hey! you can call me Lemon or Letty. just lurking and reading fanfics here đł
at first checking Tumblr because of Pedro Pascal character, Pero Tovar, fanfics then i decided to sign up Tumblr to read fanfics of his other characters too.
but then i find more actors and characters that i have a crush on, so yeah multiple fandom but i realize theyâre under one category, DILF đ
i would love to be friends with everyone but currently iâm shit with relationships considering i donât think iâm mentally stable âšâš (just the usual college life that fucked me up)
so anyways here i am to appreciate artist and authors even though i canât give compliments really well. heads up to authors, sometimes i use likes as âreading listâ so i apologize if i make you disappointed or mad that i havenât or forgot to reblog your works.
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, reader is tatted, pierced, and has hair. Race, weight and height are unspecified. blowjobs, piv, drinking, smoking, death, grief, parent issues, mommy issues, abuse, reader is kind of a loser, sawry, facesitting, oral fixations, injured animals, one-night stands, boxing, cockwarming, open ending
photo credits: here, here, here
Part 1
shapsara's masterlist
A/N: I know fuck-all about boxing and a whole lot about mommy issues. I had so much fun writing this series, and these two are a very special little couple to me. The title is taken from an Ethel Cain song titled Mondays. Thank you once again to @dolliecowboys for the encouragement to post as planned, mwah, my tender alien.
"Who's this?"
The man in the photograph has a nice smile. He's blonde and sits in a camping chair, his hand closed around a bottle of beer. Charles is beside him, his hair pulled back, and his face turned away from the camera, saying something to him. The man's eyes are creased in laughter, but you can tell they are blue.
"My old roommate," Charles says, his voice flat. "D'you want sugar?" The question makes you turn your head. Charles never asks. He always knows.
"Sure." You peer at the photo curiously, "Are you two close?"
"Were. He passed." Charles says shortly and hands you the mug.
"Oh. I'm sorry." You say, nearly dropping the mug. "I didn't mean toâ"
"S'fine. You didn't know.
You take a sip of your coffee.
"When did heâ?"
"A year and a half ago. Cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologise." He shrugs, "It's fine. It was quick. Small Cell Lung Cancer." His voice is easy over the name, practised. "Fruit?"
"You don't have to cut it." You pause, and then ask a question nagging at the corners of your mind. "Is that why you came here?"
Shrugging, he takes a sip of his coffee and turns to the counter. The slice of the knife against the apple makes you shiver.
"Yeah. We worked together, and when Arthur got sick, it all sort of fell apart."
You stare at the photograph, your heart pinching a little. Setting the mug of coffee down, you approach him at the counter and slip your arms around his waist.
"Careful. Knife."
You bury your face between his shoulder blades, his hair tickling your cheek.
"You don't have to do that." His voice is quiet, but he sets the knife down and squeezes your hands, clasped over his belly. When you release him, he sweeps the applesâcut into sixths into a bowl and hands it to you with no airs.
You curl up on the couch, Taima in your lap, and eat your apples. Charles tidies his apartment around you, shoving the sheets and the clothes you wore last night into the washing machine and vacuuming his already-clean carpets. The past few times, you had been too preoccupied to properly notice everything, but staying here has become a habit for you. Go to work, fuck, and spend nights curled in his queen bed before you inevitably go home to the whitewashed apartment. You find yourself more and more unwilling to leave.
Thick textbooks are stacked in all corners of his apartment, and you peer at one titled "Understanding Silviculture Technology."
Charles sets the vacuum aside and sits beside you on the couch. You lift the book onto your knee and open it.
"Are you in school?"
"Uh." He scratches the back of his neck. "In a way."
"What the fuck does that mean?" You laugh, setting the book down.
"I do it part-time." He says quietly, "It's my first year."
"Is itâagriculture or something?" His mouth quirks up.
"Forestry." He corrects, "and Conservation."
"I didn't even know you could study that."
"You can."
"And the bar?"
"Helps pay for it." He gestures to his apartment, "And this."
"What'll you do after it?"
"I ain't sure yet." He says softly, "I wanted toâto help, I guess. "
Charles has an odd, sheepish look on his face. You think of the man in the photograph, Arthur, his wide smile. You set the bowl of apples aside and rest your head on his shoulder
You spend the weekend lazing on his couch and playing with Taima. Charles studies at his desk, and you nap in his bed. He slips in with you in the late afternoon, fucks you lazily before tucking you back into his plaid duvet.
When you wake, he's in the living room on his sagging couch.
"Sleep okay?" He says, looking up. His glasses suit him, surprisingly. He does not look so glacial. A book about soil is balanced on his knee. Fascinating.
"I always sleep well here."Stretching out beside him, you lay your head on his thigh. He's wearing pyjama pants, and the fabric is soft and worn under your cheek.
"'Cause you sleep in a real bed." Charles's voice is dry. Absently, he strokes your hair back, fiddling with the hoop at the top of your ear.
"My futon has a lot of life left in it."
"Afterlife, you mean."
"How would you know? You've never even been to my place."
"Cause you won't let me."
You are silent. This is true. He has dropped you off at home many times, and you have not once invited him in. Charles must think it odd. You can tell from the way he lingers a moment after you step inside.
"You're just full of good habits." You say, shutting your eyes. "Studious, non-smoker. Could put that on your Tinder."
"Mhm. I don't use apps."
"You're too good an influence. I haven't smoked since I got here. Or used an app."
"I'm not stopping you."
"From what? Smoking or using an app?"
"Neither. But I figured you weren't using an app, so I meant smoking."
"I don't really want to." You say quietly, and he weaves bits of your hair around his fingers. "Just gives me something to do."
"I've got gum", His voice is soothing, "Tastes awful, but it'll help."
You wrinkle your nose.
 "I'll take it as a no."
"Read to me." You say suddenly.
"You wanna hear about soil formations?"
"Sure, if you're the one telling me about them."
He begins talking about something called pedogenesis, but you aren't really listening. Mostly, you float away on the soft cadence of his voice and drift into a half sleep only interrupted by his hand in your hair.
Slowly, you rub your cheek against the soft bulge in his pyjama pants. It hardens under your touch. You raise your head from his thigh, heaving yourself up on your elbows to take him out of them. He's almost fully hard, and you stroke the vein running up the underside of his cock.
He grunts, trailing off. Moving to set the book down, his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.
"Keep reading."
"How am I meant toâ"
"This gives me something to do." You cut him off. "Let me."
Charles begins again, voice slightly breathless.
Sinking your mouth around him, you settle back down, eyes fluttering shut.
You aren't moving, not really. Only the lazy swirl of your tongue and the occasional bob of your head. He reads on, and you feel your mind go blissfully quiet, drooling around him. Spittle dribbles down the shaft, and you mindlessly reach up to grasp him, smearing it along the length of him. His hips buck involuntarily, and you gag softly.
"Sorry." His voice is strained, and one of his hands comes to pet your hair apologetically. Releasing his cock from your mouth, you look up at him. His glasses slide down the broad slope of his nose. "Didn't mean to."
"I don't mind." You kiss the tip of it, licking at the precome beading at the top.
"If this is what gets you to take a break from smokin', " He says, voice hitching a little, "It's better than gum."
You smile around him as he goes on about the three different types of soil, slowing and speeding up. His hand tightens in your hair as you hollow your cheeks in to take him against the back of your throat, bobbing your head a little bit. His cock twitches, and he groans mid-sentence. As you look up at him, you flutter your lashes at him. Setting the book aside, he removes his reading glasses, and you suck him deeper.
"Come in my mouth." You gasp as you come up for air, stroking him with your hand in place of your mouth.
"Yeah?" He grunts, thrusting into your hand. You lick at the tip where it oozes.
"Please?" You fix him with your most pleading look and smile internally as he groans heavily.
"Open." Charles hooks his thumb into the corner of your mouth, and you open it for him. You feel a little foolishâa little porny- but the way he looks when he comes on your tongue makes that thought dissolve. You swallow it without thinking, and his eyes go dark.
As he settles his big hand on your head, you expect him to push your head down to take him deeper. Instead, he lifts your head off his cock. It's slick and shiny from your mouth. His skin is so deep in colour that the head pulses purple. Wiping the spit and precome from your lips, he leans down to kiss your swollen mouth. You whine as his stubble rasps against your cheek.
"Charles." You say dreamily, still a little drunk off having him in your mouth like that. "I like sucking you off."
He smiles against your lips. "Do you?"
"More than I like cigs."
"I'll take it as a compliment." His voice rumbles through his chest, and you sit up on the couch, turning to face him.
His muscled arms bulge through his t-shirt, and you twine your arms about his corded neck to kiss him. His big hand comes up to cradle your breast through your soft tee, kneading it in his palm till the nipple pokes through the fabric.
Afterwards, you lie on the couch, the throw tangled over your legs and your cheek pressed to his sweat-slick chest. Lazily, you kiss up his bare chest, flicking his nipple with your tongue and nuzzling the smooth skin there. He chuckles as you nip at him, running your teeth along the smooth planes of skin.
"Quit. I'm no good for a while."
"Can I ask you a question?" You say, still nipping at him. You find the vein in his throat and lick up the line of it.
"Sure."
"What happened here?" You reach up to lay your hand against his cheek.
"I was stealin' from a store." He tilts his head to leave a tiny kiss on the pad of your thumb. "And my father found out."
"Your dad did that?"
"Yeah. With a broken bottle."
Running your thumb along the lines of it, you tuck your face into his warm neck. He adjusts the throw around both of you.
"How old�"
"Nine."
"I'm sorry." The air has turned thick and awkward; you wish you'd never asked.
"I hardly think of it." He says, yawning.
"Sorry. I didn't realise."
"What were you like?" He smiles. "As a kid."
"I was straight laced." You say, giggling.
"I find that hard to believe."
Propping yourself on your elbow, you stick your tongue out at him
"I was. Straight As, braces, didn't lose my virginity till I was twenty."
"That's an advanced age to lose it." His voice is serious, but he's holding back a chuckle.
"I lied and told everyone I had a boyfriend called Hans. From Germany."
He strokes the curlicue of a tattoo up your shoulder, tracing the design.
"Then what happened?"
"Uh. Well, I moved away from home and went a bit wild, I guess." You look at his handsome face, the full mouth and the shadow of his stubble along his cheeks. His dark hair is spread out over the arm of the couch, and his ankles are on the opposite arm. "I was studying, and I started working part-time at this tattoo shop."
"Did you like it?"
You smile. "Clearly I did."
Your hand has curled on his collarbone, he takes your wrist and pulls your arm straight. Running his thumb upward, he examines a cascade of images up your arm and forearm. When he releases it, you stretch it over his stomach, studying the contrast of his smooth dark skin against the swirling ink.
"They suit you."
"I think so too." You beam at him. "My mom hates them, though."
"You two close?"
"She calls me sometimes." You fiddle with the necklace he always wears; the surface of the turquoise bead is smooth. "I haven't seen her in a while.
He nods thoughtfully, shifting you to lie atop him rather than next to him, chest pressed to his.
"Family can be like that."
"Is yours?"
"I don't know." He rests his chin on the top of your head, rubbing it against your hair. "I ain't seen my father in years."
You do not ask about his mother, and he does not tell you.
You are just beginning to doze off as he taps you awake.
"I was going to ask you" He says quietly
"Ask me what?"
"I've got a boxing match on Saturday." He hesitates a second."Was going to ask if you'd come."
"As your date?"
"You don't have to." He says hastily, as if you aren't both naked. "Justâthe other fighters bring their girls."
"But I'm not your girl." An unease roils in your stomach.
He runs his hand down your stiffening back.
"No. But you're new here and I thought you might enjoy it. Their girlfriends make a night out of itâbets and stuff. They dress up."
"Okay. Yeah. I'll come." Relaxing, you settle back down on his chest.
"I'll pick you up at seven, then."
The venue is tucked into some alleyway, only a small neon sign indicating that it even exists. When you enter, it is like a different world. A bar is set up, and the bartender is slammed with people shouting over him. The corner next to the makeshift ring is a tiny woman with cropped hair standing on a stool. A small herd of men are gathered around her. With the air of a war general, she begins to sermonise. They all nod in unison.
"That's the other gym's owner." Charles's hand is warm on your lower back as he guides you through the crowd.
"And your gym?"
"Over here." He steers you towards a small cluster of foldable chairs, sticky notes are plastered to them with "RESERVED" scrawled on each one. Charles's gym consists of four scraggly-looking fighters, thick with muscle. The girls they brought are squashed together in a row of seats, sparkling and pretty. Charles turns to you.
"Gonna go warm up and change. You'll be alright here?"
One of the girls looks up at you and beckons you onto the free seat beside her.
As he turns away, you catch him by the sleeve of his t-shirt. Impulsively, you press your lips to his cheek, right over the scar. You can feel its ridges against your mouth.
"Good luck." You whisper, and when you pull back, a smudge of dark lipstick stains his cheek. Briefly, he lifts his hand and touches the spot where you kissed him. Then, he nods and disappears into the throng of people.
The girl you sit beside is called Ellie, she slips her arm through yours and compliments your tattoos. She smells like bananas. Pointing out a huge bald man, she blows him a kiss that makes him flush bright red.
"You're with Charles?" She waggles her eyebrows, twisting a curl of her pale hair around her finger.
"Yes. Iâwe work together."
"The Lone Wolf." She giggles. "They've all got stupid names like that. Simon calls himself "Viking" and that one over there with the "Annihilation."
"Lone Wolf? Charles chose that?"
"It's better than "Annihilation."" She shudders. "Or "Viking."
"Anything's better than Annihilation." And the two of you burst out laughing.
The two of you find the bar and take shots of strawberry-flavoured vodka. Ellie showcases an incredible memory of statistics and picks out each fighter with the precision of an expert. As you are starting to think that they would probably benefit from having Ellie as a coach, the lights in the audience dim and a buzz of excitement fills the air as the first two fighters walk out to music so loud that it makes you clap your hands over your ears. She points to a skinny fighter called Grant "THE PROFESSOR" and tells you he is going to win.
You decide Ellie knows her stuff.
The noise is too loud, too immediateâEllieâs hand clamped around your forearm, bodies surging to their feet, the sharp metallic ring of the bell still echoing somewhere in your skull. Charles is already moving across the canvas, light on his feetâgraceful.
He looks different in the ring.
âWatch his left,â Ellie shouts over the noise, though you donât know who sheâs talking about, Charles or the other man.
The opponent is stockier, heavier in the shoulders. He comes in swinging fast, sloppy power. Charles doesnât meet it. He slips it. Steps back. Let the blows cut air where his head used to be.
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
âSee?â Ellie leans close to your ear. âHe waits. Thatâs his thing.â
Then, the other man moves so fast that Charles reels backwards.
"That's a foul!" Ellie says indignantly.
"What?" You say distractedly, watching Charles fold over a little as he catches his breath.
"He used his elbow. The ref should call it." Ellie says, her voice snapping. The murmur of the crowd turns much the same, and an uneasy silence settles over the audience as they wait for the referee to call it. He does not.
Someone shouts, echoing Ellie's sentiment. Still, the ref doesn't call it, and the other man swings another blow at Charles. This time, Charles dodges it neatly and lands a blow that sends the fighter reeling into the canvas.
He wins. The crowd roars, and the referee raises Charles's wrist over his head. The men from his gym claw at the cage and clap each other on the shoulder. As he shoulders his way through the throng of people around him, laughing and cheering, you hang back. But he pushes past them all, nodding and shaking hands until he stands before you, skin gleaming from exertion, the hot flush of adrenaline still on his face and his hair plastered against his face. He kisses you, punch-swollen knuckles grazing your cheek. You slide your hand against his sweat-slick cheek and tangle it in his damp hair. The other fighter cheers louder, and when you finally break away from each other, Charles slips his arm over your shoulder, keeping you close to him.
The two of you take a taxi to his placeâdespite the insistence of everyone to stay and get drunk. Charles declines politely, his hand clamped on your waist. He dresses and practically hauls you into the taxi. The driver rolls the partition up, and you tear at each other.
"That was so hot." You whisper into his mouth, your arms around his neck, yanking him closer in the back of the taxi.
"That's what gets you off?" Charles murmurs, mouthing your neck. "You're a strange girl."
"It was." The radio blares, making your ears ring."Think I'm lying?"
"I think you're good at feeding a man's ego."
Taking his hand, you guide it under your skirt, to the damp spot in your panties. He stifles a groan against your neck, and you buck your hips against his fingers.`
"Feel how wet I am. Think I'm just saying it?"
"Wait" Charles grits out, shifting to adjust himself in his jeans. He withdraws his hand, and your cunt clenches painfully. "Ain't long till we get back."
You whine softly in protest. Taking his hand, you mouth his fingers, tasting yourself on them and hollowing your cheeks. You can barely see the gleam in his eyes in the dark cab, and you paw around in his lap to feel the heft of his cock through his jeans. He closes his hand around your wrist, hard.
"Wait. Or I'llâI won't be able toâ" He swallows. "Wait. I want to be inside you."
"Jesus. Okay, Yeah. I want that too." You say breathlessly.
He drags a hand over his mouth, not letting your wrist go. You settle into his side till he slips his arm over your shoulder, smelling his sweat, his aftershave.
Finally, finally, you make it back to his place, and he limps inside, collapsing on the couch, his eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion.
"You need a shower," You say blithely, sitting beside him and leaning forward to sniff at him.
"Yeah." He leans back, not moving. You curl into his side, and he winces, but slips his arm around you. You poke his ribs.
"Quit." He grunts. "It's sore."
"Poor baby." You giggle. "Guess you'd better rest."
"I didn't say that." He says hastily. "Ain't that bad."
"Wouldn't want you to overdo it."
"Pfft, I'm used to this."
"Want your prize?" You whisper, and he turns his head towards.
"Depends on what it is."
Good lord.
"Go shower first." You nip his earlobe and leap off the couch to catch Taima in your arms and kiss her little forehead. Charles scowls and heaves himself off the couch, limping into the shower. You hear it turn on and stand on the carpet in his bedroom. You stare at the shower door. Then, you pull your top over your head, unzip your skirt and take off your socks. You step into the steam-filled bathroom. Charles stands under the hot spray, hair soaking wet and water streaming down his chest. From the neck down, he's black and blue. Some parts of him are just swollen, but bruises are beginning to form on his stomach and his chest. His lip is split, and when you press your nude body to his, he grunts a little.
