm and possessive, and he settles between your legs like it’s his birthright. And then he goes right back to his mission: leaving a constellation of bruises across your skin, soft and savage, sweet and cruel.
He kisses your inner thigh, then licks a long, slow stripe to the edge of your underwear.
You gasp.
He moves away.
“You’re killing me,” you whisper, voice wrecked.
“At least you’ll die glowing.” He murmurs, kissing a little higher.
You groan, burying your face in your arm as he marks you again, a little higher this time. His tongue flicks over a particularly sensitive spot, and you jolt, hips bucking up involuntarily.
“Chandler,” you plead, breath ragged. “You’re so close.”
“I know,” he says cheerfully, dragging his mouth to the opposite thigh now, starting all over again. “It’s honestly impressive how patient I’m being.”
“You are the least patient man I know.”
“Yeah, well.” He bites down gently, then soothes the spot with his tongue. “Guess that makes you special.”
His fingers trace slow, maddening circles into your hips as his mouth works lower--then higher again--every touch deliberately avoiding the place you’re desperate for. He sucks another hickey just beside your underwear and stays there, tongue swirling, hands gripping your thighs to keep you from writhing out of his hold.
You can’t stop the way your thighs clench. Can’t stop the whimper that escapes you.
He hums, clearly pleased.
"You’re shaking," he murmurs against your skin.
"Wonder why."
He kisses closer, smug look on his face.
Still not there.
You sob out a broken laugh. “You are the worst.”
“And yet…” His breath fans hot over the soaked fabric of your underwear, but he doesn’t move. “You’re still letting me.”
You yank at his hair. “Because I hate myself.”
“No you don’t.” His voice softens, but it’s no less smug. “You love this.”
You don’t respond--can’t, really. Because he’s right and you do and he knows it. So he keeps going. Another hickey. Another kiss. Another filthy murmur into your thigh, making your stomach clench and your whole body tremble. Your panties are ruined, your nerves are fire, and your pulse is pounding in every part of your body. And still--still--he doesn’t give in.
But he’s getting closer. His tongue drags over your inner thigh again--just below the edge of your underwear--and he kisses you like it’s the last place he ever wants to be. He sucks another hickey there, slow and deep and sinful, and your hips jerk helplessly.
“Chandler.”
“Hm?”
“That’s enough.”
He lifts his head just barely, blinking up at you innocently. “Is it?”
You reach down, grab his face in both hands, and pull him up until his body is flush against yours and his mouth is on your own. It’s messy, desperate, hot. All tongue and teeth and need. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your legs hook around his hips, and you kiss him like you’re trying to make him feel everything he’s doing to you.
When you finally break for air, he’s panting, eyes glazed and lips shiny.
“You should let me mark you up now,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Be fair.”
He laughs, delighted. “Fair? You think I’m playing fair?”
You pout. “Come on, I’m good at it.”
“Oh, I know you’re good at it,” he says, grinning, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “You leave bite marks, not hickeys. And you put them in the most visible places.”
“Exactly,” you say sweetly. “Poetic justice.”
“Uh-huh.” He presses a kiss to your chin. “You want me to walk into work Monday with your teeth marks on my neck?”
You smile, saccharine and unrepentant. “Little collarbone dent never hurt anyone.”
He kisses you once more--quick and smug--before sliding back down your body, mouth dragging heat over your skin.
“Nice try,” he murmurs against your hipbone. “But I’m not done.”
“Chandler--”
He sucks another hickey into the soft skin beside your hip, then another just below the curve of your thigh, where no one but him will ever see it.
You gasp, hands tangling in his hair again. “You’re not fair.”
“Nope,” he says, far too pleased with himself. “But at least I’m consistent.”
Your fingers pulling at his hair, thighs shaking, heart hammering as he keeps going, determined to ruin you in the slowest way possible.
And you let him. Because even though it’s torture, you love it.
You barely register the latest hickey blooming on the inside of your thigh before you’re gasping, thighs twitching beneath his palms.
"Chandler--please--"
He hums low against your skin, lazy and amused, like he could keep this up forever. Another kiss to your hip. Another infuriating pause.
“God, look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along the edge of your underwear, breathing you in. “Dripping. Shaking. Completely wrecked. And I haven’t even--” he nips gently at your hipbone “--touched you yet.”
You let out a broken sound, half whine, half breathless laugh. “Then maybe you should, you smug asshole.”
That makes him laugh. Really laugh. But it’s rough now, breathless.
"Only because you asked so nicely."
His fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your panties down slow, baring you inch by inch. His breath stutters as he takes you in, hands spreading your thighs wider.
“You’re--” He breaks off, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it. “You’re unbelievable.”
You open your mouth for a quip, but before you can form a single word, he dives in.
Your whole body jolts like it’s been struck. His mouth is hot and greedy, tongue parting you with a groan so deep you feel it echo in your stomach. You cry out, back bowing off the mattress, hands flying to his hair as he licks you with slow, devastating precision. It’s not sweet anymore. It’s filthy. He’s not trying to tease you now--he’s consuming you. Moaning into you like he’s starved.
“Fuck--Chandler--” you gasp, trying to pull away from the overstimulation, but he just grips your thighs harder, anchoring you to him. His mouth works you open, tongue flicking over your clit in firm, focused strokes that have your vision blurring.
It builds fast. Too fast. But you can’t stop it--don’t want to.
"Don’t stop," you gasp, voice breaking, trembling all over. "Don’t you fucking dare--"
He doesn’t. He doubles down.
And then he slides two fingers into you, curling them perfectly while his mouth never stops moving-- and you shatter.
It’s loud. Full-body. Dizzying. You cry out his name, legs locking around him as you ride it out, shivering and clutching his hair like it’s the only thing tethering you to the planet. Chandler groans against you like he’s the one coming. Like just making you fall apart has ruined him too.
You don’t know how long you lay there, pulsing and breathless, but when he finally lifts his head, his lips are wet, his pupils blown, and he looks like a man undone.
He takes one long look at you-- sprawled out, flushed, glistening-- and exhales a low, shaky breath.
Then, without warning, he pushes himself up and says casually, “Well. That was fun. I should probably head out before traffic gets bad.”
You blink, still halfway in the clouds. “…What?”
He’s already standing, pretending to look around for his shirt. “Yeah, I mean -- I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow. Taxes. Laundry. Maybe cry in the shower.”
“Wait--what?”
You sit up fast, heart still racing from your orgasm and now also from sheer panic. “You’re leaving?”
Chandler turns just enough for you to see the twitch in his mouth -- he’s barely holding in his grin.
“You asshole.” You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him. It bounces off his chest and hits the floor. “You’re such a dick.”
He grins fully now, smug and glowing. “Took you long enough.”
You glare, breath catching as he makes his way back toward the bed.
“I just--” you huff, collapsing back into the pillows with a pout. “You can’t do that to a person who’s literally still seeing stars.”
“Oh, but I can,” he says, climbing onto the mattress again, bracing himself above you. "Especially when she looks like this."
His mouth brushes yours, teasing and warm.
"God, look at you," he murmurs, eyes tracing your face like he can’t believe you’re real. "Still shaking. And all because of me."
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
"Oh, honey,” he breathes, grinning as he kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, “it’s already there."
Then his hand slides back between your legs --and this time, he’s not teasing. But you stop him.
A long, frustrated groan escapes your throat.
He pauses instantly, concern flickering. “Too much?”
“No,” you whine. “The album’s over.”
He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”
You flop your head back on the pillow with a dramatic sigh, staring at the ceiling. “That’s 38 solid minutes of you not fucking me.”
Chandler, still hovering over you, glances toward your CD player. The silence is deafening now that The Smiths are gone.
“You dragged that out for the entire runtime of The Queen is Dead,” you continue, voice flat. “You turned Morrissey into foreplay.”
Chandler laughs-- cackles, really-- as he drops down to kiss your jaw. “I didn’t know we were racing the discography.”
You shove at his shoulder. “Pick something else, jackass.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says obediently, hopping off the bed, shirtless, and beelining for your stack of CDs. “Let’s see what pairs well with utterly ruining you.”
You throw a pillow at him again, but it’s half-hearted. You’re still boneless.
He skims your collection, hips swaying just enough to be distracting. “Fleetwood Mac? No, too emotional. Bauhaus? No, I’m not trying to hex you. Ah.”
He holds up a disc triumphantly. “Space Oddity. You’re welcome.”
You grin. “You’re such a slut for Bowie.”
He shoots you a wink. “Takes one to know one.”
The opening notes of Space Oddity fill the room just as he climbs back onto the bed, crawling over you with a purpose now--his mouth dragging down your neck, his voice warm against your skin.
“Okay, no more teasing,” he murmurs. “You’ve waited long enough.”
“Thirty-seven minutes,” you remind him, breath hitching as his hand skims your waist. “I should file a complaint.”
"File it with my tongue--"
You cut him off with a kiss, fast and a little messy, your hands already moving to his sweatpants. He groans into your mouth as you fumble with the tie, urgency taking over now that the teasing’s finally behind you. He lifts his hips helpfully, letting you shove them down, his boxers going with them.
And then--without warning--you flip them, swinging one leg over his hips and straddling him. His eyes go wide, hands automatically gripping your thighs as you smirk down at him.
“Hey--woah--what’s happening?” he teases, breathless and grinning.
“Shut up,” you mutter, lowering your mouth to his skin.
You kiss down his chest, just soft and slow enough to make him squirm a little, and then you move lower--trailing kisses down his stomach, your fingers dancing over the sharp lines of his hips. And then, with a wicked grin, you sink your teeth in just above his right hipbone, sucking a perfectly dark mark into place.
Chandler gasps--more surprised than pained--and then laughs, all low and stunned. “Jesus--okay--”
“See?” you murmur, your lips still on his skin. “I can hide them.”
You press your tongue over the bruise you just left, proud of your work. “Not everything I do is a bite to the neck, you know.”
“I can see that,” he says, a little breathless, a little wrecked. His hand curls around your hip, thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin. “And here I thought I was the only one who liked claiming things.”
You press another hickey on the opposite side, slower this time, feeling his muscles tense beneath your lips. You don’t stop until you’re satisfied, until he’s marked just enough to prove a point--but not enough to make him suspiciously sore tomorrow--not like you will be.
Then you reach over to your nightstand and pull open the drawer, fishing out a condom. He watches you with dark eyes, still catching his breath when you tear the foil and roll it on him yourself, deliberately slow, deliberately smug.
“Still complaining?” he asks, voice rough and a little shaky.
You look up at him with a smirk. “We’ll see.”
You line yourself up and sink down slowly, your mouth dropping open as he fills you, inch by inch. The stretch makes your thighs tremble, your nails pressing into his chest for balance as you settle on top of him, already overwhelmed by how deep he is from this angle.
Chandler’s hands are everywhere--your hips, your waist, your thighs. He’s looking up at you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or beautiful in his life.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his voice low and wrecked. "You feel so good, baby--"
You try to move, riding him slowly at first, but it’s useless. You’re wrung out, legs shaky, arms barely supporting you. Your body’s still humming, your orgasm having left you melted and soft and so sensitive.
After a few uneven rolls of your hips, you whimper and brace yourself against his chest again, frustrated.
Chandler watches you for a moment, eyes dark and a little amused. "You look like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time."
You groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. "I hate you."
"No, you don’t." He grins and runs a hand down your spine. "C’mon, let me help. You're too pretty to be working this hard."
“Shut up--"
But before you can finish, he flips you easily, holding you steady as he rolls the two of you over. You gasp at the shift, head falling back against the pillows, heart racing as he settles between your legs and pushes back in, all at once, deep and perfect.
"Oh my god--"
"There we go," he murmurs, voice hot against your jaw. "Don’t worry, I’ve got it from here."
You try to sass him, but the words die in your throat the second he starts to move.
His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to feel everything--but his eyes won’t stay still.
He keeps flicking his gaze down your body, drinking in every hickey, every flushed inch of skin he spent the last forty minutes worshipping with his mouth. His pupils are blown wide, mouth parted, like he still can’t believe you let him do this.
"Jesus," he mutters, fucking into you with a steady grind, his hand sliding up your ribcage. His thumb brushes over a dark mark just under your breast, and he groans under his breath. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”
You arch into his touch, whimpering. “Like what?”
He leans in, voice low and rough in your ear. “Like you’re mine.”
A whine escapes you before you can stop it, thighs clenching around his hips. “Chandler--please--”
His hand wraps under your thigh, angling you even deeper, and you cry out as he drives into you again. “You don’t have to beg, honey,” he says, a teasing edge to his voice that does nothing to hide how wrecked he sounds. “You earned it tonight.”
He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple. But his hips are unrelenting, grinding deeper with every thrust. “You let me touch you,” he whispers between kisses. “You let me take my time. Let me mark you up just the way I wanted.”
You’re nodding, panting, nearly crying with how desperate you are.
“And now,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look down at you, at the wild mess he’s made of you. "I’m gonna make you come again. Just like this.”
You clench around him, gasping, and he feels it--groans like he’s losing control.
"Chandler--please, I need--"
He cuts you off with a kiss, but his hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit. “I know what you need,” he breathes, fingers circling perfectly. "I’ve got you, baby. Just stay with me."
You’re trembling under him, breath catching on every thrust, every perfectly timed circle of his fingers.