"Thank you." You barely hear yourself over the shower. "I had fun."
He strokes your damp hair back and presses his lips to your forehead.
"I'm glad." He murmurs. "I liked having you there. Was nice to have someone there for me."
You try to hide the surprise from your face.
"You haven't brought anyone before?"
"Nah. The boys there keep tryin' to set me up with friends, butânothing stuck."
He opens his mouth like he may say something else, but you silence him with a kiss. Charles's mouth opens to yours, you taste the blood on his lip and his tongue slides against yours. He searches between your thighs and slides a thick finger into you. You gasp.
"I'm supposed toâ" You say as he crooks his finger inside you, the hot water almost scalding against your skin. "You're tiredâ"
"Hush," Charles adds another finger. "Never too tired for this."
"Let me." You say, reaching for his cock. He's already hardening when your fingers brush him, but he swats you away. Thumbing your clit, he eases another finger in, and you whine into the damp plane of his shoulder. You've come twice when the two of you stumble out of the shower, flushed from the water. Your knees knock together as you dress in one of his shirts, and he slumps onto his bed in just his boxers. You settle in beside him, poking at his arm.
"Charles." You hiss. "Charles?"
But he's already asleep, still half hard but snoring quietly. You tuck the blankets over yourself and burrow under his armpit. The vodka, the hot water and the orgasm send you to sleep so fastâbut not before you think
Charles didn't even come. You'll fix that tomorrow, you promise yourself. Fair's fair.
Morning comes fast, light spilling through the curtains. Charles is still asleep, and bruises are splotched across his face and torso. Splotchy, flowering in violet bursts across his body. If he was sore yesterday. Jeez. He rolls onto his back, throwing the blanket off his legs, and you catch a glimpse of the bulge in his boxers. You reach across his stomach to cup him in your hand, and he hardens. Muttering, he stirs.
"Morning." You whisper.
"Mm. G'morning."
"You look like shit."
"Feel like shit too." He chuckles, yawning. "You'd think I'd get used to this."
"Getting beat up?"
"Mm. Been doin' it for years now."
"Are you a masochist?" You ask curiously.
"Do I like gettin' beat up?"
"Hm."
"I don't get off on it if that's what you mean."
"Not exactly. I justâwhy would you do it otherwise?"
"I'm good at it." He says quietly. "I have always been
Tracing the tattoo curling along your shoulder, he sighs.
"D'you like gettin' these?"
"I've never really thought about it. But yeah. I think so. It helps with other stuff. It turns my brain off, I guess. "
"Guess it's the same then. It helps."
Reaching down again, you press the heel of your palm to him. He grunts softly.
"Want me to?"
Charles gives an affirmative grunt, and you slip your hand into the waistband of his boxers. He's rock hard by the time you circle your hand around him. You prop your chin on his chest and stroke him gently. The tip of his cock leaks down the shaft, and you spit in your hand to slick him. He bucks a little, lifting his hips off the bed.
"Shit." He says, all breathless. "I don't think I can move."
"That's okay." You soothe, thumbing the leaking slit. "You don't have to."
"Wanna fuck you though. Didn't get to last night."
"Lie back." You release him and let him prop himself up against the headboard, groaning as it jostles his bruised ribs. Swinging a leg over his hip, you straddle him. He slides a hand up the soft t-shirt you pilfered from his drawer and thumbs your hardening nipple.
Raising yourself onto your knees, you push your panties to the side, lifting your shirt so he can see the tip of his cock breach your entrance.
"Sit." His voice is strained. "Please, just sit on it."
"I will." You promise, reaching down to rub at your clit. "You're always saying to be patient."
"There's a time and a place."
Charles's eyes go dark with want. You decide you'll tease him another time. You sink onto him slowly, feeling every vein, every ridge of it inside of you. Your wet dribbles down his cock as you fit yourself around him. Charles throws his head back, a soft groan escaping his lips, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Move." He whispers, voice laced with desperation. He does not sound like himself; his cock twitches. "Please move."
"Relax." You run your hands over his torse, admiring the thick, muscular build. His biceps, a vein in them bulging as one hand comes to fist in the sheets. His stomach, painted with bruises, quivers as he pants. "Relax. I'll take care of you."
Painfully slow, you begin to rock your hips in slow, controlled movements, only the slightest undulation makes his hips jerk and his cock pulse. The upward curve of it drags inside of you, a loud moan escapes your lips, but you keep the pace. Lifting your shirt over your head, you toss it to the bedroom floor, bringing your hands up to your breasts to squeeze them together. You pinch one of your nipples till it is swollen and painful and then lean over him so he can suck it into his mouth. Raising yourself, you sit back up, watching his face, flushed with pleasure.
"Charles." You whimper. "You're so deep. I'm so full."
He runs his big hand up your belly and cups the bulge of his cock in your belly for a moment.
Then, he flattens his palm between your breasts, spreading it so wide that his fingers bite into the soft flesh there. You toss your head back, hips stuttering.
"God, you're pretty." He mumbles. "So pretty. Could come just from lookin' at you."
"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy.
"Thought that when I met you." He goes on, voice slurred with pleasure. "I got hard just watchin' your mouth round a bottle.
â That easy?â You murmur, adjusting the pace so you are raising yourself, almost off his cock and sinking back down, painfully slow.
The blooming bruises on his ribs have darkened, and his grunts are half-pain, half-pleasure. Tentatively, you stroke your hand up his belly and press down on one.
Charles comes immediately, filling you with spurts of hot come. A garbled apology escapes his lips, and he falls back onto the pillows, chest heaving.
"You are a masochist." Unable to hide the glee from your voice, you roll off of him, his come dripping down your thighs.
"Shut up. Was justâit was just a lot." He groans, resting the back of his hand against his sweaty forehead.
"Mm. It was." You fall back next to him.
"Sorry." He says abruptly. "You didn't finish."
"That's fine. I can take care of it myself."
Charles looks horrified.
"Nah. No. Let me make it up to you."
"Ha! You can't even sit up." You tease.
"Sit on my face." He says firmly.
"Huh?"
"My mouth still works."
"Jesus. Charles." You feel your skin grow hot and prickly.
"Are you embarrassed?" He says plainly, as if discussing what to have for dinner.
"No!" You say quickly, "Just concerned for your well-being. You took a few swings to the face."
"My face is fine." He says patiently, "Sit on it."
"There's stillâit's a mess down there." You gesture towards your cunt, swollen with use and dripping come. "There's come everywhere."
"It's my come, ain't it?" He arches a brow.
His logic is irrefutable.
You toe off your soaked panties, discarding them somewhere in the room. Hesitantly, you brace a knee next to his head, gripping the headboard for support. He squeezes your trembling thigh.
"Sit properly." His voice is a little muffled, his come and your wet trickle down your thighs in an embarrassing display of desire.
"I am sitting." You grit out.
"You aren't. My neck hurts trying toâ" Putting both his hands on your ass, he drags you down till you are flush with his mouth.
"Charles." You gasp. "I'll suffocateâohâyou."
He laughs, or tries to. All that comes out is a quick exhale that hits your clit and makes you squirm, white-knuckling the headboard. His hands are so strong that there is nowhere to move, no respite from his relentless mouth. He licks down the sensitive centre, making you arch your back and grind into his face. Your thighs muffle his sigh of approval.
"Y'taste good." He mutters, taking your clit into his mouth and sucking hard. His teeth graze it gently, and you make a humiliating noise.
"Charles." You lean forward, forehead bumping the headboard. "S'good."
Tangling your fingers in his hair, you buck your hips against his face as he spears you with his tongue. He cleans up his own spend, kissing and licking at you till you are so sensitive you could cry. You close your hand over your mouth to stifle your moan when you come on his face. Your clit throbs, reddended and abused. You slump as the orgasm thrums through your body. Charles grasps your thighs and drags them down, arranging you so you lie on top of him, your head tucked under his chin. When you look up blearily, he's grinning and passing the back of his hand over his glossy mouthâfilthy man. Your limbs are loose and pliable under his touch, and he drapes you around himself, uncaring of his sore spots. You yawn.
"Could sleep a couple more hours." He pets your hair slowly.
You are already gone.
You wake to Charles's gentle hand on your shoulder.
"Hey." He says softly and briefly, you remember the way your mother used to wake you. Shouting through the door and barging into your bedroom. Charles has dressed, his hair is tied back, and he wears soft sweatpants and a hoodie zipped over his bare chest.
"What time is it?" You mumble.
"Five." He strokes your bare shoulder lazily.
"Five?" You shoot up in his bed. "I've slept the whole day?"
"Not the whole day. Just most of it."
"I've got a shift at seven," You moan, slumping back and pulling the covers over your head.
"I know." He says, pulling them back. "I made dinner. Then I'll take you."
"What if someone sees you?"
"I'll drop you a block away if you want." He soothes. "C'mon. Eat something. Must be hungry.
You are hungry, you realise. You haven't eaten since yesterday.
You sit at the table, legs crossed and his shirt soft against your skin as he puts a gargantuan bowl of pasta in front of you. You take a tiny bite. It's good. Better than all the buttered toasts and microwave meals you eat at your own place.
"This is fuckin' good." You mumble through a mouthful of pasta. "Really good."
"That's because it's real food." He says blankly.
"I'm an awful cook." You say, swallowing. "I could never get the hang of it."
"You don't have to." He says so quietly that you barely hear him."Want more?"
You eat three bowls of pasta before you finally step into the shower to clean the sweat off your skin. He drives you to the Old Light, a thermos full of coffee pressed into your hand and drops you off a block away. Before you get out, you press a kiss to his cheek, right over his scar.
"Thank you, Charles." You say quietly. "It was good pasta.
. . .
 You wake to the loudest noise you've ever heard.
If someone is robbing me, they are going to be disappointed.
The afternoon sun floods in. Sitting up on your futon, you fumble for your rubber slides. They live somewhere under the nightstand you'd dragged in from the curb. You find one and hold it up in defence. Pressing your back against the terrace window, you pull the curtain back a tiny bit to peer through it. Slowly, you open the door and creep onto the balcony.
"Who's there?" Your voice comes out shaky. Not very threatening. "I have a weapon!" You slap it against your palm threateningly.
Crickets.
Bursting out onto the balcony, you brandish the slide at the intruder. There is nobody on your small concrete balcony.
Then, your eyes land on a heap of mussed feathers. The heap lets out a pathetic little noise, and you inch closer.
It's a bird. A crow, to be more exact. Its beady little eyes stare up at you beseechingly. It lies on its back, the wing stretched out at an odd angle. You stare at it and then look back at your window.
"Hello." You whisper. It lets out a half-hearted cheep in response.
Charles is at yours in about ten minutes.
The bird that you have carefully transferred to a shoebox that used to contain a disintegrating collection of CDs. Charles said not to feed it, so you don't. Instead, you sit cross-legged on the floor of your apartment, peering into the shoebox. The crow chirps occasionally, but mostly just looks at you with those disturbingly human eyes.
Carefully, you poke your finger into the box. The glittery acrylic nails that you'd paid dearly for flash, and the crow nips at your finger gently.
"No need to be a prick." You say to it, it gives an indignant chirp and snaps its beak at you again.
The knock at the door is brief, but unmistakable. You open itâCharles stands with a plastic bag in his hand. His hair is ruffled, and his high cheekbones are flushed from the cold. You look down at yourself. The worn-out pyjama pants and slippers.
"I stopped for some stuff. I figured you're still movin' in."
Widening the door, you let him in. He takes his shoes off at the door. His socks say "BEST UNCLE EVER" and have an arrow pointing up to him.
"I didn't know you had siblings." You point at his feet, barely concealing a smile.
"I don't. It's my friend's kid. Jack."
"Must be close friends."
He nods briefly and sets the bag down.
Kneeling beside your futon, he squints into the shoebox. The crow looks back at him, framed by your worn-out dishrag. Charles rests the tip of his finger on the edge of the box. The crow does not nip it. Little asshole.
"Looks young."
"How can you tell?"
Closing his hand over yours, he guides it into the box. The tip of your finger brushes the crown of its head. The charcoal feathers are fluffy.
"The feathers are softer, lighter when they are young." You withdraw your hand. "The adult feathers are coming in, though."
He points to its back, where sleek black feathers begin to poke through the fuzz.
"What's wrong with it?"
Reaching into the bag, Charles pulls on a pair of disposable gloves. He lifts the bird into his big hands with supreme gentleness. Raising it to eye level, he examines it. It caws indignantly as his fingers brush the wing.
"Yeah, something's up with the wing. Ain't sure if it's broken or not."
He sets it down carefully.
"The wildlife centre's closed on Sundays. I can drive it there tomorrow."
"Should weâfeed it or something?"
"Might still be shocked. Could try water."
You find a straw from the takeout you got the other night and hold it under the tap. You hold it out to Charles.
"You wanna try?" He says softly.
"I don't want to hurt it."
"You won't."
Kneeling beside him, you let him guide your hand, clasped around the straw to the birds mouth. It opens it, gulping down the drops of water thirstily.
"That's enough, wouldn't want to shock it more."
He sets the lid of the shoebox over it.
"Won't it be dark?" You sound anxious, to your own surprise.
"Yeah. Let it rest a bit. Ain't too good for them to have so much handling."
Stripping off the gloves, he tosses them in the trash can beneath your sink.
"Is this all your stuff?" He scans the apartment. Your CD player is plugged into the wall, the empty walls. The cardboard boxes still have not been unpackedâdespite months of being here.
"I moved on pretty short notice."
He looks at your futon pointedly.
"It's comfortable."
Pressing his hand to the corner, he presses down on it. It makes a soft deflating noise.
"I got you some cleaning stuff." He gestures to the bag, "Theres food if you want it."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't." He says patiently. "I want to."
"No ulterior motives?" You raise a brow at him.
"I've struggled before." He says plainly. "It's not easy."
"I'm not struggling!" You say, stung.
"I'm not talking about money." His voice is flat. "It's tough to move alone. It's tough not to have anybody."
You open your mouth to say something nasty, but the words die on your tongue.
"This is what friends do." His voice turns low, soothing. "Help each other."
"I don't help you." You mutter.
"It isn't meant to be transactional." He smiles, and you feel your heart soften a little.
The little crow has quieted.
. . .
The text from your mother is deceptively casual, but you know that it isn't. The little heart icons at the end and the endearment of darling mean nothing coming from her. It is a veiled request to nose around your apartment, to see how you've been living since you left her beloved-to-be son-in-law in the middle of the highway. To tell you: See? You should call him. Look at how you've been living. You don't even have a bed. You will never forget the look on her face when you told her you would not marry him, the ashen realisation that could not show-pony you to her friends. You will not be the daughter with a shiny degree above the mantle and a husband who will be a surgeon. You will not give her grandchildren, despite her insistence that your biological clock is ticking and that one child is really not that difficult.
You decide you will buy a bed.
After hours of searching online and weighing up the expenses, you decide on one. It's a wooden framed bed. You buy sheets tooâdark red ones. They'll brighten up the space a little. The box is finally delivered, and it stares at you, a cardboard behemoth that takes up most of the space in your apartment.
You do the only logical thing, and phone Charles.
He picks up after a few rings, and you hear a soft female voice in the background. You stiffen.
"Hey. You alright?"
"Yeah. I'm fine. Iâsorry, am I interrupting you?"
"No. I got a minute."
"Um. I ordered a bed from Ikea." You falter. Maybe it's his girlfriend, a hemp-wearing, incense-burning, granola-eating woman. She also hikes. "I can't figure out how to build it."
"Okay. I can come over tonight."
"I don't expect you to do it for free." You say, "If it was your job before, then I'll pay you what you would have made."
He is over at seven, still wearing his reading glasses that sit slightly askew and carrying a toolbox in his hand, filled with things you don't even use. You sit cross-legged on your floor watching him squint at the instructions and thenâas if by magic. The bed begins to appear in your apartment. His biceps bulge as he hammers nails and lifts the slats of wood. You fix yourself a bowl of cereal and watch him quietly.
"How come the change of heart?" He says, turning his head back to look at you.
"No reason." You shrug, staring into your bowl of Lucky Charms.
"That so?"
"My mom is visiting." You say shortly. "I don't want to give her another reason to be disappointed in me.
"Why would she be disappointed in you?" He looks up.
"Because I'm a dropout, I'm broke, and I'm fucking my co-worker."
"You're figuring it out."
"How would you know?" You say, a little nastily. Charles does not take the bait.
"I spend a lot of time with you." He shrugs, pushing his hair off his face. "It's okay to take a different path."
"Which path is that?"
"Whatever is right, I guess." Setting the hammer down, he slumps beside you on the wall.
"I was engaged." You say, abruptly. Charles turns his face to you; it is carefully blank."I broke it off with him."
"Why?"
"I don't know." Your voice trembles, unable to stop the flood of words. "He was fine. Perfect, even. My parents loved him. I loved him."
Charles looks at you, and you look straight ahead.
"But, I made him pull over, and I told him I wasn't going to do it."
"Do you regret it?"
"No."
"Then it's alright. Your mother will get over it."
You set the bowl of cereal down and look at your newly made bed. Suddenly, you are elated. A bed. A whole bed, just for you. No more waking up with a crick in your neck, or peering under the futon for black mould. A real bed.
"Thank you, Charles." You set the bowl of cereal down and look at him. He's a little sweaty, the smooth brown skin and dark hair gleaming with it. You nose the curve of his bicep, bulging through his t-shirt.
"You're welcome." He says, lifting his arm so you can burrow into his armpit. The clean scent of detergent fills your nose.
He stays at yours for only the second time. You do not fuck. You strip down to your underwear and curl into your new bed, staring up at the ceiling. Charles lies beside you, his breathing soft and even.
"If your landlord is okay with it, I can help you paint the place." He says quietly, over the whir of the fan.
"Pink." You murmur. "I want pink."
"Sure. Make sure it's okay. I'll take you to the hardware store whenever you want."
The idea fills you with ridiculous joy. A pink apartment, just for you.
Shutting your eyes, you dream of this. An apartment, cotton candy pink.
The mother who visits your apartment, all cleaned up just for her, is not the mother you left behind.