“Fuck,” you whimper, voice wrecked. “I--I can’t--”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes, barely holding it together. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”
And he can. The way you tighten around him with every roll of his hips, every sweep of his fingers--it’s like your body’s begging for it even before your mouth does.
“You’re doing so fucking good for me,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe, with want. “Look at you--marked up, falling apart, and still taking me so well.”
You moan, loud and desperate, fingers digging into his back like you’re trying to anchor yourself. His hand doesn’t stop moving. Neither do his hips. Bowie’s voice is in your ear, but all you can hear is Chandler telling you to stay with him.
Your body tightens. Your breath stutters. And then it hits you, Harder than the first. Blinding, breathless, a second orgasm tearing through you like it’s been building for hours--which, in a way, it has.
You cry out, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle tensing as you shatter beneath him. Chandler groans, holding you close as your walls pulse around him, clenching so tight he nearly follows you right over the edge.
“Fuck--fuck, baby,” he grits, burying his face in your neck. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
You’re shaking. Gasping. Boneless under him, tears pricking at your eyes from how intense it is, how good he made you feel.
And he just keeps holding you through it, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your hair. Whispering quiet, reverent things between his own ragged breaths--because watching you come undone like that ruined him, too.
You’re still fluttering around him, every little aftershock making you gasp, whimper, tremble beneath his weight. But he doesn’t stop. Not yet. His thrusts are slower now, but deeper—more desperate. He’s chasing his own high now, gritting his teeth as your slick heat pulses around him, dragging him closer with every broken sound you make.
You whimper again, body twitching beneath him.
“Shhh, I know,” he whispers, brushing his lips over your cheek. “I know, baby. You’re so sensitive right now. But you can take it.”
You nod even as your thighs tremble, even as your hands fist in the sheets.
“That’s it,” he groans, voice wrecked. “You’re doing so fucking perfect for me.”
You feel it--the way his hips stutter, the way his rhythm falters as he loses his grip on the edge.
And then, with a low, broken moan of your name, he pushes deep, stills, then comes. Hot and helpless inside the condom, buried in you to the hilt as he trembles with the force of it.
His breath catches. His whole body shudders. And he slumps forward, catching himself just barely on his elbows before he crushes you completely.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing--his, ragged and hot against your neck. Yours, shallow and high, like your lungs haven’t caught up to your heart.
Then he presses a kiss to your cheek. Another to your collarbone. One more, just above a still-blooming hickey on your chest.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours, eyes still shut. “I’m gonna be riding that high ‘til, like, November.”
You let out a dazed laugh, fingers pushing gently through his damp hair.
“Yeah,” you breathe, still catching up to your own body. “That was… a lot.”
He stays inside you for a moment longer, breathing hard against your shoulder, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your skin even while his body slowly winds back down.
Then, carefully, he pulls out, earning a soft, overstimulated whimper from you. He murmurs an apology as he slips the condom off and ties it, tossing it into the small trash bin beside your nightstand.
The second he straightens up, your hand finds his wrist and pulls him down again.
Your lips crash into his--tired, messy, a little desperate still. He smiles into it, breath still unsteady as he kisses you back, cupping your cheek.
“Well, someone is needy,” he murmurs smugly, when he finally pulls back just enough to speak. “Did I not absolutely wreck you like I promised, or…?”
You roll your eyes, but you’re too blissed out to even fake being annoyed. “Shut up.”
“You’re welcome,” he teases softly, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead.
You sink back into the pillows with a groan. “Okay, I need a shower. Or a bath. I don’t think I can stand.”
"Good,” he says smugly, already pulling on his boxers.
You swat lazily at his hip. “Go be a decent human and run it for me.”
“Oh, you mean this human?” he says, pointing to himself as he steps toward the door. “The one who just gave you 38 minutes of foreplay, a god-tier orgasm, and carried your soul out of your body with his penis?”
“God-tier orgasm?” you echo, face buried in the pillow. “You really are riding this high until November.”
He winks. “Bubble bath, coming right up.”
And just like that, he disappears out the door--still smug, still shirtless, humming something under his breath as the faucet turns on.
You smile to yourself, muscles aching in the best way, skin still buzzing with every hickey, every touch, every teasing word.
20K words, Simon’s hair has grown out, reader wears glasses, Simon doesn’t know how to dance, smut, the fluffiest fluff, angst, size kink, Simon is huge, pee mentioned, Simon is filthy but we all knew that. Tell me if I missed any tags.
He was four years old when he stole your crayons.
Not all of them. Just the good ones. The red one. The yellow one. The bright, sunflower-gold one that you'd been saving to colour the sun in the corner of your drawing, the way all four-year-olds drew the sun — a circle in the corner, rays shooting out like a child's idea of joy.
You looked at him across the low art table in that bright little preschool room that smelled of poster paint and digestive biscuits.
He was stocky even then.
Chubby-cheeked and heavy-set. A thick, sturdy little boy who sat with his legs wide and his fat fists curled around your crayons like he'd earned them.
He wasn't even looking at you.
He was colouring something — a car, maybe, or a blob that might have been a dog — and the yellow crayon moved in big, purposeful strokes across his paper.
You did not cry.
You considered it.
Then you leaned across the table and took them back.
He looked up.
Brown eyes. Even at four, they were startling — dark and serious and far too watchful for a boy his age.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he slid the gold crayon back across the table to you, said nothing, and went back to his drawing.
His name was Simon.
You would not learn that until the register was called the following morning. But you remembered his eyes before you remembered his name.
— ✦ —
He broke your glasses in Year Two.
Not on purpose — or so you believed, for most of your life, until you were old enough to accept that
Simon Riley did very few things without purpose.
He knocked into you in the corridor outside the dining hall, your plastic NHS frames hitting the linoleum floor, one arm snapping clean off at the hinge.
You stood there, the world going soft and blurry at the edges the way it always did without them, and you felt the particular, humiliating sting of being unable to see properly — the vulnerability of it, the indignity.
Simon picked up the frames. Looked at them. Looked at you.
He didn't say sorry straight away. He examined the break with the seriousness of a boy who was already, at seven, very careful about what he said and when he said it. Then, "I'll carry your bag till they're fixed."
"You broke my glasses," you told him like he didn’t know.
"I know." He nodded.
"That's not the same as fixing them."
"No," he agreed. "But it's what I've got."
He carried your bag for three days. And when your mum brought the repaired frames in on the fourth morning, he handed the bag back without ceremony, turned, and went to join his mates by the football cage. No further apology. No acknowledgement that anything had occurred between you at all.
That afternoon, you kicked over his sandcastle in the playground.
He watched you do it. Didn't say a word.
You felt better.
And somehow, after that, you were friends.
— ✦ —
He couldn't read very well. You figured this out in Year Three, during the round-robin reading in class — when the teacher went along the rows and each child read a sentence aloud.
You noticed the way Simon's jaw set and his hands went flat on the desk the closer it got to his turn. The way his eyes moved across the page, laboured and slow, tracking words like they were things to be wrestled rather than known.
He got through his sentence. Barely. His face was blank when he sat back, the particular blankness he'd already learned to wear — that carefully constructed nothing that meant everything was fine when everything was not fine at all.
You didn't say anything about it. Not then. You were eight years old, not stupid.
What you did was start reading with him at break time. You presented it as something you needed — you told him you were practising for a reading competition and needed an audience.
Simon was not fooled. He was never fooled, not really.
But he sat down with you on the bench by the library door and listened while you read, and then slowly, carefully, you handed the book to him and asked what he thought happened next, and he had to read ahead to find out.
It took most of the school year. But by the summer he was reading chapter books. He never thanked you. He did start saving you a seat on the library bench every break time, and that was the same thing.
— ✦ —
He played football and rugby.
You read on the grass bank above the field.
It became a kind of institution — the ritual of your shared proximity without shared activity. Simon on the pitch, broad and determined and already bigger than the other boys by Year Five, already moving with that particular physicality that seemed less like playing and more like declaration.
And you on the bank above, your book open, your reading glasses (a better pair now, tortoiseshell) perched on your nose, half-reading and half watching without ever quite admitting to the watching.
He always knew you were there. He didn't do anything about it. But sometimes, when he scored, he'd look up at the bank first before he looked anywhere else.
You told yourself you were only there because the grass was nice and the light was good.
You were not a good liar, even then.
— ✦ —
The boy's name was Daniel Holt and he pushed you over in the playground in Year Five because you'd refused to give him the answers to the maths homework.
You'd said no three times and the third time he pushed you and you went down hard on your palms and your knees, the concrete was unforgiving.
You were crying before you'd fully registered what had happened. Not dramatically — small, shocked, indignant tears, the kind that arrive before the pain does.
Simon was there before a teacher was. You didn't even see where he came from. One moment the playground was its ordinary mid-morning noise, and the next Daniel Holt had a split lip and Simon Riley was standing over him with blood on his knuckles and a look on his face that was completely, utterly calm.
The calm was the frightening part. Even at ten.
He got three days at home for it. He spent the first afternoon sitting on your front step, eating crisps, because he knew you'd be furious with him and wanted to face it head-on.
You were furious. You told him he was an idiot. He told you Daniel Holt had it coming. You told him violence wasn't the answer. He told you Daniel Holt wasn't going to touch you again.
He was right. Daniel Holt never came near you again.
You didn't thank him either. You went inside and made him a sandwich, and that was the same thing.
— ✦ —
Secondary school arrived like a change in weather — everything slightly larger, slightly louder, the corridors longer and noisier, the stakes somehow higher and more ambiguous all at once. You arrived with a bag so heavy your shoulder ached within the first hour: your textbooks, yes, but also the extracurricular books you carried everywhere, the extra notepad you used for non-school thoughts, the six different highlighters you colour-coded by subject.
Simon took the bag from you on the third day without asking.
"I can carry it," you told him.
"I know," he said.
He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, which for him it probably didn't. He'd grown over the summer — not just taller, though he was that, but broader, thicker through the shoulders in a way that made him look like a man playing a boy, trying the shape of it on. He wore it well, even at eleven. He wore everything like he'd already decided what he was and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.
He carried your bag when it was heavy, and it was frequently heavy. He did it without comment and without making you feel small for needing it. That was the thing about Simon — he never made you feel small. He made other people feel small, sometimes, when they deserved it. But not you. Never you.
— ✦ —
The bruises were never from rugby.
You knew by the second year of secondary.
You were not naive — you had read enough, observed enough, understood enough about the world to recognise the shape of what was happening in Simon Riley's house even though he never said a word about it.
The bruises were in the wrong places for rugby. They appeared in the wrong season. They were around his ribs and his arms and once, memorably, along his jaw, and he came to school the Monday after the jaw bruise with that face — that blank, carefully constructed nothing face — and you sat next to him at lunch and said nothing at all.
You said nothing because there was nothing you could do. You were twelve. You were a girl with a book bag and highlighter pens and absolutely no power over the man who was hurting your best friend, and knowing that — the impotence of it, the helpless, hollow ache of caring about someone you could not protect — was the first truly adult pain you ever felt.
What you could do was this: you could make sure he had somewhere to go.
Your mother, who was perceptive in the quiet way that some mothers are, never asked questions when Simon turned up at the back door on a Sunday evening or a Wednesday after school.
She just set another plate.
Your house became a refuge without anyone naming it as such. Simon did his homework at your kitchen table, ate your mother's cooking, watched telly with your family, and slept on your sofa sometimes when the option was presented naturally enough that it didn't feel like charity.
— ✦ —
You got your period for the first time on a Tuesday in November, in Year Nine. In the school toilets, third period, when you were thirteen years old and the day had been entirely ordinary right up until it wasn't.
The particular cocktail of shock and pain and embarrassment and the specific existential bewilderment of being a person whose body was doing something enormous without prior adequate notice left you sitting on the closed toilet lid crying in a way you hadn't cried in years.
You got out your Nokia. That familiar brick of a phone, the keypad worn smooth at the number five. You typed Simon's number and pressed call before you'd properly decided to.
He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Simon." Your voice came out wrong. Too thin.
A beat. When he spoke again his voice had changed — quieter, more careful. "Where are you?"
"Girls' toilets. Near the science block."
"Right," he said. "Stay there."
He appeared outside the girls' toilets seven minutes later — you could hear him through the door, his voice low and flat, telling a Year Eight girl to go use the other ones — and then he was there, right there on the other side of the door, talking to you through it in that steady, even way he had when he wanted to be calm on your behalf.
"You're alright," he said. “Do you need me to go to the office?"
"No," you managed. "I need — I don't know what I need."
"I'll get you something from the vending machine," he said, that Manchester accent of his low and unhurried. "And I'll text your mum."
When you came out of the toilets twenty minutes later, looking wrung-out and clutching what the school nurse had provided, Simon was leaning against the wall. He looked at you for a moment — took you in, the way he always did, that comprehensive, assessing look — and then he stepped forward and kissed your cheek. Quick. Certain. His mouth warm and deliberate against your cheekbone.
"You're alright," he said again. He said it like a fact. Like he was making it true by saying it.
You cried a bit more, for different reasons, and he pretended not to notice.
— ✦ —
He was captain of the rugby team by Year Ten. It suited him — the leadership, the sense of purpose, the structure of it.
You went to his matches sometimes, wrapped in a scarf on the touchline, and watched him move across the pitch with that same quality you'd noticed on the primary school field: less like playing, more like declaration.