Your sheets are starched, and the bed is made with tucked-in hospital corners. This is the work of Charles, who had woken up before you and tidied your whole place. For his size, he is surprisingly silent, mirroring his cat. He leaves quietly, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
The mother who visits is softer, quieter. She has more silver hair and wrinkles around her eyes. She brings you a bag of food, stacked tupperwares full of childhood favourites.
The mother who visits does not outwardly criticise; she does not prod with harsh tones. It is only her look of disdain that lets on, when she sees your empty home that had looked so full with Charles cooking breakfast, building your bed. The sheets you bought look stark against the white walls of the place, and your piles of CDs and high heels look juvenile. She does not tell you that she wants you to see the surgeon who was to be your husband; she only says that he came to dinner, and did you know he got a pay raise? And did you know he fixed a baby's heart? And didn't you know thatâ? You tune it out, you pick at the food she brought you. You tell her briefly of the bar, of your life here. You carefully omit details, Charles, the nights off you spend together. You imagine what she would say if she saw his face, his long hair and scarred cheek. Somehow, you want to protect him from that. You want him to be untouched by her disdain. Charles, your best friend. Your only friend since you moved out here. You do not want her to lay a hand on him, even in your mind.
But she does. When you go to the washroom to collect yourself, to smooth your hair and take three deep breaths. You hear her sharp cry, your name.
When you come out of the bathroom, she holds up two items of clothing between her thumb and forefinger. A man's sock that says "BEST UNCLE EVER" and a bra of yours, lacy and purple. Her face is livid.
"This thing between us?" You snap. "It's done. I'll give you your shit at work."
"Did seeing your mother go okay?"
"It's none of your business." Your temper flares in your belly, your vision swims red.
"Okay." He says softly. "If you don't want to tell me."
"I don't want to see you again." You repeat helplessly, trying to gauge some reaction from him. "It's pointless."
"If that's what you think."
"I don't want you to come over and play houseâI don't want to babysit your fucking cat." You hiccup. "I don't want any of this. I don't want you."
The line goes dead.
You see him next at work, where he gives you the slightest of nods. You put his socks in front of his locker, the only things he left at yours, and you find your clothes in a plastic bag in front of yours, all folded and laundered. You eat alone in your apartment and find yourself eating packet after packet of instant noodles. You bite into an apple and throw the rest away because you can't be bothered to cut it. You ask your landlord if you can paint the place, and she says yes. You go to the hardware store and buy the most atrocious shade of pinkâfar from cotton candy, more Pepto-Bismol. You fall asleep with paint in your hair, and one wall painted a patchy pink.
You go out to some dive bar alone and get drunk, as per your routine. Once you are done, you slip outside and vomit into a bush. Before you know it, your phone is in your hand, and you are pressing Charles' contact on it, a little boxing glove icon at the end of his name.
You hear him breathing on the other end, Taima's soft purr.
"I'm just calling to sayâI'm sorry." You mumble, "I shouldn't have said it. I didn't mean it."
"Are you okay?" His voice is urgent. "Did something happen?"
"No, no." You hiccup, "No, I think I'm fine." A heaving sob escapes you, and you clamp your hand over your mouth.
"Are you crying? Charles' voice is soft, and the phone static crackles.
"I'm just really fucking drunk." You sit down on the curb and try to wiggle your toes in your boots, which pinch you punishingly. "And my feet hurt."
"Where are you?" You can hear him shuffling.
"I don't know." You sob, "I'm sorry. I don't know."
"That's okay." His voice is soothing, "Are there any signs or shops?"
"There'sâa 7-11, I think. Near the bus stop."
"Okay. Stay put." He says quietly, "I'll come get you."
When you see his car, you almost collapse with relief. He comes out and, taking one look at you in the stupid red sweater and skirt you wore, pulls you close to his chest. His big hand threads cradles your head to his chest, and you snuffle into his hoodie. The clean smell of his detergent fills your nose.
"It's alright." He says softly, rubbing your back. "C'mon, I'll take you back."
"I'm a failure," You are wailing drunkenly, clutching at him. "I'm a bad daughter."
"You aren't." Charles murmurs. "It's okay. Doesn't matter what she thinks."
"I care what you think." You howl, and a rumble of wry laughter goes through him.
"Thought you didn't want me and my fucking cat." He pulls back, stroking your hair from your face.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was a bitch."
"You ain't." Charles's brow knits.
"I am." You snuffle into his hoodie.
"How 'bout I take you back?"
"Where?"
"Mine, if you want."
Before you can think, you are nodding gratefully. He helps you into his car, tucking his hoodie over your bare knees and clipping on your seatbelt.
"Charles?" You say, as the engine kicks into gear.
"Yeah?"
"You're my best friend." You whisper.
"I know. You're mine, too."
Resting your head against the glass pane, you watch streetlamps whizz past you in man-made comets. The nighttime spell of a new city, the cool glass against your cheek. The golden glow turns fuzzy with the alcohol coursing through your system. You look at Charles, his dark hair. His face illuminated by the streetlights, and you thinkâthat even if your family abandons you for the sin of being mediocre and the world courses aheadâsurgeons and lawyers and self-made millionaires- that you will be alright, just where you are.
could we possibly have more Bruce x Pregnant Reader please? the domestic fluff of this trope tickles me in a way i yearn for. (àČ„â _â àČ„)
đŐ Üž.ËŹ.ÜžŐ𩯠ââââ relief .á
in which bruce provides just the right amount of relief!
( bruce wayne x pregnant!reader | fluff )
chubby speaks! : lmao someone in my inbox mentioned that i forgot to warn y'all that the reader was pregnant in my last bruce fic and it made me giggle mb!!
bruce was overprotective, you knew that from the moment you got involved with himâit all made sense when you learned of his story and especially when you learned that your some what normal boyfriend was actually the caped crusader that roamed the dangerous streets of gotham.
but when you became pregnant? oh it was a whole different ball game. if bruce had it his way you would never leave the bed until the day of the birth. yet you were restless, you needed to be active however you were nearing the end of your pregnancy and you desperately wanted to stay in bed.
but you were also petty and you didnât want to prove him right.
so here you were, in the batcave, helping with files as your worrywart husband loomed over your shoulder. it didnât matter where in the cave he was atâhis eyes remanded on you. he cringed when you stood, winced when you hissed out in pain and he most definitely walked closely behind whenever you walked anywhere.
âalmost done here mama?â he asked as he walked over to where you stood, waiting for some papers to finish printing. you just hummed, leaning your back against his chestâhead resting on his shoulder.
âshould be a couple more minutesâ you yawned out. bruce watched as you shifted your weight from foot to foot as you tried to get comfortable with standing yet no relief ever came. so without much thought bruce wrapped his arms underneath your swollen belly and lifted your stomach.
you gasped in surprise, hands quickly shooting towards his wrist but instead of questioning what he was doing your body let out a shaky yet satisfied moan as the weight of your child had seemingly been passed on to bruceâs arms.
âholyâ you breathed out âthat feels amazingâ he smiled, swaying the both of you from side to side as he held the weight of his world in his hands.
bruce would never admit that he learned of this technique due to a tik tok video dick had sent him the moment he had learned of your pregnancy but he was thankful nonetheless. especially since you seemed so relievedâhe just wished he had done this way sooner.
âcan we have brownies?â he laughed, a genuine laugh that came from the pit of his stomach âlets get you into bed and ill see what alfred could muster upâ
Summary: During a vacation in Brazil, Carlos and you spend some intimate moments together. One of them includes having your first time with him.Â
Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, FLUFF, loss of virginity, Carlos and Reader are in their mid-twenties, fingering, handjob, making-out, unprotected sex, titplay, P in V, talking about masturbation, inexperienced reader, cowgirl position, lotus position
Word Count: 6.1k
A/N: Welcome to my first Oneshot for my 2k Followers Celebration! Grab some snacks, drinks and get cozy! Thank you so much to everyone who sent ideas in and voted, I had so much fun reading your messages. Sweet @rositxespinosa had the great idea for a first time oneshot with Carlos and I loved it. The thought process went a little like that: I already wrote a first time setting with Carlos in âMake You Mineâ, so I thought Iâd make it a little different and special. I settled on a virgin reader, meaning this is not only a first time âas a coupleâ but the Readerâs first time ever. I honestly liked exploring that setting, especially with Carlos because I just know he would be the most supportive man ever haha. I chose the beach setting, because when I think of Carlos, I think of beaches and sunshine, plus I love writing about being in Brazil with him, yay.  This is actually my longest Carlos fic so far, wohoo! I hope you like how it turned out. Enjoy! I would be super happy if you share your thoughts with me! So much love, Shell xo
PS: See you soon when we explore some spicy action on a balcony with Leon haha.
âOh my god,â you gasped, taking in the view of the beach outside. âCarlos, is this all for us?â You asked in disbelief, turning around to look into his mischievious gleaming eyes.
âOnly you, me, and the beach,â he confirmed with a grin, dropping the bags and backpacks that were hanging on his arms to the floor.
Youâd both decided to spend two weeks in his home country, Brazil, and use this chance for a small vacation. It was your first real vacation as a couple, and youâd been giddy and restless for the past weeks, excited to finally spend some alone time with him.
Carlos and you had been together for a few months now, and as much as you enjoyed the dates and the weekends together, you couldnât wait to enjoy some peaceful days alone and away from your busy lives.
None of you wanted a fully booked hotel with crowded beaches and overflooded places with tourists, so instead, Carlos had another idea and surprised you with a stay at a vacation house right at a secluded beach.
It looked like a dream. Small, cozy, quiet, and just perfect for the two of you. You turned back around, looking out of the window to watch the peaceful waves hitting the golden sand.
âHow did you even find this?â You asked. Normally, these kinds of places were booked out months or even years in advance or so expensive that theyâd definitely be out of your budget.
âLetâs just say I know my way around,â he said casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Slowly, he sneaked his arms around your waist and laid his head on yours to watch the waves together. The window was half opened already, letting in a breeze of sea air every now and then.
âCarlosâŠâ
As he heard your questioning tone, he sighed. âOkay. I know my way around, and I might have a few good contacts,â he explained.
âDo I wanna know?â You asked sarcastically. It was not that you were actually concerned or judging him. You knew his past and his work as a mercenary, so it only made sense that he had his knowledge, or as he called it: contacts.
âLetâs just focus on our vacation here, meu anjo." He grinned, kissing your head without giving any further explanation.
âNow how about we get changed and go to the beach? We can unpack our stuff later, no?â His lips wandered down your neck in a teasing manner.
âSounds perfect,â you said excitedly, smiling as he kept caressing your sensitive skin.
âBesides, I canât wait to see you in a bikini. Youâre wearing way too much for my liking,â he joked, his hands wandering down to your ass to give it a good squeeze.
Immediately a rush of warmth flooded your cheeks. He was such a charmer, knowing how to get you flustered in no time. If there was one prime example of a flirt in a person, it would have been called Carlos Oliveira. But still, he flirted with you in the most respectful way, always making sure that you were still comfortable.
You enjoyed the never-ending supply of worshipping compliments rolling off his tongue. All the more surprising it was that you two still hadnât done it.
Sure, you made out countless times before, but it never really went any further than that. Carlos didnât pressure you, never, but after what felt like the twentieth time of stopping, you decided to tell him that you werenât ready yet. You made up some vague excuses about having bad experiences and not wanting to rush it. However, not the experiences themselves were the problem, but the lack of it.
At your age, it was definitely not the norm to have zero sexual experiences and people around you, as well as society itself, made sure to remind you of that every single day.
You werenât ashamed of it per se, but knowing Carlos and his fair share of experiences, it did make you a somewhat uncertain. What if, after all, he wanted someone with more experience? Someone who was more open and casual?
Your worried thoughts were interrupted by his warm voice in your ear.
âAre you even listening to me, querida?â
âYeah, sure! Going to the beach, changing into swim clothes. Sounds perfect,â you said a little too fast.
âAlright, then letâs go,â he chuckled, giving your ass a gentle slap, before he started rummaging through your travel bags to get your swimwear. For a few moments, you just leaned against the window sill and watched him. He had a way with people and words, always knowing when or what to say to make people feel at ease. Even if it was only for a few laughs. That was one of the many reasons why you loved him so much. You needed someone like him. Someone who felt like freedom and sunshine.
So why on earth was it so hard for you to just tell him the truth right away?
Once you got dressed in your favorite bikini, you stepped out of the bathroom, meeting Carlos, who was already waiting for you at the backdoor.
His eyes lit up as he spotted you, taking your hands in his to pull you closer. With a hungry, yet loving gaze, he let his eyes roam over your body and curves.
"Goddamn, look at you,â he said in a low voice, urging you to do a little spin so he could admire you from every possible angle. âLooking like the most beautiful woman in the whole word,â he whispered, pulling you even closer to give you a peck on the lips. âSo fucking sexyâ
"Carlos, stop,â you laughed, feeling your cheeks turn into a bright shade of red. Obviously, you didnât actually want him to stop. If it were up to you, you couldâve listened to him complimenting you for 24 hours a day. This kind of intense and loving attention was simply new to you, and you were still figuring out how to accept it.
âWhy would I stop telling the truth?â He teased, brushing your cheeks. âBesides, Iâd never wanna miss your adorable flustered face, querida." After giving you one last kiss on the lips, he eventually led you outside.
The beach was the closest youâve ever been to heaven; you were sure of that. Everything seemed peaceful and quiet with not a single person around, except you and Carlos. As you were walking down the golden beach, you enjoyed the warm sand under your feet and the salty sea breeze blowing across your face.
Carlos laid out a huge blanket for the two of you, throwing some fresh towels for later on top, and then immediately grabbed your hands to pull you into the water.Â
It was nice but still cold, at least to you. While you were standing knee-deep in the water, a cold shiver running over your skin, Carlos was already diving headfirst into the bright, blue waves.
âCâmon! The water is wonderful!â He called out for you as he emerged from the water, dark curls clinging onto his forehead. He looked even hotter like this. Wet skin, his muscles glistening in the sun, messy hair, and swim shorts that showed enough to let your fantasies run wild.
âIt's still cold!â You called back.
âYou've got to be kidding me. It's burning hot today!â He laughed, splashing some water in your direction.
âI know something else that is burning hot,â you giggled. Carlos wasnât the only one who knew how to flirt, after all. But who could blame you? In your opinion, you were together with the hottest man on earth.
âI happily accept your compliment, but donât try to distract me,â he said amusedly.
And with that, he made his way towards you with a clear intention in mind. You could see his mischievious grin from miles away.
"No, Carlos, no!â You said in a warning tone, taking a few steps back, but he wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon.
âI will help you, don't worry,â he grinned, coming closer and closer toward you until you couldn't run away anymore.
âCarlos!â you squealed, when he suddenly picked you up bridal style and carried you straight into the cold water. The deeper you got into it, the more you wriggled in his grasp. That only seemed to amuse him more however.
He laughed. âIt's not that cold; wrap yourself around me and I'll keep you warm, hm?â He offered with a charming smile. How could you say no to that? You did as he said and wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding onto him tightly, as the two of you floated into the water.
âBetter?â he hummed.
âYeahâ you admitted, relaxing into his strong and warm arms. Slowly you laid your head on his shoulders, feeling his damp skin on yours.
âSee, I told you,â he winked, kissing the top of your head.
You stayed like this for a while, enjoying the fresh breeze, the cold water, and the intimacy between the both of you.
There was nothing to say, but it didn't feel awkward. It felt like peace and finally coming home. A feeling you'd longed for these past years.
âI missed this,â he said after a few more moments, his voice sounding relaxed and content as he let his gaze wander over the sea.
âYou mean your home country?â You asked curiously. You knew how much heâd longed to be back in Brazil, and you could understand why. From what youâve seen, it was a beautiful and colorful country. So very different from all the other places youâve seen before. You remembered how many times heâd told you about his childhood and the things he grew up with. Surely, not everything was peace and harmony, far from it, but he managed to still see the good in it. One of the many reasons you loved this man so much.
Heâd told you that if things had gone differently, he would have taken you home to meet his mamĂŁe, introducing you to her and his siblings, and watching you become one of them. Heâd told you how much they would have adored you, your warmth, and your personality. Heâd told you about the loud, chaotic family gatherings, full of laughter and love.
If only life had been a little kinder to his family all those years ago.
âYeah,â he nodded. âBut even more, I missed this. You and me together. Alone and no one around that disturbs us,â he added with a cheeky grin. You smiled, wanting to answer something, but he beat you to it.
As soon as your eyes locked again, he started to kiss you. His soft lips pressed into yours, melting against each other. You tasted the saltiness from the seawater, combined with his own, typical, sweet taste you craved so much.
His tongue entered your mouth whenever you gasped, playing with yours. All the while your hips started grinding against him as if by themselves. You felt his growing bulge right against your core, with your legs still wrapped around him.
He groaned. âBebĂȘ âŠâ
âJust trying to get warm,â you chuckled.
His hands found your ass, giving it a good squeeze as he pulled you closer, letting you feel his erection even more. âI guess it worked just fine,â he breathed before crashing his lips on yours again and again.
You kept making out, grinding against each other, tongues dancing together in a heated exchange. Your body reacted immediately to him. Every brush of his upper body against your perked nipples sent electricity through your body, and every time his erection met the perfect spot between your thighs, you moaned into his mouth.
By now, your clit was throbbing and aching, and by the way his member pressed into your core, he seemed to be just as turned on as you were.
Suddenly it became crystal clear to you. You wanted him. Fully.
Perhaps the peace of your vacation was speaking, or perhaps the final layer of hesitation had finally fallen away.
âLetâs take this back to the beach, yeah?â He asked in a raspy voice, and you instantly nodded.
Somewhere between kisses and playful banter, you made it back to the blanket. Carlos let himself fall back, pulling you down with him until you landed in his lap, where your heated make-out session continued. It was messy and wet but still so perfect.
His hands roamed over your barely covered body, appreciating every part he could reach. He started groping your breasts and brushing over your nipples that were poking through the thin fabric.
âYou look so fucking sexy, I canât even concentrate,â he mumbled, feeling the softness of your flesh in his calloused hands.
Your mind went wild. Clearly, your endorphins overtook the thinking because you couldn't stop imagining him taking you. Right then and there. If it were up to you, you would have just given him the green light and let him fuck you on the beach, but that wouldn't have been fair. Not to him and especially not to yourself. He deserved to know your truth, and you deserved more than just a quick fuck on the beach.
As his lips started to wander down your neck, you closed your eyes with a sigh. You wanted so much more, but instead of continuing, you took a deep breath and held onto his arms.
âCarlos, I know⊠I've been putting you off,â you said quietly.
He paused his affectionate kisses to look up at you.
âHey, as I said, we don't have to rush anything. We will take it slow,â he said gently, tucking a strand of your ocean-wet hair behind your ear. Your heart swelled at his understanding words and the way his loving brown eyes stared back at you.
âI know but-â You looked down, unsure of how to tell him that you hadnât been exactly truthful to him.
âI hope you don't think I planned this vacation to get you in bed or something,â he laughed, holding his hands up, as if he were surrendering.
You chuckled at his playful demeanor. He always managed to turn serious settings into light-hearted ones. More than once, you'd wondered how he was capable of being so positive-minded, despite his rather troublesome past.
âNo, I donât think that, Carlos. Of course not," you said, struggling to find the right words.
âHey, you can tell me anything. Wonât judge you, meu anjo,â he said, his face growing a little more worried once he noticed that you were really struggling. He began rubbing your thighs gently, which were still straddling him, trying to encourage you to keep talking.
âI want to have sex with you, really. But the reason I was putting you off was not that I had bad experiences-â you began, averting your gaze. âIt was because I actually never had sex. I'm stillâŠa virgin,â you finally confessed.
A few moments of silence followed. When you looked up, you saw Carlos staring at you.
âYouâre a virgin?â He asked. You couldnât really read his tone. It was a mixture between surprise, overwhelm, and maybe even disappointment.
âI was afraid of this reaction,â you mumbled, wanting to get up from his lap, but he stopped you.
âHey heyâŠlook at me,â he said in a low voice. âIâm not disappointed or shocked or whatever that youâve never had sex. Not at all. I just wished you wouldâve told me sooner,â he said.
âI know,â you sighed. âIt was just awkward for me, and I know that you have much more experience in that department.â
âThat doesnât mean anything,â he reassured you, pulling you closer to kiss your cheek. âI mean I canât blame you. You simply waited for the best,â he joked, wiggling his eyebrows and pointing to his solid and muscular body.
You rolled your eyes playfully at him. âCockyâ
âIâm kidding.â He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. âOkay, but seriously now. I couldnât care less. All I want is for you to be comfortable with me,â he said, softer this time.
âI am comfortable with you. More than that,â you whispered, rubbing your core against his crotch. âAnd I want you." You were still feeling tingly and aroused from your previous make-out session.
He groaned, hips bucking up to meet your core, aching for more friction. Any form of release.
âI want you too, so fucking much,â he hissed, squeezing your thighs. He looked into your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, but he couldnât find any.
âIf youâre really sure thenâŠ.I guess we should break in our bed, hm?â He teased, pulling you up with him.
You giggled as you reached for his extended hand and followed him inside. This was really happening. You were about to have sex with Carlos.
Still a little disheveled and wet from the water, he led you to the large bedroom, which also offered a direct view of the ocean. The bed was huge compared to the one at your house, and it looked so incredibly soft and inviting that for a brief moment you actually doubted yourself and wondered if you might be dreaming after all.
His hands began stroking your arms, as he was still standing behind you.
âWeâll take this as slow as you want. You tell me to stop, and we stop immediately, okay?â He asked, his breath tickling your ear.
You nodded. âYes, thank you,â you whispered, closing your eyes when his hands stopped at the clasp of your bikini top.
Gently, he opened it and let it fall to the floor. You shivered slightly when the air hit your still damp skin, causing your nipples to perk instantly. From behind, he wrapped his arms around you, starting to engulf your breasts in his warm and big hands.
âSuch perfect tits,â he hummed, kissing your neck while still groping the soft flesh, his thumb brushing over your nipples every now and then. âAlmost as perfect as youâ
âPleaseâŠ.â You breathed, arching into his touch.Â
He alternated between gentle flicks, pinches, and soft groping to gauge your reaction. His calloused fingers against your delicate skin felt heavenly.
âYou want more?â He asked, but he knew the answer already. He just wanted to be extra sure.
"Yeah."
He gently led you onto the bed, letting you get comfortable until he joined you, his hands never losing contact with your soft skin.
With each minute passing, you felt more relaxed and at ease. Carlos made sure to worship you in every way possible and touched you in ways you couldâve only dreamed of.
âYou touch yourself sometimes, donât you?â He suddenly asked, looking down at you.
âWhat?â
He chuckled. âC'mon, nothing to be ashamed of. That's good actually,â he said with a small smile. âJust means you know what you like already."
You blushed slightly. Pleasuring yourself was one thing; talking about it out loud was quite another.
âEhm yeah. I do,â you nodded, taking a deep breath in as you felt his fingers brush over the insides of your thighs. If you were being honest, you'd touched yourself not that long ago, fantasizing about him after a night-out together. This man was the main protagonist of your dirty fantasies by now.
âGood,â he hummed, continuing his way until they ended at the soft fabric of your bikini panties. Without rush, he started pulling them down your legs, revealing your glistening folds to him.
You were nervous, but not in an intimidated way. It was that kind of unease feeling you got when showing someone all of you for the first time ever. No layers, no masks, nowhere to hide.
âHeyâŠno thinking anymore.â He hushed as he studied your thoughtful expression. âRelax, bebĂȘ, today is all about you.â
You smiled at his loving words, nodding and sinking back into the soft cushions, opening your legs a little wider for him.
With a content grunt, he let his hands drift higher, brushing over your soaked folds.
âSo wet for me,â he said in an appreciating tone, spreading your wetness all over your cunt.
âIs that how you do it?â He whispered, circling your clit in a slow and sensitive manner. âWhen you're all alone?â
You couldnât answer him, as you were too lost in the pleasure, too focused on his touch. Instead, you just nodded and bucked your hips into his hands, desperate to feel more.
He alternated between soft circles and more intense strokes over your folds, studying your reaction all the while.
âYou look so beautiful like this,â he breathed, admiring your writhing, bare form beside him as he kept toying with you. His dick was throbbing in anticipation, straining against the fabric of his shorts. Seeing, feeling, and hearing your pleasure was enough to make him hard as a rock.
âIs this okay?â He asked, letting his fingers slip lower to your entrance. âDo you want more? Can I put my fingers inside?â
"Yes, please,â you sighed, hands grasping into the sheets.
âMhm, relax for me," he hummed. Carefully, he inserted one finger into you, just testing out your reaction. You were tight around his finger, but your eager reaction and your evident arousal motivated him to insert another one.Â
âCarlos,â you moaned, meeting his movements to feel more of his skilled, thick fingers. This was so much better than anything you'd ever done to yourself. The feeling of his fingers filling you completely was incredible.
He angled them perfectly to hit your sweet spot with every thrust of his fingers, pumping them in and out of you. His thumb brushed over your clit every now and then to give you some extra stimulation.
âThis feels so good mhhâ" You arched your back, walls clamping down on his fingers with every thrust he did.
âYou like that? When I push my fingers inside you and stuff you full?â He leaned down, taking one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking on them as he kept fucking you with his fingers.Â
âYesâŠoh god, yes." Your legs started to shake with every thrust, your eyes drifting closed as your pleasure started to skyrocket. He kept making out with your tits, sucking on them, kissing them, and licking them.Â
He released your nipple with a pop, kissing down the valley of your breasts.
âYouâre so tight, taking me so well,â he mumbled against your skin. âFeeling as good as your own fingers?â Of course he couldnât help himself but tease you a tiny little bit. He knew this was no comparison to your own fingers, so your reaction was enough to boost his ego.
You shook your head. âThis is betterâŠthis is so, so much better,â you whimpered, feeling his fingers go even deeper while massaging the spongy spot inside you.
Your walls began fluttering around him, announcing your approaching orgasm. Your head fell to the side, hands still gripped onto the sheets when he started increasing the pace of his penetrations.
âCum on my fingers,â he urged. âBe as loud as you want. Itâs just us."
As if on command, your walls started pulsing around his fingers. You felt the coil in your lower belly tightening, and after a few more brushes over your clit, you fell over the edge. It felt like one of the most intense orgasms youâve had, causing your head to spin.
You cried out in pleasure as you soaked his fingers in your release.
âMhm, so freaking sexy,â he praised, giving you a few more thrusts to ride out your high, before he slowly pulled his fingers out of you. You whined at the loss, but you were soon silenced with him kissing you again.
âThat was so good,â you mumbled against his lips, still feeling tingly from your intense orgasms.
âAnything for you,â he smiled, laying himself beside you to watch your reaction. You definitely needed a few seconds to come back to reality.
You looked back at him. With his content and happy expression, you would have thought heâd come too, if it weren't for his boner that was still straining against his shorts. You licked your lips. You wantedânoâneeded more.
âI want you, Carlos,â you said.
âHow do you want me?â He asked, watching you intently. That was a good question. You couldnât think straight anymore. All you knew was that you wanted him inside you.
âIâŠI donât really know what position..,â you confessed.
He sat up a little and looked at you encouragingly. âHow about you go on top for your first time?â he suggested, the sly smile never leaving his lips.
You swallowed. That was definitely one of the more daring positions, at least for you. You had no idea how to move or what was important. On top of that, you were afraid you looked unsexy. How were you supposed to focus on everything and enjoy it at the same time?
âYou can choose your own pace and how deep you take me. Can experiment a little if you want,â he explained, rubbing his thumb over your hand.
âI don'tâŠI meanâŠI don't really know what to do,â you mumbled.
His lips found yours again, kissing you a few more times, before answering you finally.
âI will help guiding you. After all, it's kind of teamwork, right?â He winked.
âYeah kinda,â you laughed quietly. You'd always pictured your first time being in the standard missionary position. Being on top was definitely not your first choice, but then again, you could give it a try at least.
âIf it doesn't feel good for you, we will switch,â he said, as he noticed you being deep in thought. âIâm here with you all the time. I want to make you feel good." He smiled.
âI want to try it,â you said finally.
And with that, he got comfortable on his back, helping you to pull down his boxers that were being much too tight by now due to his fully erect ength. Once he was bare, you couldn't help but stare at his girthy dick. It was not like you had many real-life comparisons, but you were sure that he was above average. You would even say packed, but maybe your mind was just still a little clouded from your post-orgasmic bliss. To you, he looked sexy as hell, and you couldnât wait to return the favor to him.
Without thinking too much, you started wrapping your hand around his shaft, feeling him twitch under your touch.
âFuckâŠ.yes,â Carlos sighed, letting his head fall back against the soft pillows. You started with experimental strokes, giving him time to adjust to your touch. Your first impulse was to ask him if you were doing okay, but seeing his pleasure-contorted face, as well as hearing his vocal feedback, was answer enough.
 As you kept stroking up and down his length, you felt the familiar tingle returning between your legs, your clit starting to throb again at the sight. Every now and then he bucked his hips into your hands, yearning for more friction.
âYour hands are so soft. So f-fucking perfect," he praised, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. His hand wrapped around yours, guiding your hand and applying a little more pressure on his throbbing member.
âYes, just like thatâŠ.youâre doing so well, princesaâ He helped you with a few more pumps, just the way he needed it. The first drops of precum leaked at the tip, which you immediately gathered with your thumb and spread along his shaft.
âCarlos, I need you so bad,â you sighed, rubbing your thighs together in anticipation.
âThen hop on, gatinha,â he teased, spreading his thighs just slightly to give you better access to his thick cock.
He guided your hands on his strong chest as you started to straddle him. Very slowly, you started sinking down onto him.
You both groaned at the new sensation, feeling him stretch you open deliciously. To your surprise, it didn't feel uncomfortable at all, probably due to the extensive foreplay. You were still slick with arousal, so his thick cock could penetrate you perfectly.
âLook at me, bebĂȘâ He hushed softly, his hands holding your hips in a protective manner. âFeels good?â
You nodded with a sheepish smile. âBetter than goodâ
âMove a little, test yourselfâŠ.f-fuck,â he cursed as you started experimental rolling movements with your hips. The first few movements felt awkward, but after a while it started to become easier. You found a good spot that allowed his cock to massage your walls perfectly, while your clit brushed his pelvis every now and then.
"So tight around me. God, you're taking me so well, look at you,â he praised through gritted teeth, his brows furrowed from pleasure. His hands kneaded your soft flesh, feeling every inch of you.
He kept guiding you, helping you move up and down on him but never forceful. It was his way of helping you and telling you wordlessly that he was there. His eyes were glued to your tits and the way they bounced with every movement.
âJust like that,â he groaned, barely able to contain himself. The last time he took care of himself was a while ago, so it was safe to say that he was pent up, ready to explode right at this moment. Your sexy moans, your body, your tight pussyâit was all getting too much, but he wanted to make it last for you. There was no way he would let himself cum too soon. Not if he could prevent it.
You whimpered once you sank down fully, taking him deeper and deeper until his member reached that sweet spot and hit it over and over again. With every movement, it felt more pleasurable and you became more confident.
âFuck yes, ride my dick; take everything you need. Fuck-â he cursed, watching you intently. Your eyes rolled back once he started to thrust upwards, massaging your walls even more delicately.
âOh god, Carlos,â you mewled, feeling yourself becoming tighter around him.
Suddenly he sat himself up, engulfing you in a tight embrace while you still fucked him. The new closeness was heaven. Your breasts pressed against his chest, nipples grazing against his skin with every bounce. You felt your lower belly start to tighten again.
You started making out, kissing each other's lips, neck, and every part you could reach, while still being intertwined in the most intimate way possible. This one right there could be your new favorite position.
âThis feels so good. PleaseâŠ. I want you to fuck me so bad,â you pleaded, the filthy words falling out of your mouth. Now you knew what it meant to be cock-drunk.
âWill fuck you so good, donât you worry,â he mumbled against your soft lips as he started to thrust into you again. You met his thrusts, your movements becoming faster as you started chasing after your second high. His dick felt even better than his fingers. Not that it surprised you.
The lewd sounds of your lovemaking filled the room; the feeling of being refreshed from the sea was long gone. Both of you were sweaty and warm now, the sweat clinging to your foreheads and backs. But none of you cared, not when it felt so good to be fucked senseless by your gorgeous boyfriend.
Once his hand sneaked between your connected bodies, he easily found your clit again and started rubbing it in tight circles.
"Yes, please donât stop, donât stop, donât stop,â you babbled, eyes rolling back. Your movements started becoming more erratic the closer you got to your second orgasm.
âWonât stop, princesa. C'mon, give me another one. Cream all over my cock." He groaned, both of your faces contorted in pleasure. With a few more thrusts you came again all over. This time it felt more like spasming and gushing all over him.
âIâm cumming Carlos. Iâm-â you whimpered, holding tightly onto him for more support.
He was following you right after, unable to hold himself back anymore. Your pussy clenched around him, milking him dry as he spilled inside you. He let out a guttural groan, hips thrusting upward. âTake it allâŠ.fuckâŠtake it all,â he moaned.
You kept moving as much as you could, prolonging your orgasms until your legs gave out. His hands helped you move up and down a few more times, riding out both of your highs.
Your hands stayed on his chest, your breathing still ragged and elevated.
Your walls still fluttered around his cock every now and then.
Under your fingertips, you felt his rapid heartbeat, indicating he was just as exhausted and worn out as you were. When your eyes locked again, both of you smiled.
âYou feeling good, bebĂȘ?â He asked, his hands still resting on your hips, kneading your soft flesh in a gentle manner.
âBetter than good. That wasâŠout of this world,â you chuckled, still trying to catch your breath.
âIt was,â he agreed, a sly smirk returning to his lips. âYou were incredible. So goddamn sexy and perfect.â
Eventually you bent down to kiss him again.
âThank you, Carlos, for being so patient and understanding with me,â you muttered between the kisses.
âNo need to. I'm happy you trusted me and let me be your first,â he said softly, giving you another peck on the lips. âBut from now on, no secrets or half-truths anymore, deal?â
âDeal,â you agreed, laying your head against his chest. He laid his arms around you again, holding you close as you came down from your sweet release.
It felt like an eternity staying like that, still connected, cuddling and enjoying the quiet intimacy together.
Your whole body still felt tingly and sensitive, but that was nothing compared to the intense relaxation and relief you felt, flooding your body.
âI don't know why I didnât do this sooner with you,â you giggled, a faint blush returning to your cheeks.
You could feel the rumble of his laughter against your ear. âWe have endless time to do it again. And again. And again,â he teased, brushing his fingers through your hair. âWe can try everything out you want.â
You smiled, looking back up at him.
âYou mean like beach sex? Shower sex?â
He smirked. âMhm yeah. Or bending you over the counter sex, car sex, morning sexâŠ,â he continued.
Your body immediately reacted to his words, the excitement rushing through every single nerve of your body.
âBut maybe we should clean up first and rest a little,â he laughed. His hands started to caress your back, tracing a few patterns on your skin as you enjoyed a few more moments of the afterglow.
Eventually, you got off him and rolled to your side, pulling the silly blanket up to your chest as you watched Carlos getting up. Bare naked, he wandered off to the kitchen and came back with a cold glass of water.
âSomething to cool you down,â he winked, handing you the glass.
âThank you,â you said, accepting the drink. As you kept sipping on your water, the blanket still wrapped around your body, lounging in bed, Carlos walked to the glass door that led to the beach and enjoyed the view.
He stretched extensively, arms behind his back and a yawn leaving his lips. It was like he was presenting himself in all his glory in front of an invisible audience. The confidence of that man should be studied.
He was looking like a dream, straight out of a male model magazine or something like that. His broad shoulders were flexing slightly, the same as his abs, and when you looked down, you noticed that he was still half-hard.
If you weren't so tired and sore, you could have jumped in again right then and there.
He looked back at you with a happy and relaxed face.
âWanna take a shower now?â
âYes. I desperately need one,â you giggled. It was starting to feel sticky and messy between your thighs with both of your releases running down your legs. A shower sounded wonderful and was very much needed.
Before you could leave the bed, he was beside you, putting his arms under your legs and back.
âWhat are you-â
âCarrying you to the shower,â he announced matter-of-factly, picking you up bridal-style.