He was ferocious and focused and occasionally frightening, and the other boys deferred to him not just because he was bigger than them but because he had the kind of authority that doesn't need to be announced.
Afterwards he'd find you on the touchline, still carrying that quality — coiled, alert — and it would take him a few minutes to come back to himself. To come back to you.
"Good game," you'd say.
"Yeah," he'd say.
And then slowly, the set of his shoulders would ease, and he'd become Simon again. Your Simon. The one who stole your crayons and carried your bag and ate your mother's shepherd's pie like it was sacred.
— ✦ —
He could make you laugh. This was not a small thing.
Simon Riley was not, by general consensus, a funny person. He was serious and quiet and his face in repose looked like a man carrying a private weather system. But he had a dry, deadpan wit that he deployed rarely and precisely, and it landed, every time, like a key in a lock made specifically for it.
He knew how to make you laugh because he'd spent years learning you. The specific frequency of your humour. The things that made you dissolve into giggles rather than just smile. He deployed his wit with the same precision he deployed everything else, and the result was that when Simon Riley made you laugh — really laugh, the helpless, breathless kind — it felt like being given something he didn't give to anyone else.
Which, you would eventually understand, was accurate.
— ✦ —
His name was Ryan Marsh and he was your first kiss, in the park on a Friday evening in Year Ten, and it was fine. It was nice, even. Ryan was sweet and nervous and smelled of his older brother's aftershave and the kiss lasted approximately forty seconds.
Ryan Marsh had a broken nose the following Monday.
Simon maintained, with total conviction, that Ryan had walked into a door. Ryan, to his credit, corroborated this story completely.
You did not push the matter, partly because you had no concrete evidence and partly because some part of you — the part that read on the grass bank and watched the pitch and noticed when Simon looked up at the bank before he looked anywhere else — felt something that was not entirely uncomplicated about it.
You and Ryan Marsh did not have a second kiss. You told yourself it was because the chemistry hadn't been right.
You were getting a bit better at lying to yourself, by fourteen. But only a bit.
— ✦ —
GCSEs arrived the way all important things arrived — with more weight than you'd expected and less warning than you'd have liked.
Year Ten and Eleven were the years you restructured Simon's entire approach to studying, methodically and patiently, the same way you'd helped him learn to read, finding the approach that worked for how his mind moved.
Simon was not unintelligent.
He was, in fact, formidably sharp in ways that didn't translate easily to an exam paper: quick to read people, quick to understand systems, possessed of a spatial and strategic intelligence that you recognised and admired even as you taught him how to write it down in ways that the mark scheme would accept.
He sat with you at your kitchen table night after night — your mother quietly replenishing the tea,— and you explained things in the language that made sense to his brain rather than the language of the textbook.
He sat with you at lunch during school hours and glared at anyone who called you a nerd. The glaring was extremely effective. Simon Riley's face, by fifteen, was a significant deterrent.
His GCSE results, when they arrived, were good. Better than anyone who knew his circumstances might have expected from a boy who'd had so much working against him.
He rang you on the house phone when he opened the results envelope. He didn't say much. His voice, when he spoke, was different — something in it unguarded, the Manchester in it softer somehow, without the armour it usually carried.
"Couldn't have done it without you," he said.
"You did it," you told him firmly. "I just held the torch."
"Still needed the torch."
You smiled so hard your face ached. "Go celebrate, Simon."
"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter, "Thanks, sunshine."
— ✦ —
He was an apprentice at the butcher's on Renshaw Street after school — learning the trade with the same focused, physical competence he brought to everything else, solid and unhurried, his big hands learning new kinds of precision. You had a job at the bookshop two streets over.
On his lunch breaks you would walk over with a sandwich and a packet of crisps, and you'd sit on the low wall around the side of the shop while he ate and you talked about nothing in particular and everything in general.
He had sawdust on his boots and you'd have ink on your fingers from pricing stickers, and you'd sit in the thin afternoon light talking about books and people and where things might go from here, and it was the most ordinary, irreplaceable thing in the world.
You didn't know, then, that you were storing it up. You didn't know you were in the middle of something finite.
You were seventeen and you thought you had time.
— ✦ —
It was the eleventh of September, 2001.
You were at work when it happened — the bookshop had a small television in the back room, and you watched the footage with your hand pressed over your mouth and the world rearranging itself into a new shape around you.
Simon came to you that evening. He didn't knock — he had a spare key, had done for years — and you heard him come in and go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, the sound of him so familiar and domestic and real that something in your chest loosened a fraction.
He brought you tea. He sat on the sofa beside you and you watched the news together in silence, and at some point your head found his shoulder without either of you deciding it had.
"I'm going to join up," he said. Not asking. Telling.
You lifted your head from his shoulder. Frowned at him. "Join up what?"
"The military."
The word landed in the room and stayed there. You looked at his face — that flat, certain expression he wore when he'd already decided something — and you felt the ground shift slightly under you.
"Simon. You're seventeen."
"You can join at sixteen with parental consent," he said. Straightforward, as though he'd already looked into it. Which of course he had. "Seventeen without."
"That's—" You stopped. Started again. "You've thought about this before today."
"Yeah."
Of course he had. You could see it now, the shape of it — this was not a reaction to the footage on the television, not a hot, impulsive thing. This was something Simon had been building toward without telling you. The structure of it. The purpose. The particular kind of belonging that came from being part of something larger than yourself. You'd always known he'd go toward something like this. You'd just hoped, without ever quite admitting to the hoping, that it might be further away.
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it." Not a question.
"Would it work?"
He held your gaze. "No."
"Then no," you said. Your voice was very steady. You were proud of it. "I'm not."
He was quiet for a long moment. The television continued its awful repetition. Then his arm came around your shoulders, heavy and warm, and he pulled you in closer against his side.
You stayed like that until the tea went cold.
— ✦ —
The train station was grey and noisy with other leavings, other arrivals, other people in the middle of things.
Simon stood in front of you on the platform with his kit bag and his big, careful hands and the face he'd spent seventeen years learning to keep blank, and it occurred to you, not for the first time and not for the last, that you loved him.
That you had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life. That you did not know how to say it and were not sure it would do either of you any good if you did.
So you didn't say it.
You went up on your toes and you hugged him — truly hugged him, arms around his neck, your face pressed against his jaw — and he held you back with both arms, the kit bag dropping to the platform, and he was so solid and warm and real that you memorised it.
"Don't be an idiot," you told him, muffled.
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. "Best I can do is try." The Manchester in his voice, low and warm and his.
"Simon."
"I know," he said quietly, against your temple. "I know, sunshine."
You stepped back. You held it together. He picked up his bag and he walked toward the platform and at the door of the train he turned, and looked at you standing there with your glasses and your coat and your hands pressed together in front of you, and for a second you saw something in his face that wasn't blank at all.
Then he was gone.
You cried on the way home. Proper, ugly crying, in the front seat of your mother's car, while she drove and said nothing and passed you a tissue.
You cried because you thought you might never see him again. Because the world had cracked open on a Tuesday in September and people were going toward the fracture and Simon Riley was one of them.
You cried because you never told him.
— ✦ —
He sent a birthday card every year.
They arrived with no return address and postmarks from places you'd never heard of, and sometimes they were late and sometimes they were so early you suspected he'd sent them weeks in advance in case he couldn't later.
They were always plain — Simon Riley was not a man who browsed the sentimental section — white or cream envelopes, the kind of card that was almost generic, and inside: his handwriting, which had improved vastly from the boy who'd struggled across the page in Year Three, and always the same thing. Your name at the top. Happy Birthday, sunshine. And then: S.
Just S.
Like he was still close enough that you'd know exactly who that meant. Like the initial was sufficient.
It was.
You sent his birthday gifts to a P.O. box he'd given you, wrapped carefully, the tag always: From your best friend. You didn't know if he received them all. You sent them anyway. It felt important to keep sending them — to maintain the thread, even when you couldn't see both ends of it.
— ✦ —
Thirty-four years old now.
You have no husband. You had come close, once — a man named Patrick who had been perfectly acceptable in every measurable way and who had wanted to marry you and had probably deserved someone who could give him more of herself than you could manage.
You had not been fair to Patrick. You knew that. You had been in love with someone else for most of your adult life, and even with the someone else absent and silent and possibly dead, there wasn't room for anyone else.
You have no children, though you wanted them. The timeline on that was becoming its own quiet ache, the kind you didn't prod too often.
You have a job that pays the bills and not much else — admin in an office building that smells of carpet cleaner and recycled air, the kind of work that requires enough of your brain to stop it from wandering but not enough to satisfy it.
You have an apartment that is functional and yours and that you have tried to make cozy, with books on every surface and plants that are mostly surviving and a kitchen you actually cook in.
It is not the house. It is not the house you told Simon about when you were sixteen and lying in his back garden on a summer evening, staring up at the sky.
No birthday card for five years now.
Five years of the particular, specific silence that was different from all the silences before, because the silences before had been interrupted. Annually, reliably, he had broken them.
Five years of nothing had the texture of conclusion. Of a chapter closing. And you had reached the point — slowly, painfully, with the kind of acceptance that doesn't feel like acceptance but feels like exhaustion — where you were fairly certain Simon Riley was dead.
Your heart ached for your best friend in the low, constant way of grief that has become so familiar it's almost structural.
You carried it the way you carried other things, quietly, with your spine straight.
Which is why you are sitting across from a man named — it didn't matter, it really didn't matter what his name was — on what your colleague Debbie had described as 'a perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice man' and trying to remember what it felt like to be interested in your own life.
The man sitting across from you was the complete opposite of Simon Riley.
He was trim and well-dressed and had the kind of face that was handsome in a way that required no effort to appreciate and inspired no particular feeling from you.
He had been talking for, by your reckoning, forty-seven minutes. In that time he had covered: his career (impressive, in his telling), his car (expensive, in his telling), his last holiday (exotic, in his telling), and his general philosophy on modern dating (nuanced, in his telling).
He had not asked about your job. He had not asked about your books or the one peeking out of your handbag; the one he'd glanced at and not commented on. He had not asked if your pasta was nice, which it was, actually, genuinely nice, and you'd have told him so if he'd asked. He had not asked you almost anything, come to think of it.
Simon Riley, who spoke perhaps a tenth as many words as this man, had always asked.
Simon Riley had always wanted to know. Not because it was polite. Because he actually, genuinely, in the particular way of people who care about very few things very deeply — wanted to know.
You excused yourself to use the bathroom and stood at the sink running cold water over your wrists and looking at your own reflection, and you thought: this is fine.
This is a perfectly nice evening with a perfectly nice man. This is what moving forward looks like. This is what being a person in the world, a person with a life and a future and reasonable expectations of company, looks like.
You dried your hands. You went back to the table. He had ordered himself another drink without asking if you wanted anything.
You finished your pasta and smiled at appropriate intervals and thought about Simon Riley and felt, as you so often felt, quietly furious at him for being gone.
— ✦ —
The birthday card arrived on a Thursday morning.
You almost missed it entirely — it was tucked between a pizza delivery leaflet and something from your energy supplier, the cream envelope almost camouflaged by the mundane. You shuffled through the post on autopilot and then stopped.
Your name, in handwriting you would have recognised anywhere, would have recognised in your sleep, had recognised in your bones for thirty years.
You sat down on the bottom stair. Your legs suddenly uneasy.
Your hands were not steady.
The envelope opened. The card was white. Plain. Almost generic.
Inside:
Happy Birthday, sunshine.
I'm sorry it's been so long.
I'll explain everything.
Come, if you want to.
If you can stand the sight of me.
Below that, an address. Three towns over. A postcode you didn't recognise.
And then, at the bottom, the way it had always been at the bottom: S.
You sat on the bottom stair for a very long time.
Then you got up, went to your room, and started thinking about what to wear.
— ✦ —
You plucked up the nerve to go on a Saturday.
The drive took forty minutes and you spent most of it trying to manage yourself — talking yourself through reasonable expectations (he is alive, that is enough, start there), warning yourself against things you could not control (the five years, the silence, the way your hands were doing that unsteady thing again), cataloguing everything practical (the address, the map).
The street was quiet. Semi-rural, the kind of neighbourhood that sits between things — between town and country, between the ordinary and the aspirational. The houses were spread out, set back from the road, each with its own front garden and its own character.
You parked. You looked at the address. You looked up.
And you stopped breathing.
It was a beautiful house.
Large, substantial and solid, the kind of house that had been built to last. White painted render, clean and bright in the afternoon light. A white picket fence surrounding the front garden, which was full of flowers. Roses climbing the gatepost. Lavender edging the path. Foxgloves and dahlias and great loose clusters of something purple you couldn't name from here. The kind of garden that had been planted with intention, tended with care, left to be a little wild in the best way.
A porch. And a porch swing, painted white, with a yellow cushion on it.
And flying from the corner of the roof, bright against the blue afternoon sky: the Union flag.
You sat very still in the driver's seat.
You were sixteen years old. It was a summer evening and you were lying in Simon's back garden on an old sleeping bag, looking up at the sky. He was beside you in the way he was always beside you — solid, quiet, taking up exactly the right amount of space. You'd been talking about the future the way teenagers do, in great floating hypotheticals that feel more like weather than plans.
"What kind of house?" he'd asked. He asked follow-up questions always, quietly, wanting the specifics. It was one of the things about him you loved.