âNeed to make sure you can rest your legs a little after riding me like a goddess,â he winked.
You looked up at him. Your emotions were overtaking your body. You were feeling happy, relaxed, loved, relieved, excitedâall at the same time. And it was all because of this gorgeous man.
âI love you so much, meu anjo,â he said, kissing your forehead.
âI love you more, Carlos."
Final Note: I hope you enjoyed it! As always, feedback is very much appreciated and means the world to me! No matter if its comments, likes, reblogs. I appreciate the support so much. đ
If you want to be tagged in future stories, feel free to reach out to me here or in the comments
Also: if you want to, you can always slide in my inbox and have a chat with me đ«¶đ»
summary: It's the heatwave, and you were gifted some unexpected luxury to bring you and your husband some relief.
pairing: husband charles smith x wife f!reader.
rating: general
word count: 3.1 k
warnings: it's just a little fluff. Charles and reader are married, it's post canon. Reader is the school teacher. slice of life, domestic bliss despite the scorching heat, kissing, a little bit of nudity. English isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes. Charles picture from pinterest. Dividers by @/pxrce-lain
a/n: just a tiny little fluffy fic I thought about during the first heatwave, and got to write during this second one... (part 2 during the 3rd one maybe lol) I hope you enjoy this very self indulgent, cottage core domestic fluff with perfect husband charles fic. I am very excited about it, i worked on that wip all week to keep me sane despite the scorching heat. It should have been finished earlier but anxiety got the best of me. A reminder to stay hydrated even if you don't feel thirsty, try to keep yourself cool as best as you can, shower every hour if u can't stay somewhere with AC, and check on your loved ones too.
Thank you to my baby @thedilfdiaries for agreeing that it was a great idea, and encouraging me to post tonight, i love you so much â€ïžđâš. And to my sweet @mezzaninebeetle55 for feeding the Charles brainrot hehe, love you honey đ«đ«¶đŒ now there is a bit of rain outside, I am gonna go open the windows âšđ
The unrelenting heat accompanies every single step you take on the small path leading to your house. The sun is setting, but not quickly enough for everyoneâs liking. Itâs the third consecutive day of the heatwave, and the toughest one by far. These temperatures have never been seen before according to the elders youâve talked to when you stopped by the general store. The world is heading for its own destruction, yelled some while shaking their heads in despair. The expansions of the cities and the railroad are to blame, proclaimed others while fanning themselves with their freshly used train tickets⊠You smiled politely, agreeing with whatever they were saying before asking the owner for some chalk sticks. You tried as best as you could to keep your studentâs attention for the first part of the day, but the afternoon was rough, and you let them draw on their little slates. Most of your supplies are gone, the flowers, animals and other abstract patterns have disappeared into colorful dust. And you know some kids sneakily snatched some sticks into their little pockets to play at home.
As you step onto your front porch, you notice Charles standing in the kitchen. You take off your hat and hang it on the wall, before quietly approaching your husband.Â
âThere you are,â Charles says, wiping his hands on a rag. You quicken your pace and get on your tip toes to press a kiss on his cheek, murmuring a sorry as you step away.Â
âI have a surpriseâ You exclaim, setting your wicker basket on the wooden table. The muffled thump catches Charlesâ attention. He turns around and starts emptying the content around the plate he just set for dinner. A fresh bottle of milk clicks against a glass and Charles quickly puts it away from the heat, safe in the pantry. You hand him the rest of the groceries for the week.Â
âWhatâs the surprise?â He asks with a frown, wondering if he has missed something.Â
âLook what the kids' parents offered meâ You uncover the burlap and reveal the precious transparent square at the bottom of the basket. Charlesâ eyes grow wide as he inspects the ice block. You take his warm hand in yours and place it on the cold surface.Â
âI forgot how nice it feels,â He says, flinching at the sensation.Â
âRight? It almost made me regret the snow and the mountainsâŠâÂ
âThat's extremely kind of them⊠I tried to get some in town the other day but it was much too pricey. I thought maybe with an extra week of work we could get one butâŠâ
âI know! They said it was a present for being so helpful with the kids and keeping them occupied during the past week⊠I was so surprised!â You reply, smiling proudly. âThey were just waiting for me in front of the school, all together just to thank me⊠Thatâs why I am a little late, they insisted on greeting me allâŠand the kids were running and playing around, you know how it goesâÂ
âWell youâre doing such a good job, I am not surprised they wanted to do a nice gestureâ Charles leans in to kiss your forehead. You wrap your arms around his torso, staying there for a minute.Â
âThatâs just so kind. I would have expected⊠candied cherries or a new apron. But ice?â
Charles hums in agreement. âWhere is this coming from anyway? Iâve heard theyâre running out of it in the areaâ He asks, looking down at you.Â
âThe mayorâs wife's family owns this icehouse in town near the creek⊠I donât know, I didnât pay much attention. Little Agnesâs mother was talking to me at the same timeâ
âIâll ask around, see if deliveries are planned in the village soon, just in case the heatwave lasts for another week. And Iâll try my luck at hunting at dawn tomorrow. With the ice we can keep some meat cold for the next few daysâ He adds, and you nod against his heart before untying yourself from him.
âIâll come with youâ You decide, uncuffing the buttons of your shirtâs sleeves.Â
âYou hungry?â Charles walks to the counter and starts cutting slices into the bread loaf. Â
âNot so much⊠I had a bunch of berries earlier in the afternoonâ.
âWell we'll have a light dinner, thereâs nothing better than fresh fruit and bread when the heat is so strongâ
âAnd a glass of milk!â You point out, looking at the closed pantry.Â
âHopefully tomorrow with a little luck weâll get some meat too â Charles mutters, grabbing a couple of peaches and plums to cut them.Â
âLet me get changed and Iâll be backâ You say before disappearing in your bedroom.Â
Charles wipes the juice from his knife on a rag, and places the fruit wedges on the plate. He grabs the ice block and secures the burlap around it neatly before hiding it in the pantry around the milk and butter, with a small tray underneath to gather the cold water that will slowly melt.Â
You peel off the layers of your teacher uniform, sighing heavily as you realize shredding some clothing does nothing to help you cool off. You walk back to the kitchen, cheeks flushed and sweat making the thin linen of your chemise stick to your skin. Charles looks up at you, brows furrowed as he waits for your complaint.Â
âItâs too hot in thereâ You simply say, throwing your exhausted body on the nearest chair.Â
âI tried to keep the place cool as best as I could, closed all the blinds⊠I might have opened them a little too early though⊠I thought the sunset would bring some airâ Charles explains as he carefully fixes a plate for you. âIt's better in the bedroom though. I didnât open anything so we could keep it cold for the nightâ.Â
âCold. Yeah sureâ You repeat sarcastically, shaking your head. Â
You stand up and open the pantry, grabbing the bottle of milk, almost breaking an egg in the motion. You curse under your breath. The heat brings the clumsiness out of you, and you donât have the patience for that.Â
âLet meâ Charles says as he grabs your elbow and takes the bottle in his hand. He fills two glasses and puts the milk back in the pantry. You stand there, watching him. You wonder how he copes with the heat so easily⊠Or perhaps he is just better than you at hiding that he is losing his mind.Â
âI wish I had one of those fancy fans, you know, with the lace and pretty patterns" You sit in your chair again, plunging the blade of your knife into a wedge of yellow peach. Â
âWe could look for it the next time we head to townâ Charles says, munching on a slice of bread.Â
âTheyâre too expensive Charlesâ You pout, remembering the prices you saw for the most basic ones at the department store a couple months ago.Â
âWell⊠If I could study the mechanismâŠsee how it works, perhaps Iâll try my hand at making one for youâÂ
âYou really think so?â You ask, pausing with the next wedge of fruit planted at the end of your knife. Charles raises his eyes from his plate and notices the hopeful look on your face.
âYeah? Itâs just a bunch of small wooden planks. I just need the right dimensions. But I wonât risk dealing with the fabric covering it up, i'll leave that to youâ He warns, already visualizing which supplies he has out in the barn to use for the wooden structure. He picks the fruit dangling off your knife and brings it to his mouth. âDâyou know someone who can lend you one? Just for a day so I canâŠâ He asks as he chews.Â
âThat was mine.â You reply, faking annoyance. You pick up another slice and think for a minute. âI think Anneâs mother got one, she always brings it when she picks up her girl, I am sure she wouldnât mind me borrowing it. Iâll draw a quick sketch, take measurements, will it be okay?â You can barely conceal the excitement at the idea of Charles making one of those for yourself. You know how good he is at carving wood, heâll do wonders.Â
âYeah Iâll deal with that just fineâ He chugs down his glass of milk and puts the dishes into the sink. You stand up and follow him there, pressing a little kiss on his shoulder and whispering a thank you as you grab the rag and start drying the clean plates. You stack them back on the shelves delicately, and let your husband lead you to your bedroom.Â
Charles hands hold your hips firmly, their warmth spreading through the linen. Your skin feels sticky and youâre about to gently push him away but the wave of heat surrounding you when you open the door makes him cross his arms against his chest in frustration. The cold Charles promised earlier is nowhere to be found as the wrought iron bed frame comes into view.Â
âGoshâŠI swear I closed earlier today, I thought the thick walls would have kept some coolness in hereâŠâ He grumbles, hand pressed on the stones at the side of the door, confirming that the walls have indeed stored the sunlight.Â
You donât say anything when you hear Charles breathing getting heavier. You sit on the chair in front of the walnut dressing table he made for you when you got married. The old mirror set on top reflects your shiny skin. Charles tentatively opens the small window, and blocks the door to create some sort of draft⊠In vain. He sits on the edge of the bed, defeated.Â
âHow was your day?â You ask, thinking he could use the distraction. You brush your hair quickly and tie them back up. A deep sigh echoes in the burning room.Â
âUneventful. I just went to the river, got some stones to fix the hole in the well later⊠Saw a guy there, he works at the train station, you know the tall man with the mustache?â
âYeah, what about him?â You stand up and walk to your side of the bed, silently beckoning Charles to stand up too. You grab the bedsheets together, and fold them at the foot of the bed. They wonât be of any use anyway.Â
âHe said there was a fire two nights ago? At the Grovesâ farm. Theyâre gonna need any help they can get for the cleaning and renovation.â Charles notices the way you freeze with your hands flat on the pillow. âNo casualtyâ He says reassuringly.Â
âThank Godâ You let out, patting the pillow energetically. âWhen are you leaving?â You ask as you get in, laying on your right side to face Charles.Â
âIn a couple of days. Iâll probably stay in town. Travelling might be a little too exhausting for Taima in this heat.â
âOkay. Promise me youâll be careful, especially if youâre working up there on the roofsâ You grab his forearm as he lays next to you, concerned, and bring his hand to your chest.Â
âOf course. We are supposed to work at dawn anyway, for the hardest tasks. But Iâll be carefulâ Charles kisses your temple and rests his head against his pillow.Â
The silence surrounds your immobile silhouettes. Even in a relaxed state, your bodies are struggling to function properly. The burning sensation makes your head feel heavy, the slow pouding at the back of your head reminds you how painful it is going to be to fall asleep.Â
âIt feels like weâre roastingâ Charles breaks the silence, and you laugh loudly, a mix of sheer exhaustion and despair at the ridicule of your situation.Â
âWe shouldnât have shaken the sheets⊠Got me all worked upâ You add, turning your pillow on the other side, in hope that it will be colder.Â
âThereâs no need⊠I just did that with mineâ Charles says. âI reckon we did too much effort for the nightâÂ
You groan, throwing yourself back on the bed.Â
âYou know what could be goodâŠâÂ
Charles doesnât answer. You lean over him, scanning his face. His eyes are closed, his long eyelashes resting on his cheeks. You trace the scar on his face and he opens one eye.Â
âHmm?âÂ
âWe could take a bathâŠâÂ
âA bath?" He doesnât really understand why it would be so different to take a bath, but why notâŠ
âBut Charles⊠You donât get it⊠We could put some ice in thereâ
âYou want to use the ice to take a bath?â He scans your face, eyes wide open now.Â
âNot all of it of course! Just a couple of chunks? Charles⊠Itâs been a long long week and we havenât slept properly in days and I just thought⊠Well we have plenty enough for tomorrowâs meat and the other supplies, just a tiny little bit? With the water from the well it could be cold enough to help us relax, I am sure weâll find sleep so easily after thatâ You stop yourself from pressing your sweaty hands on his chest.
Charlesâ face changes as he listens. He looked completely opposed to the idea, but now he seems to be agreeing with your responsible reasoning. The thought of the heat dropping for a little while is enough to convince him. Plus, he vowed to do anything to make you happy, and the smile on your face as he nods and tells you to get the bath tub to the front porch is definitely worth it. Charles put his pants on again, and leaves for the barn.
He comes back a moment later, two buckets filled with freshly drawn water in his hands. You've lit up a lantern and set a couple of clean towels on the bench, that's enough for the night. You sit there watching as Charles' muscular chest glistens in the moon light. He starts filling up the tub, the sounds of water splashing covering the songs of cicadas momentarily. After his second run, youâre still sitting there, gawking at him.Â
âSo you just wanted a pretext to watch me do all the work?â He throws at you while emptying another bucket.Â
âYouâre just so handsome, I couldnât miss the occasionâ You wink at him, with a smile. Charles nods shyly as he looks down to check the water level. He canât help but be careful not to waste too much of it.
âI think you can get one more and I'll get the iceâ He states, gesturing for you to stand up.Â
âYeah that'll do. I wasnât exactly expecting for us to swim in it anywayâ You take the bucket from his hand, heading to the well to replace him for the last run.Â
Charles opens the pantry and carefully takes the precious ice block from its hideout. He removes half of the burlap, and starts chipping off shards of ice. He is slow and careful with his knife, making sure nothing is wasted on the table or falling on the floor.Â
âThat should be enoughâ He mutters to himself as he quickly places the block back in the pantry.Â
He comes out with half a bucket of ice.Â
âWow⊠Are you sure?âÂ
âYeah thatâs alright, it ainât that much anywayâ
âI you say so, just impressive, won't it be too cold?â You watch him pour the ice in the tub, trying to brace yourself for the overwhelming sensation to come.
âIt won't. I dosed it perfectly. Now get inâ He instructs, holding out his arm to help you keep your balance as you plunge a foot in the tub.Â
You gasp loudly as soon as it hits your skin.Â
âWhat?â Charles exclaims, watching your face attentively. You close your eyes, sighing as your second foot joins the first one.
âIt feels so cold⊠so niceâ You stand there, one hand resting on Charlesâ shoulder as you wait for the burning sensation of the cold to slow down. He is smiling as he looks at you.Â
âYou should probably enter very carefully now, and wet your neck firstâ Charles warns you.Â
âYeah donât worryâ You lean over and plunge your hands in the water, slowly wetting your thighs and your forearms. Each stroke of your hands along your skin makes you pant a little.Â
Charles watches you intently, the way your transparent chemise starts to stick to your silhouette, the droplets of water running down your cleavage, the hair curling at the nape of your neck. His heart misses a beat and he realizes he is just standing there, clasping at the bucketâ handle, completely lost in your beauty.Â
âCharles?â
âHuh?â
âI said it feels good, you should join meâ You suggest as you finally sit in the tub, relishing in the way your body seems to relax. You extend your hand to invite him in.Â
âI am good where I am, you should enjoy that bath, you were out all dayâ Charles declines, holding your hand in his for a minute.Â
You plunge your fingers in the water again to grab a chunk of ice and let it slide up Charlesâ forearm, watching his face lit up suddenly. He shivers a little, air blowing slowly from his nose. He pretends to contemplate your offer for a moment, but his little smirk lets you know he changed his mind. Charles takes off his pants and you stand back up, moving to the side to let him enough room to step in. He takes his time getting fully inside the tub too, and you help him get used to the temperature, pouring a bit of water on his back, massaging his neck, threading your fingers through his hair. Once he is sitting behind you, you join him again, and settle against his chest. The tension provoked by the heat slides off his body as soon as he is submerged by the cold water.Â
âYeah⊠you are right this is nice, refreshingâ Charles whispers in your ear, wrapping his arms around you to hold you close. You close your eyes, letting your head rest against his shoulder. Charlesâ hand cups your jaw and tilts your head slightly, pressing a kiss on your lips.
The song of the cicadas starts again, louder this time, a reminder that the heat is still here, waiting for the sun to rise to make everything difficult again. But there is only the night is surrounding you now. The ice is slowly melting against your skin, and for a moment you believe that youâll never feel hot again.
After a while, Charles nudges your temple with his nose, humming. âWe should probably go to sleepâÂ
âJust five more minutesâ You reply, wrapping his arms around you a little tighter.Â
a/n: thank you so much for reading ! Reblogs and comments are always making me happy đ„°âš
âŠBucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŠ
âŠsummary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrongâŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŠ
âŠwc: 11.1kâŠ
âŠAuthor's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollenâŠ
It doesnât bother you. If you tell yourself enough, youâre really going to believe that it doesnât bother you.
But heâs everywhere.Â
There isnât a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and heâs there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks youâre going to bite him. In the gym heâs at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think heâs doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but heâs spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because itâs not just Buckyâs eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. Itâs that you like it.
That when youâre next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your bodyâs connect. Heâs warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts itâs like youâre being shot up with a drug.
âYouâre squirmy.â He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. âNo one ever teach you to sit still?â
You stick your tongue out. âNo one ever teach you to mind your own business?â
âHard to mind my business when youâre movinâ all the cushions, doll-â
âThen go sit somewhere else, robot man.â
Buckyâs jaw twitches. âIâm not a robot.â
âUh huh.â
âIâm not-â
âYou act like one.â You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like heâs fucking praying.
âI was here first.â He mutters. You donât balk.
âCongratulations.â
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
âThereâs a chair over there.â You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. âGo sit in it, if Iâm so squirmy.â
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab heâs got for you, you donât want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movieâprobably another one of Samâs this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because thereâs no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himselfâand fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. Youâre going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesnât bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Buckyâs fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like heâs thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
âEverything okay?â You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
Thatâs all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
Youâll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, youâll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. Youâll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesnât get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. Itâs all he spares you. And youâre not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didnât notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
âYou skipped the mission briefing.â Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
âI was busy.â
âToo busy for your job?â
âItâs not my job-â
âYour name was on the roster.â Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
âHave you been carrying that around all day?â
âThat doesnât matter-â
âYes, it really does-â
Bucky hisses your name. Thereâs a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesnât say anything.
âYou need to be there, Steve was talkinâ about safety shit, and if you donât know it you could get killed-â
âI know how mission briefing work, Iâve been here longer than you have-â
âReally? âCause you donât act like it-â
âI donât act like it?â You snort. âLast I checked Iâm ranked higher than you, Sargent.â You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. âWhich is why Iâm allowed to defer missions, and youâre not.â
âIâm skipping.â You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. âAnd if Iâm skipping, I donât need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.â
Buckyâs eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
âWhyâre you skipping.â
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isnât actually going to care about.
âI have a date.â
âA what.â Itâs not a full reaction. Heâs mostly staring at you like he didnât understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
âA date?â You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. Itâs incredibly annoying.
âYou know.â You push mockingly. âWhere you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.â
âRobots flirt.â Bucky grunts, and you snort.
âYeah, but they donât have sex-â
The counter cracks. Itâs loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like heâs just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
âWhatâs-â
âSteveâs callinâ me.â He mutters, and you blink.
âNo, heâs not-â
âHave fun.â Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. âOn your human date.â
Then heâs gone.
And youâre left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where heâd vanished through the door. You donât care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
Thereâs a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. Sheâd picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Buckyâbecause youâve never told her your secret, but you didnât need to, sheâs Natashaâbut it wasnât enough.
He didnât have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didnât spar. He didnât push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all nightâwrong smile, tooâand then didnât pay. Bucky wouldâve paid.
You have no evidence of that. Itâs just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when youâre at each otherâs throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And thereâs not a single point during the night, where youâre not thinking about him.
âWe should do this again.â The Dateâyouâve forgotten his name, and itâs certainly not a good time to askâsays at the end of the night.
Youâre shivering. Bucky wouldâve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks heâs getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
âSure.â You smile, because even with superstrength, itâs easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. âHave a good night.â
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But youâve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. Itâs mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. Youâd skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasnât anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe heâd thought theyâd need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But theyâre back early.
And if someoneâs hurt, you couldâve stopped it. You couldâve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and thatâs incredibly annoying. Heâs going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and youâll have earned it which isnât going to help anything at all.Â
You get back to the compound, and itâs not in lockdown. There arenât med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that itâs already been cleared out. The jet isnât being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just⊠Finish early.
Youâre heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
âYou need to go, Buck-â
âIâm fine-â
âNo, youâre not. You can lie to the docs, donât lie to me-â
âI ainât lyinâ, Iâm fine-â
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what theyâre saying. You barrel straight into Buckyâs back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hotâalthough itâs also thatâbut literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
Heâs flushed. Thereâs sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out theyâre almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
âHi.â You whisper.
His throat bobs. âYouâre back.â
âI- I got the alert.â You glance over to Steve, whoâs gone oddly pale. âDid the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasnât there, right-â
âYep!â Steve almost shouts, and you blink. âI mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?â Steve grabs Buckyâs shoulder. âWe were all good.â
Bucky doesnât look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
âLet go.â Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
âI was gonna.â He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
âI know, but-â You get a weary look. Like Steve doesnât want you to hear their conversation. âI think- You know what I think-â
âSteve-â Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasnât looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
âIâm fine.â He says, low and under his breath. Youâre rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. âItâs- Iâm fine.â
Steveâs lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like heâs dragging himself away.
âHow was your date?â He grunts.
âBucky-â
âIâm just askinâ a question.â He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and itâs making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope heâd catch you, then fuck you until your canât even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
âBad.â You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. âHe sucked.â
And thatâs the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
âWe have debriefing!â Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Buckyâs suit. âBye!â
Before you can even register it, Steveâs dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Buckyâs only been acting stranger. Youâd pretend it didnât bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and heâs somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while youâre going through the mission files.
âWhatâre you doinâ.â He grunts, and you sigh.
Youâre not surprised heâs there. Itâs the fifth time today that heâs snuck up on you.
âIâm going through the reports on the mission.â You drawl. âDonât you have better things to do than follow me around?â
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. Itâs hard to pretend that you canât feel his presence behind you. Thereâs heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent thatâs filling the room. Itâs making you a little dizzy. Itâs all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like youâd thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. Heâs wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and theyâre clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget youâre annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehowâjust barelyâfight it.
âWhy canât I access these files.â
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. Itâs hard to maintain your glare.
âBarnes-â
âYou werenât on the mission.â He mutters. âNot your files to see.â
You scowl. âI can access the files of every other mission I was on-â
âSteve should change that.â
God, you wish he wasnât so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
âI know something happened out there.â You hiss, sitting up a little taller. âYou canât hide it from me. Iâll figure it out.â
Bucky chuckles. Itâs a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
âSure, doll. Have fun with that.â
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think heâs going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and heâs gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but itâs barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesnât do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like heâs supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.Â
Heâs drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. Youâre too tired to fight him.
âCanât sleep?â You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
âYou want hot chocolate?â
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe itâs just that youâre really starting to worry, but you donât bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like heâs spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. Heâs still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you donât dare to push it.
Not when heâs looking at you like this. The way youâd always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
âIâm watching Star Wars.â You mumble. âYou wannaâŠâ
You trail off, and Buckyâs throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. Heâs breathing awfully shallow, but youâre a selfish coward that wants him close, so you donât mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesnât even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. Heâs not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasnât said a word. Youâre afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You donât move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than youâve ever seen. His fever isnât breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
Itâs almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You donât know whatâs going on with him, but this canât be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. Thatâs not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When youâre free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You canât really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he canât think you wouldnât care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. Youâre not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. Itâs hard to hide your undying care for him, when heâs in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that heâs hurting. â
But it is Bucky.
And heâs never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and heâs right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like heâs trying to bite his own tongue off.
âHi.â You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. âYou- Youâre-â
âBucky, are you-â
ââM fine.â He says it mostly to himself again. Thereâs sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
Youâre not going to tell him, but youâre getting worried. This is the third morning in a row youâve found him here. The first night you asked if heâd slept there, and heâd scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you donât think heâs been sleeping at all.
âDo you need something?â You ask. You sound soft, but you canât help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. âI can call Steve-â
âDonât get Steve.â He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. Itâs the only way heâs been moving around you, lately. âIâm fine.â
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like youâve got a polarity field around you. Like he canât even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet heâs here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
âBucky-â
âDonât.â He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. âJust- Donât.â
You swallow, and donât give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks youâre going to catch him and drag him back. You wonât.
But you do go right to Steve.
âWhat happened on the mission.â
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. Youâre glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isnât going to work on you here. That doesnât seem to stop him from trying anyway.
âHey, um- Do you want a cookie-â
âSteven.â You hiss, and he swallows. âWhat happened.â
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. âIâm not supposed to tell you.ââ
âWhat do you mean youâre not supposed to tell me-â
âI mean I- I can.â He mutters. âBut then Bucky will kill me. And I donât want Bucky to kill me.â
You scowl. âTough shit, because guess whoâs going to kill you if you donât tell me?â
Steve sighs. âIs it you?â
âYep.â
He stares at his sandwich, like itâs somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it wonât. You have plenty of time.
âIâm really not supposed to tell you-â
âI really donât care.â
âWell- You will.â Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You donât have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. Heâs basically asking for it right now.
âSteven, I swear to fucking God-â
âI canât tell you.â He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
âNo, you just wonât tell me-â
âThatâs not- I canât, okay? Please stop asking me to-â
âWhy, because Bucky doesnât want you to?â You leer. âBecause last I checked, youâre the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates heâs in danger so they can help-â
âThatâs the problem!â Steve shouts, and you blink. âYou- Look, youâre going to want to help, and I canât let you.â
âYou canât let me help?â You echo, and Steve winces.
âI know how it sounds-â
âDo you? Because what Iâm fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you wonât let me fucking help-â
âWhy do you even want to help?â Steve fixes you with a pointed look. âAll you ever do is complain about Bucky and how heâs annoying you. I wouldâve thought you didnât care.â
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what heâs doing. Smug fucking asshole.Â
âThat wonât work on me.â You grunt, and he shrugs.
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âSteve-â
âBut,â he says causally. âIf I did, Iâd say thatâs why I canât tell you. And you know that.â
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like youâre just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
âI- I donât-â You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. Itâs annoying. âItâs not- Iâm just- Please.â
Your voice cracks suddenly. Youâve been losing more sleep over this than youâre ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with itâlike the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick upâbut that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. Itâs making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
âBucky.â You say slowly. âIs- Heâs not okay. I know heâs not okay.â You force yourself to meet Steveâs gaze. âJust- Lie to me and say heâs fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I canât just-â
You donât even know how to finish the sentence. Thereâs a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. Youâre so worried. Worried this is something thatâs going to kill him, and youâre going to lose him forever.
And thereâs pity, in Steveâs gaze. Itâs enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
âAlright.â He murmurs. âBut- You canât tell him I told you.â
You nod quickly. âIâll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.â
Steve sighs. âOkay. Okay.â He shakes his head. âIt was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasnât being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think itâs the serum, or just⊠Bucky. But heâs been controlling it better.â Steve grimaces. âBut that doesnât mean heâs not still knocked up with stuff.â
You nod slowly. Thatâs not that bad.
But Steve didnât want you to know for a reason.
âWhat are the symptoms?â
Steve wonât meet your gaze. âFever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased⊠libido.â
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. âWhat.â
âHydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We donât know why they were developing it, but- Thereâs no other name.â Steveâs nose wrinkles. âThe agent- His cell is disgusting.â
âBut- Bucky-â
âI told you, he says heâs got it under control.â Steve shrugs, but doesnât really sound like heâs convinced himself. âThe agent has been, ah⊠begging for anyone. Bucky doesnât have the same liberty with what will help. He says itâs going to pass, and heâll be fine.â
âAnd will it?â You breathe. âPass?â
Steve shrugs. âIt did for the agent.â
âBefore or after the mating?â
Steveâs silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
âWhy wouldnât you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-â
âI know that!â Steve snaps. âI know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.â He shakes his head. âHe wonât take anyone. Heâll only- Well- You know.â
âI know? I donât fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-â
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
âWhat-â
âNothing. Just- Why do you think heâs been lingering around you?â
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
âSteve-â
âI didnât say anything-â
âYes, you did-â
âNope.â
You press your lips in a tight line. He canât mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. âBucky- He doesnât- Thatâs not how he feels about me.â
Please donât say it is. Itâs not fair if youâre lying.
âFunny.â Steve shrugs. âHe says the same thing about you.â
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasnât left his room in a day. Youâd spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didnât mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What youâd always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didnât matter how you turned or picked at Steveâs words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you canât even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you couldâve been actually kissing him. If Steveâs right, youâre going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, youâre going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesnât turn you downâŠ
You steel yourself and knock on Buckyâs door. Itâs worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
âFuck off, Stevie-â
âIâm not Steve!â You call, and for a second thereâs no response.Â
Then thereâs a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. Heâs breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you canât tell if itâs supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
âYou shouldnât be here-â
âSteve said you need me.â
You stare at each other. Buckyâs tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, youâll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. Youâve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and youâre sure youâll be able to fit right in over time, and if you donât at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because itâs been almost two full minutes and he hasnât said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
âSteve shouldnât have told you anything.â Bucky growls, and you swallow.
âI- I made him.â
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. âOf course you did.â
âI was worried about you-â
âYou donât have to be, doll. Iâm-â
âIf you say Iâm fine, Iâm going to fucking punch you.â
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
âYouâre sick.â You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
âMaybe. But itâs not the kinda sick you can help with-â
âSteve says itâs the kind of sick only I can help with.â
Heâs silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. Itâs a warning. A plea.
âDonât do this.â He mutters, fists balled at his side. âNot outta pity, not for me-â
âItâs not pity.â You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. âI want to help, Bucky. Let me help.â
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. âNo, you- You just- You donât feel like that for me-â
âYou donât feel like that for me.â You breathe, and Buckyâs body locks up.
âWho says?â
âYouâre an ass to me-â
âYouâre an ass to me.â
âI donât mean to be.â You whisper. âI- I donât- Iâm not good at⊠You know.â
Buckyâs throat bobs. He still doesnât move.
âMe neither.â
You nod. âButâŠâ
âYeah.â He swallows. âYeah. I do.â
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
âPlease ask me to help.â You donât bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. âI- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-â
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
Itâs not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. Itâs rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way heâs almost eating your kisses. Youâre standing nowhere near a wall, but heâs caged you all the same. Thereâs nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and itâs a little addictive. Even after youâre light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesnât seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
âYou gotta be sure.â He murmurs against your skin. âTell me youâre sure, doll, âcause- I donât think I can go easy.â
And oh God, isnât that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But heâs asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. Heâs keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didnât know you could want him more.
âI- Oh-â Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. âIâm sure, Bucky, I- I donât want you to go easy.â
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
âYou- You got no idea, do you?â
Your face falls to a pout. âI have a lot of ideas-â
âNo, you donât.â He drops his brow over yours. âYou got no fuckinâ clue, what you do to me.â
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. Youâre already on unsteady legs. You never thought heâd catch you if you fell, but with the way Buckyâs looking at you right now, you think heâd dive off a cliff to be at your side.
âBuckyâŠâ You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
âYou smell so good.â He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. âTaste better than I imagined.â
âYou-â You almost whimper, when he pulls away. âYou imagined?â
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. Youâre already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesnât stop kissing you so softly.
âDidnât you?â
You nod, and Buckyâs lips twitch.
âBet I imagined more.â
And you doubt that, but Buckyâs kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that youâd never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug youâd never even taken.
Youâre certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than youâd let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way heâs holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like heâs trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
âGot no idea what Iâm gonna do to, either.â He rasps against your lips. âIf you let me, doll⊠You shouldnât- But-â He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. âFuck, I want you to.â
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. Heâd be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that youâve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But youâre not sure if heâs going to believe them.
âTell me.â You whisper. âTell me what youâve dreamed about doing to me.â
Bucky pulls back, and you worry youâve stepped on an invisible landmine. That youâre going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room youâve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until youâre squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
âI wanted you just like this.â He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and youâre not even kissing anymore. âWanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetinâ and think about bending you over the table. Youâd get under me on the training mats and Iâd wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.â
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and itâs almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
âWould sit next to you on the plane and think about gettinâ on my knees.â He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. âWorshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makinâ you- Fuck- Call my name-â
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You donât think he can help it.
âWanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.â He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. âYouâd get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttinâ you over my knee or gettinâ you lying in my bed. Iâd- Iâd fuck you so nice, doll, I swear Iâd be good, but- Fuuuck-â
Heâs rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story heâs supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop himânever to stop himâbut to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. Heâs almost shaking. You think heâs trying not to fuck your hand.
You canât have that.
âItâs okay.â You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. âI- Iâve thought about it too.â
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
âWanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.â
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Buckyâs thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers donât even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
âWasnât as big.â You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. âYouâre so big, Bucky, I donât think itâs gonna fit.â
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. âGonna- Fuck-â
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. Heâs almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
âGonna make it fit.â He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
âHow?â
âOpen you up.â He mutters, words slurred like heâs drunk. âGet you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-â
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. Heâs working himself up.
âYou think this is funny?â He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. âA little. You wanna make me cum but you wonât even touch me.â
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
âYou- Youâre a fuckinâ brat-â
âIâm helping you, Barnes.â You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. âHelpinâ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-â
Buckyâs whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
Thereâs so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. Youâve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didnât already wear him out.
âYou okay?â You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever heâd been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You canât stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
Heâs bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and itâs barely been a minute, but heâs already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chestâall flushed skin and muscleâand realize he hasnât stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
âIt wonât fit.â You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Buckyâs smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. Youâve gotten exactly what you wanted.
âGonna make it fit.â He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You donât even slam into his chest before heâs lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. Itâs a distraction. You know that. You donât really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like youâre a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second youâre fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
âSo soft.â He mutters. âAll that bite, doll, but I knew youâd be so fuckinâ soft for me.â
Youâd like to protest, and say that youâre not soft. But Buckyâs kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
âYou like that?â He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. âYou like beinâ my sweet girl?â
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You donât know how heâs the one with a sound mind right now. Youâre not under a sex drug.
Youâre just under Bucky. Where itâs very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
âSay it and I give you more.â He rasps. âSay you like it.â
And itâs a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But heâs poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
âLook at you.â He mocks. âBegginâ for me and then canât even admit she likes it.â
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
âYou like gettinâ tossed around, too?â He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. âIâll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.â
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
âAlready listen so well.â He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. âJust can admit you fuckinâ love it, do you? Canât be a good girl and tell the truth.â
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. Itâs not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
âAlright, babydoll.â He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. âHave it your way.â
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like itâs paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before heâs grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesnât remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Buckyâs tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
âOh my-â Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. âOh my God-â
âSensitive fuckinâ pussy.â Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. âBarely even touching it. Wonder if I-â
 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You canât see him. Canât know if youâre doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
âLook at you.â His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. âBet I donât even need to fuckinâ prep you. Youâre so wet, youâd justâŠâ
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
âSweet.â Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. âSo fuckinâ sweet.â
âBu- Bucky-â
âShhh.â He kisses right over your pussy. âWanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckinâ-â He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. âGotta taste-â
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isnât human.
Heâs good at this. So good at this. Itâs a little unfair. Your mouth canât do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like heâs starved for it. Like heâs a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. Itâs a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. Youâre so wet itâs almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum heâd gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
âThatâs right.â He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. âThatâs it, baby, youâre already lettinâ go, arenât you.â
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
âArenât you?â
âYe- Yes.â You mumble. ââS good, Bucky- So good-â
âI know.â He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. âFuck, baby, I know.â
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. Heâs lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
âI- Iâm gonna- Fuck- Bucky-â You scratch at the sheets. âIâm gonna- Oh God-â
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesnât stop. Youâre making a mess all over his face, and heâs rising up, but itâs just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesnât even come up for air.
âShit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-â
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure thatâs just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
Heâs jerking off while he eats you out. Heâs fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. Heâs eating you out the same way heâs kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor thatâs almost animalistic. Youâre boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, heâs gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
âSmells good.â He rasps. âGonna- Fuck-â
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. Thereâs always just more of it, until youâre so marked up with him youâre sure youâll never be able to wash it off.