And you'd described it. A big house, not ostentatious but real — space for books and for people and for a garden that did what it wanted within reason. A white fence, because you'd always liked them. A porch with somewhere to sit. A flag, because you were — despite everything — proud of where you were from.
Simon had been quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he'd said. Just: okay.
You had thought he was humouring you.
You had not thought — you had not let yourself think — what it might mean, that he was going to do anything about it.
You got out of the car. Your legs were not entirely reliable. You held the gate and walked up the path — lavender brushing your hand where it grew close, the scent of it too perfect, almost staged — and you stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
The door opened.
He had to duck.
That was the first thing you noticed. The physical fact of him, the sheer size of him, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe on both sides simultaneously, the automatic dip of his head as he stepped through onto the porch.
He straightened.
The afternoon light landed on him and you had to spend a moment recalibrating, because the last time you'd seen Simon Riley he had been seventeen years old with sawdust on his boots and a train ticket in his hand, and this man —
This man.
The white button-down shirt was simple, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and from his left wrist to well past the roll of the sleeve his forearm was dark with ink — a sleeve of tattoos, intricate and considered. A whole geography of imagery that you couldn't read from here but would, you thought, take time to learn.
His right wrist carried a watch. His black slacks were fitted close enough that you could see the muscle of his thighs pulling the fabric with every shift of his weight, and his shoes — loafers, black with gold buckles, completely unexpected and somehow exactly right — were precise.
His hair. A dark sandy blonde, longer than military specification presumably allowed and slicked back from his face, which meant you could see all of it, his whole face; the angles that had sharpened from boy to man, the jaw, the set of his brow, and those eyes. Those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old and had never, not once, looked at you with anything less than complete attention.
He was raking those eyes over you now. Slowly. With the same quality he'd always had — that comprehensive, unhurried assessment that somehow never felt like being measured — and his hands were in his pockets and he was standing there like that, on the porch he'd built or bought or arranged specifically around a description you'd given him at sixteen.
He looked like something out of a magazine and like Simon all at once.
You were going to murder him.
"Hi, sunshine."
His voice. Lower than you remembered, rougher, carrying all the years he'd lived since you last heard it. That Manchester accent — still there, unmistakably, that warm northern flatness underneath everything, the vowels shaped by a city, by a street, by a particular kind of upbringing that no amount of training had entirely smoothed out.
That nickname, in that voice, in that low, deliberate way he'd always said it: like you were his.
Like it was a prayer.
You opened your mouth. And you closed it. And you looked at him — this enormous, tattooed, stupidly handsome man who had stood on your mother's doorstep at twelve years old with bruises he didn't mention, who had kissed your cheek at thirteen and broken Ryan Marsh's nose at fourteen and waved goodbye from a train platform at seventeen and then sent you birthday cards from the edges of the world for a decade and then stopped for five years —
"Five years," you said. Your voice was very quiet.
Something moved in his face.
"I-,"
"I thought you were dead." You snapped cutting him off.
"I figured you would’ve."
"Simon."
"I know, sunshine." He said it the same way he'd always said things he couldn't argue with — not deflecting, not dismissing, just absorbing. The Manchester vowels in his voice like a hand on your shoulder. "I'll explain everything. I promise. All of it. Whatever you want to know."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
The afternoon settled around the house, around the garden that was your garden in your own sixteen-year-old description, around the flag and the porch swing and the lavender and all of it, and the distance between you on the path and him on the porch steps was perhaps four feet and thirty years and five years of silence and a whole life of choosing not to say the one true thing.
"You built me the house?" you asked, whispering it. Like you were afraid to say it.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Bought it. Had the garden done the way you said."
"Simon." Your heart ached.
"You said lavender at the edges," he said. His voice was completely level. "You said a porch with somewhere to sit. You said you wanted to see the flag from the garden."
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
The rage was still there — it was not going anywhere quickly. The five years of it, the grief of it — but underneath it, something else. Something that had been there since you were four years old at a preschool art table, larger and quieter and more permanent than anything else you'd ever felt.
"You were sixteen," he said. As though this explained it. "You told me what you wanted. I just..." He stopped. Started again. "I wanted to be enough first. I wanted to have what you needed."
There was a long silence. A bee moved through the lavender. Somewhere a few streets away, a lawnmower hummed.
"Come inside," Simon said. "I'll make you tea. And I'll tell you everything."
You looked at him on the porch of the house he'd built you from a word, and you thought: you absolute idiot. You wonderful, impossible, infuriating man. You thought I'd stopped. You thought thirty years of this was something you could be enough for eventually, like it was a bar to clear, like there was a version of you I was waiting on instead of just —
Instead of just you. Always just you.
The lavender brushed your hand again. You walked up the steps and he looked down at you with those brown eyes that had never once left you.
"Hi, Simon," you said.
Something happened in his face. Something opened.
"Hi, sunshine," he said, his hand coming to the small of your back to guide you inside.
He made the tea.
You stood in the kitchen of a house that smelled of fresh paint and cedar and something faintly floral from the garden drifting through the open window over the sink, and you watched Simon Riley move around it like he'd always lived here — filling the kettle, finding the mugs without opening the wrong cupboard, knowing where the teabags were — and you thought: how long. How long has he been here, in this house he bought for you, learning where everything lives, waiting.
You sat at the kitchen table. It was a good table, heavy oak, the kind built to last and you ran your thumb along the grain of it and tried to arrange your feelings into some kind of order and failed.
Simon set the mug in front of you. Milk in last, the way you'd always taken it, which he knew because he'd made you approximately four thousand cups of tea over the course of your lives. He sat down across from you, his own mug between his big hands, and looked at you.
You looked back.
The kitchen light was warm and it caught the angles of his face. The jaw, the brow, the slight crook in his nose that was new, or newer, the result of something you didn't know about and weren't sure you wanted to.
He was watching you with that particular quality of attention he'd always had. Complete. Patient. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"You're not wearing your glasses," he said.
You blinked. Of all the things. "No."
"Contacts?"
"For about ten years now, yes."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face with that same unhurried attention, "I missed them."
"You missed my glasses?" You say with the deadpan tone you'd perfected over the years.
"Tortoiseshell ones," he said. "Used to push them up your nose when you were concentrating." He took a gulp of his tea, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed.
You stared at him. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of distance and war and God knows what else, and he missed your glasses. "Simon."
"Just saying."
"You are unbelievable." You scoff.
"The contacts suit you," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved — barely, almost nothing, but you'd spent your whole life reading that face and you caught it. "Everything suits you. But I liked the glasses."
"Stop it." You snap.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever that is," you said, and you pointed at his face, at the not-there-almost-smile, at the quality of his voice when he said everything suits you, at all of it. "You don't get to do that. You've been — Simon, you've been gone. You've been gone for eighteen years and for five of them, I thought you were dead." Your voice stayed steady, which surprised you. You'd expected it to crack on that. "So you don't get to walk out onto your porch looking like — like that — and tell me you missed my glasses and flirt at me like no time has passed."
He listened without interrupting. He always had — it was one of the things about him, the way he gave you the whole space of what you were saying before he entered it.
"You're right," he nodded.
"I know I'm right." Your spine straightened.
"I owe you an explanation."
"You owe me considerably more than that, Simon Riley, but yes. An explanation would be a start."
He wrapped both hands around his mug again and looked at you across the table and there was something in his face that was not the blank-nothing face, was not the armour he'd worn since he was twelve years old but something that was quieter and more exposed and a great deal more frightening because of it.
"Not here," he said.
You frowned. "What?"
"I don't want to do it like this. Sat in a kitchen." He glanced around the room briefly, as though orienting himself. "Come to dinner with me tomorrow night."
"What I—"
"The Grill on Merton Street."
You went very still.
The Grill on Merton Street. You hadn't been in years — not since you'd moved away from the area, not since things had shifted and the rituals of your old life had quietly been replaced by other things.
But you knew it. You knew every table in it. The way the light came through the front windows on a Sunday, the smell of it — roasted meat and old wood and the particular warmth of a place that had been feeding families for decades.
Your mother had loved it. Your father used to order the same thing every time and be pleased about it every time, and you and Simon had sat across from each other in the corner booth with the sticky laminated menus and kicked each other under the table and laughed.
"That's still open?" you managed.
"Had a look earlier this week," he said. "Still there. New owners but the same building. Same corner booth."
You looked at him. He looked at you. Outside, through the open window, a late bird was making itself known in the lavender.
"Fine," you said. "Dinner. Tomorrow. And you're going to tell me everything." you struck at him with a serious face.
"Everything," he agreed.
"I mean it, Simon. All of it."
"I know you do."
You drank your tea. It was exactly right. The temperature, the strength, the milk ratio and you hated him a little bit for that. For the fact that he still knew, that across seventeen years and God knows how many miles he still knew exactly how you took your tea, and he'd made it correctly on the first attempt without asking, and you were absolutely not going to cry about that.
You were not.
— ✦ —
You dressed carefully.
Not because you were trying to impress him.
You told yourself this firmly, standing in front of your wardrobe in the room you'd taken in the local B&B — you'd booked a night, not knowing how long this might take, not knowing what state you'd be in for the drive home afterwards — and you told yourself that you were simply dressing appropriately for a dinner at a decent restaurant.
That was all.
That was the entirety of it.
The dress was deep green. Fitted through the waist, falling to just below the knee, with a neckline that was elegant rather than dramatic.
You'd bought it for a work event two years ago and it had lived in your wardrobe since, waiting for an occasion that felt worth it. You put your hair up — not elaborately, just neatly, the kind of arrangement that looked effortless and had taken twenty minutes — and you wore the small gold earrings that had been your grandmother's. Low heels. The good handbag. A slick of red on your mouth that you almost wiped off twice before deciding to leave it.
You were not trying to impress him.
You were absolutely trying to impress him.
He was waiting outside The Grill when your taxi pulled up, standing on the pavement with his hands in his pockets. The air around him relaxed and easy. An anchored stillness, like a man who'd learned to wait and had made peace with it. He has the same dark slacks as yesterday, same loafers with the gold buckles, but the shirt tonight was black.
A deep, clean black that made his shoulders look approximately the width of a doorway, which was in fact an accurate assessment — and he'd left the top button undone. His hair was the same: pushed back, dark sandy blonde curling at the nape of his neck and catching the amber of the streetlights.
He saw you get out of the taxi.
He went very still. Completely, suddenly, entirely present in a way that landed on you like a hand against your sternum. Under your heartbeat.
You crossed the pavement toward him and his eyes moved over you — slowly, comprehensively, that same rake of attention he'd given you yesterday on the porch steps, only this time there was nothing restrained about what it did to your pulse.
He eyed you the same way he used to look at the extra cuts of slow roasted beef your mother added to his plate every time he joined you for a Sunday roast after church.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi, sunshine." His voice was low. The rough Manchester sending tingles down your spine.
He opened the door for you.
The Grill smelled exactly the same.
Roasted meat and warmed bread and old wood and something faintly of candle wax. It hit you the moment you stepped through the door and you had to stand still for just a second, just one second, to absorb the weight of it.
Your father's coat on the hook by the door. Your mother's reading glasses going into her bag as the menus arrived. Simon across from you, fourteen and fifteen and sixteen, his big hands wrapped around a Coke glass, his eyes on you under that careful brow.
The layout had shifted slightly — new owners, as Simon had said — but the bones of it were the same. The dark wood panelling. The low warm lighting. The tables set with proper linen and actual candles in glass holders. And in the back left corner was the booth.
Simon's hand was at the small of your back as the host led you through. A light touch, barely there, the kind of thing that could be merely courteous and was absolutely not merely courteous.
You said nothing about it.
You were almost at the booth when a voice said, "Well. I don't believe it."
You turned.
Margaret and Gerald Howarth.
Margaret had been your mother's friend since before you were born — a small, bright-eyed woman who had somehow barely aged in two decades. Her silver hair cut the same way it had always been, her husband a large, genial man beside her with a napkin already tucked into his collar. They'd been eating here since before you were born too, you suspected. Some people were simply woven into the furniture of a place.
"Margaret," you said, and you felt a genuine, warm rush of it. Of being seen by someone who had known you as a child, who had watched you grow up, who carried that particular knowledge of you that only people of a certain generation can hold. She was already rising halfway from her seat, her hand extended, and you took it and she covered it with her other one, the way she always had.
"We heard you were back in the area," she said — which was interesting, since you'd only arrived yesterday, but news apparently still moved at its old speed around here. Her bright eyes moved to Simon, and something in them softened with recognition and surprise in equal measure. "And Simon Riley. My goodness."
"Mrs Howarth." Simon's voice was respectful, quieter than usual, and you noticed — because you noticed everything about him — that he straightened fractionally. Not stiffly. Just the particular adjustment of a man in the presence of someone he'd known when he was young and unguarded.
"Look at the size of you," Gerald said, not unkindly, staring up at Simon with the frank appreciation of one large man for another. "What are they feeding you?"
"Gerald," Margaret scolded mildly.
"It's a compliment." He shrugged.
Simon almost smiled. "Good to see you, Mr Howarth."
Margaret was looking between the two of you with the expression of a woman who had been quietly observing people her entire life and drawing accurate conclusions from very little evidence. "Are you together?" she asked, with the particular directness that came with age and with having known you since you were in a pushchair.
"We're having dinner," you said carefully.