You donât want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you donât think he does either.
âShit.â He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. âGotta- Flip for me, câmon-â
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasnât faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
âGood girl.â He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you mightâve failed.
âStrangling my fingers, doll.â He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. Youâre too wet and ready not to take something. Itâs really not fair to make you wait.
âI know.â He kisses your brow, voice rough. âTrust me, I fuckinâ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-â His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. âAll yours.â
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But youâre at an advantage.
Buckyâs hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like itâs an effort to speak. Heâs still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and thereâs no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and itâs not a loving kiss. Itâs rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
âWanna be a brat.â He grunts. âGonna get fucked like a brat.â
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesnât waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. Youâre so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesnât mean your eyes donât roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. Heâd prepared you too well. Youâre more than ready within seconds.
âBu- Bucky-â You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. âMove.â
If heâd told you to wait, you wouldnât have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
âThe- There-â You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. âFuck, baby, right there-â
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep youâre worried heâs going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
Heâs not even fucking you like a brat. Heâs fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like youâre just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now youâre just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
âOh- Oooooh-â You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. âBuuuucky-â
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasnât slowed or relented, but thereâs a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
Thatâs what heâd said heâd do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
âGood girl.â He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
âYou fuckinâ like it, donât you-â
âLove it.â You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. âLove you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-â
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like youâre going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. Youâve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And heâs not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Buckyâs ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before youâre being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
Youâre dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. Youâre all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasnât just ruined you. Heâs pulled you apart a million times over, until youâre just a puddle that sings his name.
You donât even fully realize heâs done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and itâs slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but itâs lost the strained quality. Heâs fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
âSo soft.â He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
âJesus, doll. Youâd think you were the one that got sex drugged.â
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
Theyâre blue again.
âYouâre back?â You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
âIâm back.â
 Youâre ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You donât think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. Youâd never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think youâre some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, heâs so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now youâre never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
âLove you too.â He says against your lips. âJust- Uh- While weâre saying it.â
Oh.
Or that. Thatâs nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
âYouâre stayinâ the night, right?â
You almost snort. Thereâs no getting rid of you now. Youâre going to stay forever, and as long as heâll allow after that.
âYeah. Iâm staying.â
âŠEnd note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.âŠ
âŠIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŠ
âŠBuy me a coffee!âïž (and get early access!)âŠ
Summary: Leaving everything behind, you begin a new job at the Old Light, only to realise you met your co-worker, Charles, the night before.
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, reader is tatted, pierced, and has hair. race, weight and height are unspecified. blowjobs, piv, drinking, smoking, death, grief, one-night stands
photo credits: here, here, here
A/N: This is the first part of what I hope will be a two-part series featuring Modern AU Charles. The reader is described as tattooed, but it's unspecified what they are. I also know sweet fuck all about bartending, bouncers and the like, so please bear with me. The title is taken from an Ethel Cain song titled Mondays. Thank you to Bambi for helping out with a question about bartending (not tagging because I don't want you to feel pressured to read, but if you see this, thank you and ily). I hope you enjoy and consider letting me know what you think x
 This is not your bed.
You come to in varying degrees of consciousness. First is the clean smell of laundry detergent. Then, the astounding fact of your nakedness. A soft whirring noise, like a tiny engine, is making itself known to you. You open your eyes, and a glowing pair of green eyes meets yours.
This is not your cat. You don't even have a cat.
The cat curled on your chest peers down at you curiously. Daringly, she pokes her little pink tongue out and licks your cheek. It's prickly, and you scrunch your face at the sensation.
As you shift, it uses your face as a springboard to bound off the plaid quilted bed and slinks through the half-open bedroom door.
The arm slung around your waist is heavy and muscular, and the body attached to it is much the same. The night comes back in humiliating fragments. The bar. The tequila. Discarding your panties in the bar bathroom.
Oh God.
Carl is sprawled on his belly, his hair long and jet coloured and his back Adonis-like. No, not Carl. Charles. A lock of hair tickles your face, and you hold in your sneeze with considerable effort. Still, you lie there for a moment, listening to his breathing and watching the flutter of his eyelids as he sleeps. He's huge, and you find yourself reluctant to pull away from the warmth of his body. Absently, you brush your fingertips against the smooth dark skin of his forearm. It's muscular, ridged with veins.
Slowly, you lift Charles's crushing arm. He grunts sleepily, and the scar on his cheek comes into view as he shifts. It spiders through the stubble on his jaw. Too bad you'll never find out what happened to him.
Escaping his grasp, you find that stupid on-sale miniskirt you wore discarded on the green rug in his bedroom. It glitters shamelessly in the morning light. There's the top you wore. Your bra is nowhere to be found. A vision of your new red bra dangling off a parking metre assaults you with startling clarity. Your clothes are the only things out of place in it. The rest of it is tidy,
Gathering up your naked and wounded pride, you tiptoe out of his bedroom.
The cat that was previously on your chest sits on a massive cat tree that occupies most of the small, tidy living room. It stares down at you disdainfully. Your stomach rumbles a little, and you wonder if you should rifle through his fridge for a snack. No, no, you must leave before he finds you braless and panty-less in his earthen-toned living room, eating all his raspberry-flavoured protein yoghurt. You shut the fridge and find your boots somewhere near the entryway. Your jacket is hung up next to his.
The cat lets out an indignant meow as you fumble with the door.
"Shh!" You hiss at her as she unhinges her great maw to chirp at you loudly.
Leaping off the cat tree, she rubs her silky grey flanks along your calves. You reach down with one hand to scratch her between the ears. She quiets, purring and arching her back.
"Good kitty. Shh." Inching back from her, you jiggle the doorknob again, and she practically yowls at you.
Thrusting your hand into your jacket pocket, you rifle through for a bribe. The best you can come up with is a peppermint, dusted in lint and a wrapped Slim Jim.
Do cats eat those? You take a leap of faith and unwrap it, waving it about her sleek, triangular head.
She quiets again, sitting down at your feet with her tail curled around her paws. Charles has a very polite cat. Creeping back, still dangling the treat, you toss it across his carpet, and the cat leaps towards it excitedly.
Putting the toe of your boots through the crack in the door lest she follow you, you suck your stomach in and squeeze through.
By the time you get to the empty apartment, the whole thing already feels a little unreal. The walk to his apartment, clinging to his arm, the deep rumble of his laugh and the feel of his hair in your hands. The first week here, and you've already made a fool of yourself. The only way to go is up.
The new apartment has that strange, sterile air about it, whitewashed walls and your few belongings in cardboard boxes. You make yourself instant noodles and eat them on the floor. The apartment could not be more different from the one you woke up in. In between mouthfuls of noodles, you turn over the details of it in your mind. The clean living room, the desk with stacks of books and a mess of papers that you hadn't dared to disrupt. Charles. The night before churns in your mind, the hard muscles of his body folded along yours, his thick cock splitting you open. It still aches between your legs.
He had stuck out to you from the small clusters of the sad Sunday night crowd. He'd been all alone. The first thing you'd noticed were his eyes, dark brown and long-lashed. Then, the thick black hair was tied back from his face. When you'd gotten all close, all tipsy and flirtatious, the sheer size of him. The mug of beer dwarfed in his hand, the other, sliding along your lower back.
By evening, itâs your first shift back at the Old Light, and youâre still half-convinced youâve forgotten something important as you walk in. You pat yourself down, rifle through your purse: keys, wallet, cigarettes. You curse yourself for even considering the trial shift. What sort of bar puts you on a Monday shift? You'd thought working here would mean lazing away on weekdays and smoking as much as you like. Instead, it's a 4 to 11 shift. You tie the tiny apron Sherry had given you. It's embroidered with a lantern at the hem.
The place is already warm and noisy. Sherry, your new boss is calling out instructions from behind the bar, and youâre just trying to get your bearings when the front door opens and a voice you know cuts through the noise.
âYou want me on the door or inside tonight?â
You look up. You see long dark hair, wide shoulders and high cheekbones.
It's Charles. Charles with the clingy cat and the Adonis-like back.
Charles, whom you fucked in the filthy bar bathroom.
For a moment, you do consider suicide.
"Sweetheart, this is Mr Smith." Sherry grins at him. "He's security along with those two." She gestures to two men off in the distance. "Anyone gets mean or touches you, you call 'em."
His eyes flit over you once, and you fiddle with the strings of your apron. Giving no acknowledgement that he was inside you less than twenty-four hours ago, he nods once in greeting.
Sherry pats him; her hand looks tiny on his shoulder.
"Inside, sweetie."
Charles nods silently, and you see him weave his way into the corner of the bar. Your first day at a new job, and the guy you fucked the night before works there too. Typical.
You do as Sherry says, though. Monday night isn't too crowded. Perfect day to learn, she says with her wide crooked grin. You do as she says, and another girl, Maya, shows you where the cleaning supplies are, how to mix the simplest of drinks. Every so often, your eyes flicker up to Charles, standing with arms crossed over his chest and a carefully blank expression on his face. From your spot behind the bar, you watch as he shoulders off a small group of boys with wispy goatees who look far too young to be there.
Your shift has only just started to feel manageable when one of the regulars starts getting too loud at the bar. At first, it is nothing worth noticing, just another man drinking too fast and talking too big, the kind you'd ignore. You are wiping down the counter when he turns, catches your arm hard enough to stop you in place, and says something slurred and mean under his breath.
âLet go,â you say, already trying to pull back. His grip tightens, and he pulls you forward till the counter bites into your stomach. The glass topples at the force of his movements and crashes onto the bar with a musical shattering noise.
Before the moment can get any worse, Charles is there.
âI think youâre going to have to leave,â He says, and his hand closes over the manâs shoulder with calm, immediate force.
His face is stony, and the white scar down his cheek is stark against his skin. The broken glass glitters on the countertop. The man mutters something incoherent, and Charles's knuckles turn white. The man squirms under the heavy handling. Charles's face remains composed. Bringing another hand down on his shoulder, Charles manhandles him away from the bar, and you see his dark head disappear in the throng of people. You crouch under the bar to find the dustpan. The floor is sticky with spilt drinks.
Taking the brush, you sweep the glittering shards of glass down and off the bar. They clatter into the dustpan in a shimmering waterfall. There's a commotion from outside the bar. A raised voiceânot Charles's jabbers loudly in the distance. When you set down the dustpan and brush, A sickening thudding noise reverberates through the bar, making the patrons murmur.
Charles weaves through the crowd, his hand clapped over his face. He comes over to the bar, and when he removes it, you can see his eye already swelling.
"You alright?" His voice is low, eye half shut.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I think so."
"Could Iâ get some ice or somethin'?"
"Of course." You find some and a zip-lock bag in the drawer, and hand them to him.
The shift ends with less commotion, and you whisper to Maya to cover for you as you take your break.
Stepping outside, you rifle in your pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Notes of soft music, Sherry switched on for cleaning up float outside. You suck in deep mouthfuls of air, a change from the liquor and sweat coating the inside of the bar.
Charles stands outside, close to the door. The other two bouncers have left Charles to stick around and fend off lingering customers.
"Thank you." You say, approaching him. He's massive up close like this; no wonder the girls at the bar call for everything.
"Hm?"
"For dealing with him."
He raises a brow.
"That's my job." He says, not unkindly, you feel idiotic. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the long-sleeved shirt all the bouncers wear strains over his arm.
"No, I know, I just thoughtâI'm new here." You finish and grope for the lighter in your apron. "I wasn't sure if I should cut him off, Sherry says we haven't been getting business and upsetting a regularâ"
"He grabbed you," Charles says, quietly. You light yours and, dropping the lighter back in your apron, you belatedly offer him one.
"Thanks, I quit." He says, and you regret pulling one out at all.
"Sorry. I should have asked before I lit mine."
"It's alright." He shakes his head, his long, dark hair gleaming under the neon sign."You've had a long night."
You nod, taking a drag and turning your head away from him and blowing a stream of acrid smoke.
"The other night." You hesitate, "I'm not in the habit of doing that."
He says nothing.
"AndâI didn't know you worked here. I'm not stalking you." Idiot.
Staring straight ahead, he gives the slightest of nods.
"Didn't think you were."
"Do you like working here?" You say, in an effort to make conversation.
"Ain't so bad." He shrugs.
"Even when you get punched?" You say feebly.
He shrugs. "Been a year now."
"What were you doing before?"
"Contracting. You?"
"Receptionist."
He says nothing, but raises his brows, glancing down at the curling lines of ink on your forearm.
"At a tattoo shop." You say hastily.
"What brings you here then?"
"Uh. I was studyingâand now I'm taking a break." You inhale the smoke too sharply and splutter. "So I moved out here andâ" you gesture to the bar, "âhere I am."
Sherry calls your name sharply, travels faintly from the half-open entrance.
âI should go.â You crush the cigarette underfoot and for no reason you can justify, stick out your hand. âIt was nice to meet you properly, Charles.â
"You too." He nods, without taking it.
"Wait." You start without thinking, and then fish in your apron for a sticky note. Hastily, you jot down that new number of yours, hoping you've remembered it right. "I'll buy you a drink or a coffee or something. To make up for your face."
He says nothing as he pockets it. Sherry calls loudly, her voice cutting, and you skitter back inside.
. . .
Charles calls you when you least expect it. Early one morning, your only day off, the phone buzzes with that wretched musical ringtone you'd set when you were in a far better mood. You reach for it on the nightstand and succeed only in sweeping the pill boxes decorating your nightstand off onto the apartment floor.
You pick up.
"Hello?"
"Hey." The voice is deep, and for a moment it does not register. "It's Charles."
"Charles?"
"From work."
"I justâit's early, that's all."
"It's 8 am." He says, and you can picture the slight tilt of his brow when he says that. He must wake up at 5 am and do pull-ups. With arms like those.
"It's my day off."
"Um. Yeah, I know." He says hesitantly, "I was wonderin' if you'd want to go for that drink. Tonight."
"Drink?"
"I don't expect you to pay, but I wasâif you'd want to go."
"I wasn't coming onto you or anything." You say hastily.
"No.No. I didn't think that." His voice is faint through the microphone: "I'm not either."
"Just a drink, then."
"Yeah. You said you're new here, and I got a night off."
"Okay. Yeah."
"I can text you a place."
"Sure."
. . .
The bar he picks is crowded. Big neon signs and tap beer. People mill about around you in droves. He looks nice, in a clean sweater and dark jeans. His hair is tied back and combed. Those scuffed boots he wears to work.
Awkwardly, you stick your hand out to shake his, and he takes it, his grip firm.
âYou want a drink?â He asks, after a stretch of silence.
" Ginger ale.â
He glances at you, just briefly. âThat it?â
âMm. I've turned a new leaf.â
The corner of his mouth twitches before he turns to the bar.
The bartender sets the bottle down in front of you, along with a glass you donât use. Charles's thigh brushes yours under the bar. He blinks, and you hear the creak of the stool as he shifts it away from you.
âHow come the Old Light?â you ask, if only to fill the space.
âNeeded the work.â He shrugs. âThey were hiring.â
âThatâs it?â
âThatâs it.â
You huff softly, turning the bottle between your palms. âYouâre not much for conversation, are you?â
âNot much to say 'bout it.â
His thigh presses against yours under the bar again. The denim chafes against the sheer of your tights.
âSo,â you say, setting the bottle down a little too carefully, âare we going to pretend we donât know each other, orâ?â
He looks at you then, properly. âDepends. You want to?â
You hesitate, then shake your head. âNo. I donâtââ You exhale through your nose. âI donât want it to be weird at work.â
âIt's not weird for me.â
âThatâs because you barely talk.â
A huff of amusement escapes him.
âYou worried Iâm gonna tell people?â he asks.
âShould I be?â
âNo.â
You nod, relieved despite yourself. âGood.â
âI donât usually do that,â you say, quieter.
âYeah,â he says. "I figured."
You glance sideways. âThat didnât sound convincing.â
âI ainât judging you.â
âI know, I justââ You stop yourself, pressing your lips together. âForget it.â
"You don't need to explain yourself."
"I wasn't trying to." You snap and then bite your lip. âI just got out of something,â you say finally.
A little white lie never hurt. You do not say you were halfway to the courthouse when you'd made him pull over. You'd taken off your sparkly white heels and walked the highway until your feet had been red-raw from the burning concrete.
He nods. âAlright.â
âThatâs it?â you ask.
âWhat dâyou want me to say?â
âI donât know. Something insightful.â
"I don't have an insight into it." Shrugging, he takes another sip of the beer.
You squint.
"Are you angry about it?" He asks.
"Really fuckin' angry." You grin over the bottle. "Angry enough to sleep with someone else."
âYou regret it, then.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âThe other night.â
âNo,â You say, honestly. âDo you?â
He shakes his head once. âNo.â
The anxious knot in your chest loosens.
âOkay,â You murmur, more to yourself than him.
He reaches for his beer, takes a slow pull, then sets it down.
âThis,â He gestures faintly between you, âis just a drink.â
You look at him, then nod. âJust a drink.â
You take another sip of your ginger ale, though youâre not tasting it anymore. The noise of the bar swells around youâlaughter, glass clinking, someone shouting over a song you donât recognise. Loud pop music that you'd really quite enjoy if Charles's eyes weren't boring into you, his eyes fixed on your lipsticked mouth around the rim of the bottle. He averts his eyes as you glance at him,
You set the bottle down.
âDo you want to get out of here?â you ask, plain and stone-cold sober.
He studies you for a heartbeat, his eyes unreadable.
âYeah,â he says.
Thatâs it.
You grab your jacket before you can think better of it. He throws some cash on the bar, and then youâre moving through the throng of sticky bodies. Charles's hand is firm on your waist, yanking you close when a man lurches towards you in the drunken mimicry of a flirtation. His presence is so imposing that the crowd parts easily.
The door swings shut behind you, cutting the noise clean. There is only the faint whoosh of the wind around you. You lift your hair off your neck, letting it cool your nape.
You turn towards Charles and, without meaning to, step straight into him. Then, his mouth is on yours in the grimy parking lot. Your hand fists in his sweater as you sway with the heat of the kiss.