Margaret's expression said, quite clearly, that she had heard this and had also heard everything it was not saying. "Well," she said, patting your hand once more before releasing it, "it's lovely to see you both. You always did belong together, the pair of you. I said that to your mother once, do you know. I said those two—"
"It was lovely seeing you, Margaret," you said, with great warmth and only mild desperation.
She laughed, a bright, pleased sound and settled back into her seat.
As you turned to follow the host the rest of the way to the booth, you were almost certain you heard Gerald say, to his wife, "told you" in a tone of quiet marital satisfaction.
Simon was very carefully not reacting to any of this. You were very carefully not looking at him.
You saw two others you knew before you reached the booth.
Kim Ashworth, who had been in your form in Year Ten and who looked essentially the same as she had in school except that she had a baby on her hip and a husband trailing behind her with a changing bag.
She stopped mid-step when she saw you, did a small, delighted double take, said oh my God twice, and then looked at Simon in a way that was extremely uncomplicated in its appreciation before remembering the husband with the changing bag. There were promises exchanged to catch up properly, phone numbers that would probably not be used, genuine warmth on both sides.
And then at the bar, perched on a stool with a whisky, Dave Pearce — who had played alongside Simon on the secondary school rugby team and who greeted him with the particular vocabulary of men who knew each other at fifteen and have not changed as much as they think.
There was a brief, loud exchange that involved at least one shoulder-clap that could have knocked a smaller man sideways, and then Dave shook your hand too and told Simon he was punching. Which Simon received without expression and you tried your hardest not to laugh, biting your lip.
Finally the corner booth. You slid in. Simon folded himself into the seat across from you, the table scaled to ordinary human beings and therefore slightly absurd against the size of him, his knees bracketing it, his shoulders blocking the view of the room behind him entirely.
The menus came.
They were not laminated anymore — proper printed card, changed seasonally, the kind that meant the new owners had ambitions. But the roast was still on. The proper Sunday roast, the one your father used to order when you could afford to.
"Same corner," Simon said quietly.
"Same corner," you agreed.
He was looking at you across the table the way he used to look at you across this table, except that now his face was older and larger and had been to places that had clearly asked things of it. The look was different in its texture. Deeper, maybe. Older in the same way he was older. Like it had more weight behind it from all the years of being carried.
"You said everything," you reminded him. "All of it."
"I know."
"So." You gestured for him to start.
He set his menu down. Looked at you. And then he started talking.
He told it the way he told everything — without embellishment, without drama, in the flat, precise language of a man who had learned to communicate facts and trusted the facts to carry the weight without decoration.
He'd gone in at seventeen and he'd been good at it. Not surprising. He was built for the structure of it, for the clarity of having a purpose and a unit and a chain of things that made sense.
He'd moved up fast — faster than he let on in the cards he'd sent you, which had been careful, he explained, deliberately careful, because the more you knew the more you might worry. Which, you pointed out, had not been his decision to make. He didn't argue with that.
Task Force 141 came later. Years later, after deployments that he summarised in a sentence each and you understood enough from his face to know that each sentence was doing the work of much longer things.
He was a lieutenant now. He said it the way he said most things about himself, flatly, without vanity, presented as information. He had certain freedoms now that he hadn't had before, certain ability to make choices about where he went and when and what he did with the things the years had given him.
You both ordered your food.
"And the five years?" you asked, sipping your cocktail the waitress had brought over.
He was quiet for a moment, he stared at his San Miguel pint, the condensation sliding down the glass. Your food had arrived at some point during the waiting, while Simon collected his thoughts.
He picked up his fork and then set it down again.
"There was a man," Simon said.
Something about the way he said it made you put your fork down too.
"He ran drugs. Major operation, international — I won't go into all of it." He said this without flinching, looking at you steadily, not softening it. You'd always appreciated that about him — the way he treated your intelligence as a given. "After I escaped him, he decided to make it personal. He went after the people I—" He stopped. Chose the word carefully. "The people I was connected to."
The candle in the glass holder between you threw warm, unsteady light across his face.
"He killed them," Simon said. "My brother. Tommy's family." A pause that cost him something; you could see it cost him. "My Mother."
The restaurant continued around you — the murmur of other tables, the clink of cutlery, someone laughing softly near the bar — and you sat very still.
"Oh Simon," you whispered, you could feel the way your face formed the sympathy.
"I'm alright." He said it the way he'd always said it, the Manchester flat and absolute. The way that meant; don't make it bigger than I can hold right now. You knew that voice. You honoured it.
"He knew about you," Simon said and you froze. "That was the other thing. He'd done his research." His jaw shifted slightly. "As long as he was alive, you weren't safe. If I'd contacted you, properly contacted you, kept the thread going the way I wanted to, it would have given him a cleaner line. A more reliable way to reach me."
You understood the logic of it. You understood it clearly and immediately in the part of your brain that processed information. The other part — the part that had sat on the bottom stair with a birthday card after five years of silence, the part that had thought past tense — that part was going to take considerably longer.
"So you cut me off," you said. Not as an accusation. As a fact, laid down. You were starting to understand the shape of it.
"To keep you safe. Yes."
"Without telling me why." You sighed but you knew you were being unreasonable, but you hoped he would let you for a little longer.
"If I'd told you why, you'd have known there was a threat. And you'd have—" He stopped. The corner of his mouth moved, something that was not quite a smile and not quite not one. "You'd have done something about it. Gone looking. Made noise."
"I would not have—" You stopped, because you would have. You absolutely would have. You'd spent thirty years being completely unable to sit on the sidelines where Simon Riley was concerned, and the knowledge that someone was threatening him would have made you entirely unreasonable. "That's—" you huffed.
"Yeah," he said.
"You could have found a way—"
"There wasn't one. Not one that was safe." His voice was very level. "I went through every option, love. I promise you. Every one."
The word arrived quietly, without ceremony.
Love.
He'd never called you that — not in thirty years, not in all the time and all the familiarity of what you were to each other. He said it the way he said everything that mattered: without preamble, without dressing it up, laid down like the fact it was.
"And now?" you asked. Your voice was quite steady. Steadier than you felt.
"He's dead." No elaboration. None needed. The flat Manchester vowels carrying the weight of it cleanly, without mess. "And you're safe. And I—" He looked at you across the table, across the candle and the white linen. "I bought the house," he said. "I've spent a while making it what it is. Making if perfect. I saved up for years. The 141 pays well when you get to a certain level and I wasn't spending it on anything else."
"For years," you repeated, feeling a shiver rack up your spine and your toes go numb.
"Since I was about twenty." He said this without apparent embarrassment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to spend fifteen years saving money to buy a woman a house from a description she'd given you at sixteen years old. "Took a while to find the right one that wasn’t too far from your parents. The lavender took three growing seasons to look like it did when you pulled up."
Three growing seasons.
He had planted the lavender three years ago. He had stood in a garden three towns from where you lived and planted lavender along a path because a sixteen-year-old girl had mentioned it lying on her back in his garden thirty years ago, and he had tended it for three years, and he had waited.
"Simon Riley," you said.
"It's got room for your books Sunshine, built the shelves myself." His lips quirked up at the corners at your flabbergasted expression.
"You are the most—" You stopped. Started again. "Do you have any idea what the past five years have felt like? Do you have any idea what I—" Your voice did the thing you'd been preventing it from doing, cracked at the edge of the sentence like a plate under too much weight. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "I grieved you. I sat in my flat and I genuinely, actually grieved you and decided you were dead. I had — Simon, I had a plan for getting through it. I was managing it."
"I know."
"Don't say I know." you snapped sounding more like a bratty child than angry.
"I'm sorry." And this was different. This was not the automatic I know, the absorbing of your anger. This was something he said the way he said very few things — carefully, with full weight behind it. His eyes on yours across the table. "I'm sorry for the five years. I'm sorry I couldn't find another way. I'm sorry you were on your own with it." A pause. "I'm sorry it took me this long to have something worth coming back with."
"The house is not—" You stopped. "You didn't need to buy me a house, Simon. I didn't need—"
"I needed to," he said. Simply. "I needed to know I was coming back with something real. Something that wasn't just me turning up with nothing after all that time, asking you to — to accept—" He moved his hand across the table, and his fingers stopped just short of yours. Not touching. Close. "Asking you to take me as I was. I needed it to be enough. I needed there to be something I could give you that was—"
"Simon." Your voice was very quiet.
"I know it's not—"
"Simon." You turned your hand over on the table. Just that. The small, deliberate movement of turning your palm up.
He looked at it. Then he looked at you. Then, slowly, he put his hand in yours — his enormous, careful, tattooed hand. Not quite the one that had carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and pulled you up off the pavement after Daniel Holt and held you on the platform at the train station, but this one now and his fingers closed around yours and he held on.
"I only ever wanted you," you said softly.
"Sunshine-"
"You were always worth it," you cut him off. And then, because it was time — because it had been time for approximately thirty years and you were done waiting for the right moment when the right moment had repeatedly failed to arrive — "You were always enough. You were always the thing I was — Simon, you have always been the only one I wanted. Exactly as you are."
He was very still.
"I didn't tell you on the platform," you said. "I should have. I've thought about it every day since."
"So have I," he said.
The candle between you flickered in some movement of air from the kitchen, and in the warm unsteady light his face was open in a way you had waited thirty years to see. His hand was warm and sure around yours, and from the other side of the restaurant you were almost certain you heard Margaret Howarth say something to Gerald in a satisfied undertone.
"You planted the lavender," you grinned.
"Three years ago." He finally smiles back at you, it was crooked and uneven and you loved it.
"You are," you said carefully, "the most ridiculous man I have ever known." You shook your head still grinning.
"Missed you too, sunshine," he smirked.
Dinner ended the way the best dinners end — not with a definitive conclusion but with a gradual, reluctant unwinding, the kind where both people keep finding one more thing to say, one more thread to pull, because the alternative is standing up and the evening becoming past tense.
You ordered dessert.
Neither of you particularly wanted it but you both ordered it, and you both knew why, and neither of you said so. The chocolate brownie was very good. Simon ate his methodically, the way he ate everything, and at one point looked up and caught you watching him and said nothing.
The candle between you had burned down to a stub by the time the bill came.
He paid. You protested on principle. He gave you a look that had not changed at all since he was fourteen years old — flat, certain, faintly amused — and handed the card to the waiter without further discussion.
"That's not—" you started.
"Next time," he said.
Next time. You let it sit there between you, warm and presumptuous and everything you wanted.
Outside, the evening had cooled.
The last of the summer still holding in the air, the kind of September evening that felt like a concession, like the year wasn't ready to be done.
The street was quiet for a Saturday, just a few couples moving between the restaurants and a group of lads outside the pub further down having a smoke. The amber of the streetlights made everything look like something worth remembering.
Simon stood beside you on the pavement, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he turned to look down the street, and you were very aware of the warmth of him and the black shirt and the lavender you couldn't smell from here but could somehow still feel in your hands.
"Walk with me a bit," he said. Not a question, not quite. He'd always done that — phrased invitations as though the outcome were already agreed, as though he simply assumed you'd say yes because you almost always did.
"Alright."
He fell into step beside you, and for a little while you just walked — past the wine bar with its fairy lights, past the old library that had become a gin distillery at some point in the last decade, past the post office that had been there since before either of you were born. You talked about small things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that runs alongside the real one underneath.
Then he stopped.
You stopped too.
Simon looked down at you. His hands were in his pockets. That brown gaze of his moved over your face in the way it had been moving over your face all evening — like he was cataloguing it, like he was making up for lost time in the looking.
"Dance with me," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
He tilted his head, "Come dancing with me."
You stared at him.
Simon Riley, who had sat against the wall at every school disco you'd ever attended, arms folded, watching everyone else with the expression of a man conducting a private risk assessment.
Simon Riley, who you had never, in thirty years of knowing him, seen voluntarily approach a dance floor.
"You don't dance," you said.
"No," he agreed. "But you do."
The simplicity of it landed somewhere very central.
You do.
As though that were reason enough. As though your enjoyment of a thing were sufficient justification for him to walk into it without hesitation.
Which, you supposed, when it came to Simon, it always had been.
"Alright," you said, for the second time in ten minutes.
His hand found the small of your back again, that same light, deliberate touch from inside the restaurant and he guided you down the street.
Simon said you weren't far, when you heard it.
The particular sound of a Domino's box. The slight crinkle of a carrier bag. And then your mother's voice, carrying across the quiet street in the way it always had — warm and clear and entirely without volume control.
"Oh honey! We thought - oh!"
"Oh fuck," you cursed.
You said it very quietly. Not quietly enough. Simon chuckled under his breath.
Your parents were coming along the pavement from the direction of the only car park around here — your father in his weekend coat, your mother in the blue one she'd had for fifteen years. A Domino's pizza box balanced in her arms and a carrier bag hanging from your father's hand.
Movie night. Of course. They still did it every other Saturday, had done since you were small, and of course they would do it tonight of all the Saturday nights in the entire calendar.
Your mother's face when she saw you was pure, unguarded delight — the face she always made when she encountered you unexpectedly, as though each time were still a pleasant surprise. Then her gaze moved, naturally and automatically, to the man standing beside you with his hand at the small of your back.
The delight didn't disappear. It did something more complicated.
"Oh honey," she said again, but differently this time. Softer. Her voice going somewhere else entirely. "Simon?"
The Domino's box dipped. Your father caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been catching things your mother nearly dropped for forty years.
Simon had gone still beside you. Not that controlled, present stillness he had, the one that wasn't tension but something adjacent to it. He was looking at your mother with an expression you couldn't fully read from the side, but you could see the line of his jaw, and it was careful.
"Mrs—" he started.
"Don't you Mrs me," your mother said. Her voice was not angry. That was the thing — you'd prepared yourself, in the split second between seeing them and now, for anger, or for the brisk, self-protective coolness she used sometimes when she'd been frightened. But it wasn't that. It was something that had tears in it, which was considerably worse to witness.
She handed the pizza box to your father without looking at him — he took it with the silent competence of long practice — and she crossed the pavement in four short steps and she put her arms around Simon Riley.
He was so much larger than her. He had always been larger than her, even at fifteen when he'd eaten her shepherd's pie at the kitchen table and been careful to seem like it was casual and not like he was starving. Even when she gave him seconds and he looked like he would beg for thirds.
But now it was almost absurd, the smallness of her against the width of him, and he stood there for just a fraction of a second — that fraction where you could see him recalibrating, receiving something he hadn't prepared for — and then his arms came around her and he held on.
Your mother was crying. Small, quiet sounds, the kind she made when she was trying not to. Her face was pressed against his chest and her hands gripped the back of his black shirt and she said, muffled and with great feeling, "You absolute boy."
Simon said nothing. His eyes, over the top of your mother's head, found yours.
You had to look away. The street was very interesting. The lamppost in particular.
You bit into your lip.
Your father appeared at your shoulder.
He was a quiet man, always had been. The kind of steady, observant presence that took things in without making a production of the taking in. He stood beside you with the pizza box over one arm and the carrier bag in the other hand and watched his wife hold the boy who had eaten at their table for a decade, and he said, very quietly, to you,
"Well. He's not dead then."
"No Dad," you managed. "He's not dead."
"Good," your father said.
As though this settled it. As though the entirety of the past five years of your grief and his, because he had grieved Simon too in his quiet way, in the way of a man who doesn't say things aloud but feels them thoroughly. He looked at Simon over the top of your mother's head and gave him a single, deliberate nod. The kind that meant; we'll talk. The kind that meant; I have things to say to you. The kind that also, underneath both of those, meant; I'm so glad son.
Simon received the nod with equal gravity, which was exactly right.
Your mother finally pulled back. She held Simon by the arms — or tried to, her hands not quite making it around the circumference of them — and looked up at him with red eyes and the particular expression of a woman who has a great deal to say and is choosing, for now, not to say most of it.
"You'll come for dinner," she said. Not a question. The same tone she'd used on him at fifteen and apparently intended to continue using indefinitely. "Sunday. Proper dinner. Not a restaurant. Mine."
"Yes," Simon said. Immediately. Without hesitation.
"Good." She released his arms and reached up and patted his cheek once, firmly, the way you might with someone who had done something frustrating and beloved in equal measure.
Then she turned to you, and her expression did something complicated and warm and knowing, and she didn't say any of the things she was clearly thinking, which you appreciated deeply.
What she said instead was: "Don't stay out too late. You're thirty-five, not seventeen."
"Mum." You scolded.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged.
"We're going dancing," you told her, with the energy of someone redirecting a conversation through sheer momentum.
Your mother looked at Simon. Simon looked at your mother. Something passed between them that was private and thirty years old and not yours to have.
"Of course you are," she said.
Your father passed the Domino's box back to your mother, and said, "Right then. We'll leave you to it." He looked at Simon one more time. "Sunday," he confirmed.
"Sunday," Simon said.
Your parents moved off down the pavement.
Your mother looked back once — just once — and her face when she did was the face you'd seen her wear at your primary school nativity and at your GCSE results and on the morning you'd gone to university; the particular face of a woman watching her child be happy and feeling the full, complicated, loving weight of it.
Then she turned back to your father and said something you couldn't hear, and his hand found her shoulder as they walked, and they rounded the corner and were gone.
You stood on the pavement in the September evening and breathed.
Beside you, Simon was also very carefully just standing there.
"She cried on me," he said, after a moment.
"Yes."
"Didn't expect that."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the corner your parents had turned, and his face had the quality it sometimes had when something had reached him — not visibly, not dramatically, just in that particular stillness that meant something had got through.
"She cried about you," you told him. "When you stopped writing. Three years ago — there were several times, actually, but three years ago was the worst. She held me in her kitchen and we both—" You stopped. Managed the next part carefully. "She loves you too, Simon. She always did. You were at our table every other night for years."
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved in his jaw. "I know," he said. And this time the I know was different from all the other times he'd said it tonight — heavier, and private.
"You agreed to Sunday dinner," you giggled.
"Of course I agreed to Sunday dinner," he said knowing full well he would have been stupid not to and gotten an earful from your mother.
Simon offered you his hand.
Not at the small of your back this time. His hand, palm up, in the space between you. Old-fashioned and deliberate.
You put yours in it.
"Come on then," he said. "Let's go dancing."
There was, as it turned out, only one place to go dancing in this town on a Saturday night if you meant actual dancing — the kind with a proper floor and music with a real structure to it.
It was not a club.
It was not a bar with a cleared space near the speaker.
It was the old church hall on Callow Street, which had been hosting the Saturday Evening Social Dance since before either of you were born, and which Simon seemed to know about with the specificity of a man who had done his research.
"A dance hall," you said, standing outside it. Through the tall, thin windows the warm light was visible, and the sound — strings, a proper band, something with a waltz rhythm that made the windows hum faintly. "You're taking me to a dance hall."
"Only place with a floor."
"Simon, this is a — there will be pensioners in there." you said quietly.
"There'll be a dance floor," he looked down at you. "And you said yes." he shrugged but looked smug.
He pushed the door open and held it, and because you had in fact said yes, and because the music through the door sounded genuinely lovely, and because you were still holding his hand from the pavement, you went in.
The church hall smelled of floor polish and tea. Fairy lights were strung along the rafters — someone's addition, not the original fixtures, and they made the whole space amber and soft.
Round tables lined the edges, most of them occupied by couples in their sixties and seventies and eighties, a few younger faces dotted among them, everyone dressed with the particular care of people who still believed an evening out was worth dressing for.
On the small stage at the far end, a four-piece band was working through something in three-four time with the ease of musicians who had played together for years.
And at the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, wearing the same expression of organised authority she'd worn every PE lesson for fifteen years was Mrs Valerie Croft.
She was smaller than you remembered. Or perhaps you were simply larger.
She'd retired at some point — the hair was fully silver now rather than streaked — but the posture was identical: spine straight, chin up, the bearing of a woman who had spent decades telling teenagers to stand properly and had eventually simply become the embodiment of the instruction.
She looked up from her clipboard as you approached and her eyes moved from you to Simon, and to her credit, she didn't miss a step.
"Well," she tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, "Riley."
"Miss," Simon said. Which was technically incorrect given that she had a ring on her finger and had for as long as you'd known her, but you suspected it was because he'd called her Miss in secondary school the way you had. "Mrs Croft. Sorry. We were passing and— " He paused, which was unlike him. "Is there any chance we could crash it?"
Mrs Croft looked at him. She looked at you. She looked at your joined hands with the expression of a woman who had supervised enough teenagers to recognise a development when she saw one.
"Can you behave yourselves?" she asked.
"Yes," you said nodding.
Simon said nothing.
Mrs Croft made a sound that was not quite a laugh but was adjacent to one. "Floor's open," she said. "Don't knock anyone over." And she turned back to her clipboard.
The first dance was not elegant.
Simon was, as he had always been and had openly admitted, not a dancer.
He was a man built for other kinds of movement — purposeful, directed, the kind that had somewhere to go. Dancing required a different relationship with your body, a willingness to be present in it without agenda, and that was not naturally his.
But he was trying. And Simon Riley trying at something he wasn't good at with complete, unhesitating commitment was one of your favourite things in the world.
He held you correctly — one hand at your waist, the other holding yours at the right height — because he had clearly looked this up at some point, which you were choosing not to think about too hard. His footwork was careful. Deliberate. Slightly behind the beat in the way of someone counting silently.
"You're counting," you told him trying your hardest not to laugh.
"Shut up."
"Simon, I can see your lips moving." you snorted.
"I said shut up."
You were laughing now. Properly, helplessly, the kind that came up from somewhere real — and he looked down at you with that face, that flat, long-suffering, completely fond face, and something in his eyes that was warm in a way that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with the fact that your laugh had always been, apparently, one of his favourite sounds.
"You're doing fine," you told him, once you'd recovered.
"I'm doing terribly," he answered. "Keep going."
By the second dance, he was better.
By the third, he had found something. Some adjustment in the way he held you, the way his hand settled more fully at your waist, drawing you closer so the movement between you became less about individual steps and more about one shared thing. He was a quick study. He always had been, once he'd decided something was worth doing.
You became aware, gradually, of the room watching.
Not intrusively. Not all at once. But in the soft, peripheral way of a room full of people who have been in love for decades and recognise the particular weather of it when it walks through the door.
An older couple near the stage — she in pale blue, he in a suit that had been good once and was still cared for — had stopped talking to watch you.
A woman at one of the corner tables had her chin in her hand.
Mrs Croft, by the door, was very deliberately looking at her clipboard and failing to look only at her clipboard.
You didn't mind. You were too busy watching Simon watch you.
The band changed tempo at half past nine.
The waltz gave way to something with a different shape entirely — something that moved from the hips rather than the feet, a rhythm that was slower in its pulse and considerably less innocent in its intention.
A rumba.
You looked up at Simon.
He looked down at you.
"I don't know this one," he said.
"I'll show you." you breathed.
You took his hand and placed it lower at your waist, right above the curve of your ass. Deliberately watching his face when you did it, watching the shift in his expression, the way something in his eyes went very still and very focused. "Hip to hip," you told him. "Slower than you think. Let the music pull you."
He followed your lead with an attention that was frankly overwhelming in its completeness.
Simon Riley giving you his full, undivided, physical focus was not a small thing. He was so large and so present and he moved with you rather than against you, adjusting with every shift of your weight, and somewhere in the second minute of the song the counting stopped and something else replaced it.
He drew you closer. His hand at your hip pulled you in until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the warmth of him through the green of your dress and you were very aware of every point of contact, of the music and of the room full of people who had gone very quiet.
Then he turned you.
It was not technically correct. It was not what the dance required. But he turned you in a single, smooth movement that his body had decided on and yours simply followed, because that was what it did with him.
And then he dipped you.
The room tilted. His arm was across your back, solid and immovable, and you were suspended in the amber light with the music around you and your hand at his shoulder.
He lowered you — slowly, with complete control, no hesitation in the hold and then his face was close, very close, and his nose grazed the line of your throat making your breath hitch.
A slow, deliberate graze. The warmth of his breath against your pulse point. You felt it in places that had nothing to do with dancing, between your legs throbbing.
His hand — the one at your hip — slid down, just slightly, just enough, finding the outside of your thigh where the fabric of your dress lay, and he hooked your leg, slowly, around his hip. His fingers at the back of your thigh. Holding you there. His nose still at your throat.
The music resolved. Somewhere behind you, someone started clapping.
He brought you upright. Smoothly, slowly, until you were standing again and his hand was still at the back of your thigh. Your leg still around his hip and your faces were very close. Your heart was conducting itself in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
You were panting. Slightly. Just slightly.
He was not panting. He was looking down at you with the almost-smile, the one that had always been rarer than gold and twice as valuable — and his eyes were warm and very dark and entirely, completely satisfied with themselves.
"You looked that up as well," you managed.
"No," he said.
"Simon—"
"That one," he said, "I just wanted to do."
From the table by the stage, the woman in pale blue was applauding with great enthusiasm. Her husband had two fingers in his mouth and was whistling.
Mrs Croft had given up entirely on the clipboard.
The taxi back was not a long ride.
It felt longer than it was, and shorter than you wanted.
You sat beside him in the back seat with his thigh against yours and the city moving past the windows and neither of you speaking. The silence had a texture to it that was thick and warm and anticipatory in a way that made the air feel heavy in your lungs.
His hand was on your knee. Just resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything — with complete, unapologetic certainty.
You did not move it.
The house appeared at the end of the lane with its white fence and its dark windows and the lavender silver in the moonlight.
You were out of the taxi before it had fully stopped and you were aware how eager this appeared and you didn't care.
Simon paid the driver and caught up with you in three strides because his legs were considerably longer than yours and always had been.
He got to the door first. Key in hand.
The door opened.
And you did not wait for him to step through it.
You took him by the front of his shirt, that black shirt, warm from his body, the fabric bunching in your fists and you lips were suddenly on his.
You walked him backwards through the doorway and you felt the moment his back met the wall just inside and you were already kissing him before he'd fully registered the sequence of events.
Your mouth on his. Your hands in the front of his shirt. Thirty years of it finding its way out all at once, without ceremony, without preamble, without any of the careful management you had been applying to yourself since you were four years old at a preschool art table.
He kissed you back.
He kissed you back the way he did everything — thoroughly, completely, with his full attention and no apparent interest in doing anything else ever again.
His hands came to your face, big and careful, tilting your jaw, and for a moment you were simply inside the realness of him and the warmth of him and the fact that he was here and alive and kissing you in the hallway of the house he'd bought for you.
He pulled back.
"Easy, sunshine," he said against your lips. Low. A little breathless, which you would be privately triumphant about later. The corner of his mouth pulled up in that crooked smile.
You became aware, in the slightly dazed way of someone returning from somewhere, that your hands were still in his shirt and his hands were still on your face and you were standing approximately two inches apart in his hallway.
You also became aware, in the refocusing of your vision, of his mouth.
Of the scar on his upper lip.
You didn't know how you hadn't noticed it before — through dinner, through the dancing, through all of it.
Perhaps you had simply not been this close before. Or perhaps you had been looking at so many things that you hadn't been looking at everything.
It was small, a thin pale line bisecting the left side of his upper lip, old enough to have faded to silver, the kind of scar that had been there for years and had been lived with so thoroughly that the face had absorbed it.
You lifted your thumb and touched it, gently. "How'd you get this?"
He went very still, alert and present and reading you.
You kissed it. Softly. Just that.
Something moved in his throat.
His hands shifted from your face to your waist, warm and settled, and he began to move you gently — backwards, one steady step at a time — turning you both away from the wall and deeper into the hallway. His foot found the door behind him and pushed it closed with a quiet, final click.
"If I tell you about that one," he said, his voice low and even above your head as he guided you past the entrance and toward the stairs, "I'll have to tell you about the rest."
He looked down at you as he said it, that look, the one that said you were the most interesting thing he had ever encountered. The one that made you feel simultaneously seen and slightly undone — and his expression had in it something that was fond and amused and entirely, devastatingly warm.
You kicked your heels off at the bottom of the stairs. They went somewhere behind you. You didn't look.
Your bag went next, dropped against the banister.
"The rest?" you repeated. Your voice came out slightly smaller than you intended. Your eyes, entirely without your permission, moved down the front of him — the black shirt, the breadth of his shoulders, his torso, his thick thighs, all of him — and back up again. Slowly.
He watched you do it. He said nothing.
You swallowed. "Tell me then."
His hand at your waist steered you up the first step, and then the second, and the stairs curved slightly toward the landing above, and at the top of the stairs he pushed open the door to a bedroom.
The room was large and furnished.
A bed, properly large, the kind that accommodated a man his size without complaint. Low lamps on either side casting the same amber warmth as the hall below. Dark wood floors, a window looking out toward the garden, the curtain shifting slightly in a crack of night air.
He kissed you, just inside the door you kissed him back and his hands were at your hips.
Then he pulled back with a groan. Both of you breathing slightly harder than was strictly accounted for by climbing one flight of stairs.
"I want to, sunshine," he said. His voice was very low. Restrained. His hands still on your body, holding you there, his thumbs moving in a small slow motion against the fabric of your dress that was doing nothing to help you think clearly. "I do. But I need to hear it from you first. Your permission. Clear words. I don't want to misunderstand you."
You opened your mouth.
And then your eyes moved, over his shoulder, to the dresser.
A skull mask looked back at you.
You closed your mouth. You looked at it. The mask, white and stark and precise but somehow both alien and completely, recognisably his. The balaclava beside it, folded neatly. And tactical gloves — enormous, black, reinforced, approximately the size of your head.
"That yours?" you asked.
Simon turned his head, following your gaze. He looked at the dresser, then back at you. "Yeah."
"What is it?"
"What I wear on missions."
"Oh," you said.
And then your brain did something entirely beyond your authority. It constructed, with great speed and considerable detail, an image: Simon, broad and enormous, in black tactical gear. Gloved hands. That mask. Hovering over you.
You swallowed.
The image did not leave. It simply settled in, warm and vivid and decidedly unhelpful.
"Sunshine."
His hand came to your face — his big, warm, ungloved hand, his actual hand, the one you knew — his thumb sweeping gently under your eye, bringing you back into the room and the amber lamplight and the present moment.
"Hmm?" you managed meeting his gaze.
His eyes moved over your face with the same comprehensive attention he always gave you.
"Your permission, love," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"Oh." You blinked. "Yes. Yes, you have it. Always."
The almost-smile. "Not for everything I want to do to you." His thumb was still moving, very gently, under your eye. "I'll ask. Multiple times."
You stared at him. "Multiple—"
"Times," he confirmed. His voice was entirely level. His eyes were not.
You pushed his shoulder and your cheeks burned.
He caught your hand as you pushed it and laughed, a low, real, full sound, the kind that you had spent most of your life engineering because it was so rare and so completely, unreasonably good.
You laughed too, properly, the helpless kind, and his forehead came down to rest against yours and you were both laughing in the amber light of his bedroom with the skull mask on the dresser and the lavender outside the window and thirty years behind you and everything in front.
The laughing settled.
Not all at once — it unwound gradually, the way laughter does when it's the real kind, leaving something warm and loose in its place.
His forehead was still against yours. His hands had moved from your face to your waist, both of them now, holding you the way he'd held you on the dance floor — with that complete, unhurried certainty, like you were something he'd been waiting to hold properly for a very long time and intended to do it right.
The amber light of the lamps lay across everything. Through the gap in the curtain, you could see the edge of the garden — the pale shapes of flowers, the dark of the lawn.
"Tell me about the rest," you said quietly.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. "The scars?"
"You said if you told me about the one on your lip you'd have to tell me about the rest." You reached up and touched the scar again — that thin, silver line — with the pad of your thumb. "So tell me about the rest."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and began, without ceremony, to unbutton his shirt.
You were very still.
He did it the way he did everything — without drama, without performance, button by button from the collar down, and when he shrugged it from his shoulders and set it aside you understood, in a way you hadn't before, what eighteen years of that life had written on him.
He was enormous.
You'd known that in the abstract — had known it from the doorframe and the dance floor and the way rooms seemed to reorganise themselves around him — but this was different.
This was the specific, undeniable reality of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the muscle of his arms that carried the tattoo sleeve on the left, the ink wrapping from wrist to shoulder in dark, intricate patterns that in this light you still couldn't fully read but wanted to.
And the scars.
There were more than you'd expected.
Each one a different shape and age and story, written into the topography of him in pale and silver lines. A long one along his left ribs. Something older, fainter, across the top of his right shoulder. A circular scar below his collarbone on the left side that your medical knowledge was sufficient to identify and that made your chest constrict briefly and completely before you put that particular knowledge away for now.
He was watching your face as you looked. Careful. Giving you the time of it.
You stepped forward. You placed your hand flat against his sternum — his heart under your palm, steady and real — and you felt him exhale.
"The lip," you said.
"Kandahar. 2004. Caught the stock of a rifle." He said it the same way he'd told you everything tonight — flat, factual, trusting the fact to carry the weight. "Bit through my lip. Wasn't pretty for a while."
You moved your hand from his sternum to his ribs. Found the long scar there, traced it gently with your fingertips.
"That one."
"Knife. 2009. I moved the wrong way and the other man moved the right way." The shadow of something in his face that was not quite humour and not quite not. "Lesson learned."
Your hand moved to his shoulder. The older, fainter scar.
"Before the military," he said, before you asked. His voice changed, just fractionally. Flatter. Doing more work to stay level. "Not a mission."
You understood. You didn't ask further. You pressed your lips to it instead — gently, just that, your mouth against the old pale mark — and you felt the breath go out of him in a way that was different from all the others. Slower. Deeper.
"Sunshine," he said. Very quietly.
"The one below your collarbone," you said.
A pause. "That one's not a story for tonight."
You tilted your head back to look up at him. "Is it a story for eventually?"
His eyes on yours. Something in them that was considering, assessing, "Yeah," he said. "Eventually."
"Alright," you said. You meant it. You had waited thirty years; you could wait for the story of one scar.
His hand moved to your face. That same gesture from the hallway — his thumb at your cheek, slow and deliberate and he tilted your chin up and kissed you. Not urgently this time. Slowly. Deeply.
His hands found the zip at the side of your dress — careful, unhurried — and he looked at you, a clear question in it, and you nodded, and his hands were very steady and very gentle. Your dress went the way of your heels and your bag, somewhere behind you, unmissed.
He looked at you the way he had looked at you on the porch yesterday, and outside The Grill tonight, and across the restaurant table, and on the dance floor — with that complete, comprehensive attention.
Only now there was nothing restrained about what was in it. It was simply there, open and certain, and it was thirty years of something finally being allowed to be exactly what it was.
"Hi," you said. Which was absurd. Which made him laugh again, low and real.
"Hi, sunshine," he said. His hands at your waist. His forehead dropping to yours.
“Si I need to-“ you breathed in deep, “I um,” he pulled his head away from yours, looking into your eyes with those brilliant brown ones of his.
“What is it Sunshine?” He asked, his finger under your chin tilting your head up.
“I’m, I’ve never-“ you sigh, “I’ve told you so many things, I can’t believe I can’t even say this to you.”
“Do we need to slow down?” He asked, his voice softening.
“No. It’s not that. I mean I’m not a virgin if that’s what you’re thinking I just, no guy has ever-“ you sigh again, your eyes dropping from his.
Simon is quiet. He waits, the way he always waits — giving you the whole space of it, not rushing you toward the end of the sentence.
“Made it good,” you finally say, to his chest. “For me. It’s always just, fine. Maybe sometimes I get close but then it’s over. Not that there’s been loads of guys, maybe three.”
A beat.
You make yourself look up at him.
Something changes in his face.
You see the flare of it.
Anger.
Not toward you — you feel that immediately, the anger isn't at you, it moves through him and settles somewhere else entirely. His jaw shifts. His eyes, for just a moment, go somewhere dark and quiet.
"Every one of them," he says. Low. More to himself than to you.
"Simon—"
"Had you," he says. "And didn't—" He stops. The jaw again. His eyes squeeze shut. "Didn't pay attention."
"It's not—"
"It is." His eyes open. He looks at you, his hands moving to your hips, both of them, settling there with a weight that feels like anchoring, like he needs the contact as much as you do. The darkness has settled now, controlled, underneath everything else.
"And I wasn't here." Something moves through his expression — not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it, something private and old. "Should've been your first, sunshine. Should've been there to—"
He stops himself. His forehead drops to yours.
"I've waited years for this," he says quietly. "I'm not rushing it. And I'm going to pay attention."
“Pay attention?” You ask breathless.
“To every sigh,” he kissed your cheek, “whimper and moan.” His lips moved down to your jaw. “To the way your hips move, the way your back arches, the way you’ll writhe under me, how I’ve imaged it every time I’ve gotten off for the last two decades.” He whispered the last bit into your ear, teeth tugging on your earlobe.
You gasp, “Simon.” Your cheeks burn.
“Oh don’t tell me you never thought about it.” He grins pulling back to look down at you.
You look at the floor sheepishly cause of course you have. Of course you’ve cum the hardest you ever have in your life only when thinking about Simon fucking you.
"Oh you have." He smirked titling his head.
“Shut up.” You push his shoulder and he laughs.
His hands leave your hips and then you're moving, his arms around you, and the edge of the bed meets the back of your knees.
Then his massive paws are in your hair and his lips are on your neck as your back meets the sheets. His weight heavy and solid on you. You could tell he was holding himself up so he didn’t squish you.
He leaned back on his heels, kneeling between your legs. You sighed in satisfaction when his fingers ran over your bare skin. His blunt nails scratching softly where your pelvic bone sits.
"So beautiful Sunshine," He grabs your hips and squeezes, "Fill my hands with you finally." Simon groans. A noise you've been picturing in your head. This and everything else that happens this evening, you truly believe, will be one of those times when reality is better than anything you have imagined.
Simon's brown eyes have always been intense, but right now the way he's looking down at you it's like he is someone else entirely. His eyes almost black with how much they have darkened.
"Simon." You tangle your fingers with his.
"Can I?" He asks. His hand, the one not in yours, trailing down your thigh and stopping on your mound. You clench around nothing when he pushes down, just a little bit of pressure that you feel in your clit and makes your hips buck.
You don't miss the way his lips do the almost smile thing. You nod furiously but he shakes his head.
"Need your words love." He raises a brow.
"Yes, yes Simon touch me." You breathe out, your chest feeling tight when he nods, moving his hand down to cup your cunt over your underwear.
And maybe its because you haven't had sex in three years, maybe its because you are touch starved or maybe its simply because its Simon, but your back arches and your moan is down right pornographic with a simple touch over your underwear.
"So responsive." He mumbles, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit through the fabric. "Get your tits out for me Sunshine, wanna see em." he grunts feeling your underwear getting wet.
Shakily you reach behind your back and unclip your bra. "Been thinking about them for years. What they look like, how they'll bounce when I fuck you." He groans as you pull the straps down your arms and fling the bra on the floor.
His eyes are on your chest, he doesn't blink. Then as if his system has rebooted, he blows air out of his cheeks and whistles low. "Fuck lovie, so pretty. You're a dream." Simon leans forward and wraps his lips around your breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple as his thumb continues circling your clit.
You moan, fingers tugging at his hair.
He comes off your breast with a pop making you whine and push at his shoulder. He grins pressing his thumb firmer against you, while sliding his other hand over your leg, index finger tracing over the small scar on you leg from when you fell off your bike after Simon broke your training wheels.
There was something comforting about this. Simon wasn't someone you had to explain yourself to, he already knew every version of you, he was simply adding this one to his list. This version, open and honest and begging the man you'd known for thirty years to make you cum on his fingers.
This didn't feel like a hook up, not like other guys have, but it felt like two people who have been each other's home for years and they're finally admitting it.
"Kiss me Simon." You're not even sure if what you said made sense with how much you were panting. But he leaned down to graze his lips along yours. Teasing and soft, despite the fast past he'd started to set with his thumb.
"Stop teasing." You huffed.
"Its my favourite pastime." He grinned hooking his fingers in your underwear, pulling them down and moving with them to settle between your legs.
You gasp, when his tongue slides from your asshole to your clit. "Simon!" His dark eyes are locked on yours as he swirls the tip of his his tongue around your entrance. Your toes curl, your head falling back onto the soft bed sheets.
A few occasions, you could count on one hand, had a guy you were with eaten you out and it was good but fuck, it didn't feel like this.
You felt like you were burning all over with each swipe of his tongue, each dip inside your entrance, each pattern he begins to circle over your clit.
He was learning you.
Simon groans against you, his breath hot, it made you dizzy. You feel everything, its too much to quick and your hips start to buck against his mouth.
Simon clearly had no intention of slowing down or stopping as he slides his arms around your thighs and splays his hands over the tops of them locking you in place.
It feels like fire, like molten lava pooling low in your abdomen the harder his tongue presses against you.
You don’t even recognise the sounds coming out of you, it’s as if every movement pulls a new one from you.
His thumb replaces his tongue and he rubs the bump in small circles until you can barely breathe. “Sound so pretty,” he murmurs just as your back arches and you moan loudly into the night air.
He is still speaking but you can’t hear anything he is saying, it’s all blurring together the way your vision is blurring. His thumb slides from your clit down until it’s pushing its way inside you. Your hips jerk away but his other hand is quick to hold you in place.
“No running.” Simon growls.
You cry out when his tongue comes back to torture you, lapping at you like he’s never had a drink and you're fresh water. Soon enough the rhythm he’s built has your hips rolling forward seeking more of whatever he has to give you.
Your hand reaches for his arm and squeezes hard the exact moment your vision turns white and your body shakes, dissolving into pleasure. It's like lightning pulsing through you. He works your through your orgasm, wringing every last wave of pleasure from you before he moves to your lips, kissing you.
“Did so good Sunshine. I’ve got you.” His arms wrap around you, your nipples grazing against the hair on his chest, that alone has you whimpering.
"Need more, want you inside me Simon. Please." You look into his eyes, your shyness gone with your orgasm.
"Okay Sunshine." Simon chuckles, the sound vibrating against you.
He pulls back and gets off the bed before he starts to unbuckle his belt. He pushes his black slacks down along with his underwear, his large, and he was so fucking big, cock already hard.
"Always wondered what you'd be like in bed," He tilts his head with a smirk, "If you'd like being in control. Or if you'd prefer me to lead," He knelt on the bed again, and oh my god Simon Riley, your best friend of thirty years and the love of your life was crawling up the bed towards you until his cock was flush with your entrance. "If you'd be needy and beg. Or if you'd bark orders at me." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit. "If you'd be loud or quiet."
"If you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you," his head titled back, eyes shut, "Fuck Sunshine, the things I've imagined doing to you," He looks down at you with the most intense gaze, pining you there on the bed, "Would you let me lovie? Do whatever I want to you?" He asks, pearly whites peaking out to sink into his bottom lip.
"Like what?" Your breath is so unsteady, so hitched and uneven you feel your cheeks heat even more than they have done at his words.
He grins, "Like what?" He chuckles pushing the head of his cock against your entrance, not in, but resting against it, "Wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk. Make love to you slow and so deep you'll feel me everywhere. Bend you over every surface in this house and make you cry on my cock-"
"Simon!" You gasp.
"Can I Sunshine?" He groans pushing in a little more and your eyes sting with tears at the stretch.
"Yes! Please yes!" He pushes in slowly. One of his hands coming next to you on the bed and the other gripping your hip. He keeps sliding in further, so slowly until its sheathed inside you.
Simon does not move. You can see the restraint within the way his teeth are gritted, his brows furrowed, sweat forming on his forehead.
“Fuck you feel amazing wrapped around me, so tight.” He groans.
You don’t have any words and even if you did, you doubt you would be able to say them. You have never felt so…full. So filled to the brim and unable to get a reprieve from it.
“M’gonna move, gotta move Sunshine,” Simon growls and the fullness disappears for a second before he’s pushing himself back in.
“Fuck you feel so good Si.” You shudder and stars appear in your vision when he moves forward and takes your legs with him folding you in half.
Simon Riley has you in fucking mating press and didn't even break the slow rhythm he's building. He continues this push and pull movement until it begins to flow, each movement begins where the other ends. The pattern making you sob, “Don’t stop!”
You can't function and its only now that you understand the phrase 'being fucked dumb', rocking your hips, trying desperately to keep up with each thrust, back arched so beautifully.
Simon lets his hand slip and curve around your jaw without thinking about it, "Taking me so well Sunshine." The feral look in his eyes sends a shiver up your spine.
"Too big." You sobbed, your hands grabbing at his large biceps as he thrusts harder. He could feel every ridge and curve of your sopping cunt.
"You can take it." He encouraged you, biting at your neck leaving marks in his wake and looking so damn happy whilst doing it.
You continued to moan and whimper, tears of pleasure falling down your face while Simon's huge body hovered over you. Protecting you from the outside world, in here, it was just you and him.
"Si..oh!" you cried out feeling him hit that rough spot inside your weeping, swollen cunt.
"There it is." He didn't mean to grin like a obsessed man in such an intimate moment but he couldn't help himself. He never can with you. Each thrust hits the one place no man ever seems to be able to find but Simon seemingly found with ease. A spot that makes a tightening begin like a coil, being wound with every drive of his hips.
Your sinful noises morph into higher pitched breathy little screams.
"I know lovie, I know." He cooed, holding you closer. His sweat glazed skin meeting yours as his large veiny hand slips under your head, his other arm curling around your waist.
You move your hips and he groans vulgar into the air, his hand gripping your hair and pulling your head back, a little to the side before he attacks your neck all messy. Smearing his lips across your throat, you don’t even recognise the sound that leaves your mouth.
He pulls away, his dark eyes flit to your squelching pussy, the noise attracting his attention pupils dilating, honing in on the way your cunt sucks his cock back in. He couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to and fuck he doesn’t, he wants nothing more than to stay in your pretty pussy forever.
“Simonfuckyespleaserighttheredontstop!” All the words and moans blend together until your mumbling nonsense trying your hardest to keep conscious, it’s difficult with the way he’s fucking into you so deliciously it’s making you delirious in the best way.
His big body towering over yours, big hands gripping you almost bruisingly. His thick muscular hairy thighs press against your skin compellingly, the sight before you, it's irresistible. All you have to do is look down to see his massive cock sliding in and out of you, a ring of white collecting at the base.
It's too much seeing him like this, feeling the sweet pleasure burn through you and yet Simon moves one of his hands off your head and presses a thumb to your swollen, aching clit.
You're done for.
You sob, so fucking loud you swear everyone in the world can hear it, hot tears flow down your cheeks staining them.
"That's it." The words wash over you with your orgasm, it swirls around you, clings to you, and pushes you down down down the rabbit hole of pleasure. Oversensitivity sets in making you whine at his touch, but you can't stop yourself from wanting more.
Your hips buck into his touch eliciting a dirty chuckle from him.
As Simon picks up his thrusts, he comes to the conclusion that he loves you like this, wants to see it everyday. You're so drunk, so delirious and he loves it. Loves the far away look in your eyes right before they roll back into your skull.
He shoves his face into your neck groaning, "Gonna cum Sunshine, need to. Where?" his thrusts pick up again, as if that were even possible.
"Cum inside me Simon, fill me up." You cry out.
Simon must have been right there as he cums the second you finish your sentence. Hot thick robes of cum pushing deep inside you. He rubs your clit faster and another smaller orgasm zips through you leaving you whimpering.
He stays in you, holding you until he goes soft. He moves your legs so they don't cramp. "Did so well for me Sunshine. I love you so much." He looks into your eyes as more tears spill down your cheeks.
"I love you Simon." you bring your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to kiss you. The contrast between the way he just destroyed your guts and is now kissing you so softly, is astounding.
He is careful when he picks you up and walks into the ensuite bathroom to the right, flicking the light on and placing you on the toilet. "Gotta pee sunshine, don't want you getting you a uti." He says and you're so tired you don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Your eyes as still closed as you pee. Your hand moves to find the toilet paper but a warm flannel is being pressed against you, Simon's other hand on your knee to keep them open. You whine and push his hand away, "Simon that's icky." You frown at him opening your eyes to see him looking at you with a frown of his own.
"Nothing about you is icky Sunshine. I'm clearing up my mess, now move your hand." You do as told and it occurs to you, through your tired haze, while Simon gently wipes you clean that he must be used to clearing up mess with the job he does.
"All done. Want a shower or straight to sleep?" He asks.
"Sleep." You yawn making him smile at you.
He carries you back to the bed, lifting the duvet and settling you both underneath it.
The particular quality of afterwards settles in the room.
The warmth of it, the specific silence, the way the world outside the window continues to exist and you become aware of it again in layers. The sound of the garden. The distant sound of a car somewhere. The sound of him breathing.
You were lying with your head on his chest. His arm around you, heavy and warm. His heartbeat under your ear, steady and unhurried, the same heart that had been beating beside you in one form or another for thirty years.
His hand moved. Slowly, idly, up and down your back.
You watched the lamplight glow on the beside table. You thought about the lavender. You thought about the train station in 2001, and the birthday cards, and the bottom stair with the cream envelope, and Margaret Howarth saying you always did belong together with the satisfied certainty of someone who had known it before either of you did.
"Simon," you said.
"Yeah."
"You planted lavender for three years."
"You mentioned that already."
"I'm still processing it."
A low sound in his chest that was the rumble of a laugh contained. "Take your time Sunshine."
You propped yourself up and looked at him. His face in the lamplight — older, marked, those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old, now watching you from a pillow in the house he'd bought you.
His expression was open in the way it had been open on the porch and at the restaurant table and in the dance hall, the way it had been open perhaps three times in thirty years before tonight and was now, apparently, simply his face when he looked at you.
You loved him so much.
You had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life and now you loved him in this one too, this new one, and it was the same love and completely different and you thought you would be discovering its dimensions for a considerable amount of time.
"You should have told me," you said. "Years ago. Before the train."
"Yeah," he said. No argument.
"I would have said it back then too."
Something moved in his face. "I know," he said. And then, quieter, "I wasn't ready then. Wasn't enough yet."
"Simon—"
"I know what you're going to say."
"You were always—"
"I know," he said. "I believe you. Now." His hand came up to your face, tucking a strand of hair back, his thumb at your cheekbone. "Took me a while to get there. But I'm here."
"You're here," you agreed smiling.
"And you're here." his hand tangled itself in your hair.
"I'm here." you giggled.
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, "Stay with me."
Not a question, not quite — more like a hope said aloud. The rarest thing from him. He had carried so much silently for so long, and this one small thing cost him something, and you could see it, and you loved him for it.
"It's my house," you said cheeky and bright.
He blinked. Then that laugh again — the real one, the rare one — and your heart did what it always did when you earned it, that particular, irreplaceable lurch.
"Yeah Sunshine," he said. "It is."
You lay back down against his chest. His arm came around you. His heartbeat under your ear.
Outside, the lavender moved. The Union flag was still on the roof. The porch swing sat in the dark with its yellow cushion, waiting for morning.
"Sunshine," he said. Into your hair.
"Hmm."
"I love you."
You pressed your lips to his chest, above his heart.
"I love you too," you said. "I've loved you since you were that chubby four-year-old who stole my crayons."
A long pause.
"Chubby," he repeated.
"Stocky," you amended, grinning into his chest. "You were very stocky."
"I was four."
"You were a very solid four year old."
His arm tightened around you — not painfully, just firmly, the way of a man making a point through the medium of holding — and you laughed again, helplessly, into the warmth of him.
He made that sound, that low rumbling laugh that lived in his chest, and the lamp burned warm and low and outside the lavender moved in the dark.
Simon Riley.
Who stole your crayons at four and broke your glasses at seven and learned to read because of you and carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and punched a boy for pushing you over and kissed your cheek in a toilet corridor and sat beside you through every lunch and glared at anyone who called you a nerd and came round to your kitchen table for years and went to war at seventeen and sent you cards from the edges of the world and planted lavender for three years and bought you the house you described at sixteen and came home.
"Is there anything you want to say to me?" Michael pants in your ear and wraps his palm around your shoulder, holding you in place as he fucks you. "Anything at all?"
"Wh– What?" The word comes out disjointed as he jostles your body. You think you misheard him with your brain all scrambled from his cock.
"Not even a little gratitude for what I do for you?" Michael asks. He grabs you by the cheeks and tsks, "You call me daddy so often, I thought I deserved at least a little something."
Your face heats with realization. He seems to notice your shock– your mortification, really –and smiles. He lets go of your face, and you say, "Michael, are you–?"
"Michael?" He frowns. Sweat drips down his forehead, down the bridge of his nose until it hangs from the tip. "Try again." The sweat falls, hitting your chest, right between your breasts. Michael dips his head, licking up his perspiration, now mixed with yours, from your skin. He says, "You can say it, I know you want to."
Then, before you can speak, Michael adds mockingly, "Wish your daddy a happy father's day, baby. It'll make me so happy."