"The car?" You whisper, and Charles breaks away from your mouth a second to steer you towards it.
You kiss him again, backing him up a step until his shoulders hit the car door with a dull thud. His hand drops to your waist, firm, keeping you close as you press into him.
âKeys,â You mutter.
He fumbles them out of his pocket without breaking the kiss, the car unlocking with a soft chirp. Reaching back, he finds the handle.
The door opens, and youâre both moving at onceâhim pulling it wider, you climbing in halfway, dragging him with you as he slides into the driver's seat, squeezed against you.
You end up sprawled over the console, and half in his lap, Charles's hand finds the back of your neck again, stronger now, holding you in place as your mouth opens against his.
âCharles,â You breathe.
He answers with a rough exhale, shifting under you.
You press closer, your hand sliding down between you, bolder now.
âWe could justââ Your lips brush his, ââdo it here.â
His hand closes around your wrist, stopping you, breath still uneven.
âI ainât an animal,â He says, low.
You lean back just enough to meet his eyes, hazy from the kiss.
âCouldâve fooled me.â
Placing both his hands on your waist, he lifts you from the car console and onto the passenger seat. Leaning over you, he draws the seatbelt across your chest and misses the latch three times as you mouth his neck. When he can finally peel away from you, he settles his big hand on your knee. Perhaps, to hold you in place. The panties you wore are distressingly wet. You squeeze your thighs together as his hand slides upwards on your tights.
The ride to his apartment feels like a million years. You use the time to collect your thoughts as best you can. His palm against your thigh makes that difficult. The elevator ride up is silent, both of you staring at the tiny screen where red numbers flash at a snail's pace. He stares straight ahead, the only indication of what this is, the hand braced on your lower back.
Does he do this often? Invite girls out in the hopes of getting laid. The thought dissolves as he helps you out of your worn leather jacket. His cat, presumably recognising you, noses at your legs and then sinks her tiny claws into the netting of your tights. Hastily, Charles snatches her up, and she hisses at him.
"Sorry. She's excited."
"That's okay, we've met before, haven't we?" You reach out to scratch her between her pointed ears, "Haven't weâ" You look up at him.
"Taima."
"Haven't we, Taima?" At the sound of her name, she begins to purr, shutting her eyes and leaning into your hand. "Got off to a rough start, didn't we?"
She meows. She probably gets it.
Charles has the faintest of smiles when you look up at him. Setting her down on the couch, he turns towards you. You feel exposed, suddenly. The top you wore feels too low cut, although his eyes are fixed on your face. His bicep flexes as he sweeps his arm around your waist, drawing you against him. The swell of your breasts smushes against the knit of his deceptively soft sweater, concealing acres of hard muscles underneath.
"You know, I just got out of a relationship." You say, as he slides a searching hand into the back of your top. His palm flattens against your spine, warm and sure.
"Yeah? You hadn't mentioned it."
Slipping your bare arms around his neck, you lean forward, lips brushing his. His breath hitches as he widens his stance to accommodate you.
"So, I'm really not looking for anything."
"Right." Charles cocks his head as you lace your fingers through his hair.
"Seriously. I mean it." You tug at it, just to feel his grip on you tighten.
"Fine by me." He says, and leaning forward, kisses you.
The hot press of his mouth against yours is what finally shuts you up. He slips his tongue past your lips, and you gasp into the heat of his mouth. His thick, dark hair is pulled away from his face, and you plunge your fingers into it, yanking as he lifts you so your stockinged toes graze his carpet. You are suspended in his arm as he sucks a bruise into the tender skin of your neck. The brown knit sweater he wears is thick and soft under your fingers, and you slide your hand into the collar to feel the corded muscles of his neck.
"Charles?"
"Yeah?" Another bruising kiss at the fluttering pulse in your throat.
"I really can't get involved with anyoneâahâI'm focusing on myself."
"You said that." Hiking your leg up, he squeezes the meat of your thigh over your tights. "Many times."
"Bed?" You whisper into his ear, scraping your teeth along the shell of it.
"Yeah. Bed." His voice is rough with want.
It takes some effort to peel yourselves away from each other so he can steer you to his bedroom. Standing over you, he pulls the knit sweater over his head. The white t-shirt he wears is stark against his luminous dark skin. You lie on the bed as he catches your ankle in his massive hand and reaches into your skirt to remove your sheer black tights. Slowly, he peels them off your leg, revealing inked skin with every inch. Sitting up on your elbows, you grab the buckle of his belt, struggling with it until he takes over, removing it in one elegant movement, his hands covering yours. Your pussy throbs.
"Take off your shirt." You command, wanting to see his body in all of its glory. This time, you'll remember it.
"You first." He cocks his head, raising a brow. It has a scar through it, giving him the air of a stray tomcat.
Sitting up, you pull your top over your head, leaving you only in your bra. The effect on him is immediate; the pupils of his deep brown eyes billowed out with want. His breath comes short before he steadies it, chest pumping. Most of you is exposed now, the inked skin of your forearms and shouldersâthe glittering ring in your navel, the result of some drunken night out, long ago.
Running his knuckles along the swell of one breast, he caresses the goosebumps as they form under his touch. Tucking the tips of his fingers into the cup of your bra, he finds the hardening nipple.
"This is nice." He strokes the lacy edge of it, his fingers trailing upward to the divot where the bra pushes your breasts upward. You're glad you wore it just for the look on his face.
"Your turn." Your voice hitches at the brush of his callused fingertips. Making good on his promise, he pulls the white tee over his head. Strands of hair come loose at his temples, and you sit up to admire him. The broad acreage of his shoulders and chest is wide and heavily built. His ribs are blotchy, black, blue and bruised.
"What happened here?" You are surprised at the concern in your own voice.
"Gym."
"Gym?" You giggle, "What? Did you get mugged on the way?"
"Boxing." His mouth quirks up at the corner, the scar on his cheek twisting with the movement. "This morning."
"Of course. What else?"
Charles doesn't laugh at your joke; instead, he guides your hands to the button of his jeans. Hungrily, you drag your mouth along his belly, the hard muscle lining it quivers under your touch. His hands lace through your hair, one trailing from the hinge of your jaw to your chin. His head tips back as you trail your tongue lower, the soft seam of hair on his stomach tickling your face.
"Can I suck your dick?" You bat your eyelashes as he lifts your chin. His thumb swipes over your lips, and you take it in your mouth, sucking on it slowly.
"Sure." He nods indulgently. "If that's what you want."
"You're supposed to tell me to please give you a blowjob or you'll explode and die." You pout.
Charles looks amused.
"D 'you want me to say that?
"Never mind." You smile at him obligingly. "I'll give you one anyway."
"Kind of you."
"They say it's a virtue."
Leaning forward, you nuzzle at the bulge in his jeans, looking up at him. He gathers your hair in his hand in a makeshift ponytail. Breathing in the smell of soap and clean skin, you shut your eyes. Unzipping his fly, you ease him out of his flannel boxers. He's huge, bigger than you remember from that first night, not that you remember much. The tip of him is flushed and leaks fluid. You whistle.
"You've seen it before." He deadpans, but his white scar on his cheek flushes pink. God, he's incorrigible.
"I've seen the Grand Canyon before, tooâit doesn't make it less impressive."
Rolling his eyes, he takes it in his hand and rubs the tip against your lips, smearing precome on them. Tapping it against your cheek as you cover your hand with his and lick up the shaft. Grasping your jaw and forcing your mouth into a pucker, he eases the tip of his cock into your mouth. You suck at it eagerly, leaning forward to take more. Your eyes water, but you follow through, taking him till the tip brushes the back of your throat and then bobbing your head as he grunts.
"Go slow." Tightening his hand in your hair, he holds you steady by it.
"This is slow." You mean to say, but it comes out garbled.
"You'll hurt yourself."
"Show off." You giggle around him, and he loosens his grip on your hair, allowing you to take him as far as you can.
You gag a little, but adjust as you slick him in spit. Charles begins to move, gingerly at first, and then with more urgency. His hand settles at your throat, not choking you but feeling the outline of himself in it. Gagging a little, you take him deeper and cry in surprise as he lifts your head off his cock.
"I won'tâlast long if you keep doing that." He grunts. Aw. You oblige him with one last kiss, the tip of it. It twitches a little, leaking more salty fluid.
Flipping onto your stomach, you spread yourself out a little, cheek folded in the duvet. The miniskirt you are glad you wore is the only thing covering you, and it rides up your ass.
"That comfortable?" He says, right when you expect him to slide into you.
"Charles. Please fuck me." You beg, raising your head to put your chin to your shoulder.
"I will." He says, and smooths his big hand over your ass. "In a second."
Rubbing the tip of his cock at your core, he hisses as the tip breaches your entrance, your cunt flutttering to take him in. You bury your face in his duvet, but he still doesn't slide inside. You look over again.
"Are you sure that's comfortable?
"Charles." You reply patiently, "I'm very sure."
Sighing heavily, he slides inside of you. You gasp at the pressure; it doesn't hurt, exactly, but the stretch makes you cry out in surprise. He grunts a little, not moving, his hand clamped down on your hip. Arching back into him, you urge him to move. His other hand is braced on your ass. Your cunt squeezes around him.
"That's okay?" He says, voice strained.
"Mm." Trying to relax, you fold your arms and bury your face in them. He smooths his big hand down your shuddering back. "S'good. Feels good. You're so big."
You cringe a little at your own honesty. That stupid pornographic line, oh, it's so big, oh, how will it ever fit? But it's the truth. His grasp on you grows tighter.
"Gonna move now. Yeah?"
"You don't have to narrateâoh"
The first thrust makes you gasp and whine, Charles grunts behind you, a deep, rough noise that makes you even wetter. He moves slowly at first, just the even roll of his hips and the weight of him inside of you. You clench around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering around him. His breaths become harsher, but you feel the quivering restraint in his movements.
"Fuck." He grits out. "You look real good like this."
"Go faster." You groan, "Please."
"I won't last long if I do."
"I don't care." Whining, you arch into him. "I wanna come on your cock."
His hips buck at your words, and you look over your shoulder to his heaving chest, gleaming with sweat. His hand climbs up your spine, tracing the patchwork of images there, and he anchors it in your hair, twisting your head back to face him. Leaning over you, chest to your back, he kisses you, his tongue in your mouth. Breaking away from you, he pulls out and lifts your hips to fumble with the zip on the side of your skirt. Once it comes off, he manhandles you onto your back in one movement and spears you on his cock. Planting a knee on his bed, he deepens the angle and reaches between your legs to pinch your clit gently.
The sensation makes you whine, and you reach for his wrist to urge him on. His body folds over yours, and he takes one of your nipples into his hot, wet mouth. His thrusts grow more desperate as you thread your fingers into his hair and draw him to kiss you, mouth sliding over his.
"Charles, baby, I thinkâ" You mumble into his mouth and lock legs around his hips, "I think I'm going to come."
He makes a low, satisfied noise and reaches down to press two fingers against you, stimulating your clit. You come, pulling at his hair. Colours flash on the inside of your eyelids, and your body hums around him. The orgasm makes you tighten around him, and he tenses.
"Yeah. M' gonna come too." His even voice is slurred with pleasure, and his eyes sealed shut. His head drops to your collarbone, his hands bracing beside your head, fisting in the duvet.
Pulling out, he takes his cock in his hand and thrusts into it. Reaching down, you replace his hand with yours, and he fucks it, hips bucking and brow furrowed. He comes in spurts on your belly, rivulets of spend trickling down it. You lie there a moment, limbs boneless. The warm come spills down your belly, and you dip your fingers into it mindlessly. You wish he had come in your mouth.
"Sorry." His voice is rough. "Should've asked you first."
"I'd have let you come inside me if you'd wanted." You say, tongue loose from the orgasm.
Groaning, he collapses beside you, gleaming with sweat.
You blink at the ceiling, vision blurred, and your mind blissfully quiet.
The mattress dips, and he's lifting himself off heavily. You watch as he pads to the bathroom, and you hear the tap turn on. Shutting your eyes, you slump back onto the bed, mind still reeling. The next thing you feel is the cool touch of a wipe on your stomach and the insides of your thighs. Charles sits on the edge of the bed and cleans the come off of you. You open your mouth to tell him he doesn't have to do that, but nothing comes out but an exhale of satisfaction.
"You alright?" Charles's voice is rough with exertion.
"Mm. Great." You say dreamily. Sweaty hair is plastered to his temples and neck.
Lifting the duvet, he slides back into bed beside you, tucking his hand under his head. Rolling onto your side, you prop your head up on your hand to look down at him.
Anchoring his hand at your jaw, he draws you over him. You prop an elbow on his chest.
"I had fun."
"Did you?"
"Wasn't it obvious?" You trace his lips with your finger; there's another scar on his other cheek; this one is tiny, the size of your fingernail.
"Just makin' sure."
Yawning, you curl up against him. He sinks his hand into your hair, fingertips moving in slow circles against your scalp. Your eyes flutter shut.
"Sleepy?" He says you are beginning to doze off under the movement of his hand.
"No." You sigh as he shifts his hand to your back. "I'm working tomorrow. Should get the bus to mine."
"I can drop you off at home." A tiny pinch of disappointment makes you shift off of him, pawing around for your bra. Of course, he wouldn't ask you to spend the night. It was just a drink, after all. "Couldn't have Sherry seein' us show up together."
"Embarrassing."
"Ain't what I meant. But yeah, I figure you wouldn't want to show up with me on your first week."
Clasping your bra and finding your underwear and tights, you rise from the bed. He sits up, his belly glistening with sweat and his dark hair over the pillow. It's come loose, somewhere in the tussle. The outline of his cock is visible under the sheets, and his eyes flick to the curve of your ass. Setting his big feet on his carpeted floor, he pulls his flannel boxers up and raises his big arms to pull a T-shirt on, wincing a little as it comes down over his bruised ribs.
The drive to your place is quiet, only the soft rock music channel on the radio and your muttered directions. You feel dishevelled, a little shamed next to his icy composure. Your hair is mussed, and your makeup smudged.
He walks you to the crumbling set of stairs leading into the lobby of your apartment. The place is run down, and you flush a little as he peers through the window at the peeling wallpaper and plastic chairs set out. The tired receptionist is just visible behind the desk. The big glass doors, the only new part of the building, the old woman who lives above you trots up the stairs, staring at Charles with a sour expression on her wrinkled face. You raise your hand in a half-hearted wave.
"It was cheap." You say abruptly, hugging your arms around yourself and looking at him. "I needed a place fast."
"No. Iâthat ain'tâ" He falters. "You got hot water and stuff? Everything works? Meets property standards?
You almost laugh. Contracting indeed.
"Hot water, sometimes. It's okay otherwise. The landlady isn't too bad."
"Alright. You can call me if there are any problems." You search his face for any false promise, any indication of a polite facade. There is none.
"Okay." Oddly timid, you stare down at the toes of your boots. "Thank you for the drink."
"Yeah. No worries." He stares down at your face, and you wipe at it self-consciously. The sun has long set, and the only light is the fluorescent glow from the lobby of your apartment. His eyes are the deepest shade of brown you've ever seen.
"I don't think this should happen again." You say softly.
Charles's face is arranged into neutrality.
"If that's what you want." His voice is calm, and you see him adjust his posture, straightening his spine.
"I'm not good at this stuff." You gesture between you two. "And I moved out here for a fresh start, and I don't want things at work to beâcomplicated."
"Sure. It ain't a problem." He says, finally.
"Goodnight, Charles."
"See you at work."
. . .
You make it four shifts at the Old Light before you find yourself in the storage closet, Charles's mouth on yours.
A/N: Oversharing in the author's note again, feel free to skip it.
I wrote this because I was feeling a little sad. Father's Day weekend is one of those things I wish I could just sleep through. I'm estranged from my father, and it's just one of those things. Anyways, I distracted myself by writing a tiny blurb for the I miss the sun, he knows universe, this picks up a little after Daybreak. I'm usually averse to pregnancy and children in fics, but I wanted Charles to have his happy ending with his little family. The title is taken from the poem "The Widening Sky" by Edward Hirsch. Happy Father's Day, I hope it is kind to you.
You wake up cold.
You are always cold these days. Charles and John keep the fires burning all night at Beecher's Hope, but unless you are buried in three layers of quilts and tucked close to Charles, you are cold.
Rolling over, you feel the rumpled sheets; they've cooled. Charles hasn't slept at all. Slipping out of bed, your feet find the slippers Abigail made you, woollen and dyed wine-red. Creeping out of the spare room and dragging the thin quilt with you, you shudder at the draft filtering through the house. Beecher's Hope is still save the creak of the floorboards and the song of the crickets outside.
Charles sits at the kitchen table, smoking. His hair is loose over his back and you press a silent wish into your ribs. Dark hair, black as night and eyes like yours. The broad line of his shoulders is framed by the moonlight flooding through the big windows. You watch him a moment, through the threshold. He's given up smoking since you've become pregnant. The smell makes you sick. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his proud head bent in his hand. The edge of the white bandage peeks through the collar of his loosely buttoned shirt. When he sees you, he puts it out hastily.
"It's cold." You say quietly.
"I'm sorry." His voice is low. "Couldn't sleep."
"Is it sore?" You gesture to his shoulder, he was lucky. The bullet missed the bone and the organ. He'll be okay, even if he can't pull a bow for a long while. Those awful weeks where you had slept in a chair beside him, fearing infection, fearing the cold hands of death. He had not died, though.
"Go back to bed. I'm alright."
"Charles."
"Nothin' for you to worry about."
"That just makes me worry more." You approach the table and pull out a chair, quietly as you can.
"You shouldn't have to." He says firmly, "I don't want you takin' on more than you already are."
"I'm hardly four months gone. Don't be stupid."
"Just thinking, is all."
"About?"
"Do you remember your father?" He says abruptly.
The question catches you off guard.
"No. Not really." You muse, "He was gone by the time I could remember anything at all."
"I remember mine." Charles stares past you. Unconsciously, he touches the scar on his cheek.
The troubled look on his tired face makes your heart pull. The half-light in the window illuminates his expression. Reaching out, you lay your palm against his jaw. He leans into the touch.
"Is that what's wrong?" You scoot the chair closer so your knees brush his.
"I worry that I willâthat a child deserves better than me as a father. Or you, a better husband"
"You aren't like him."
"And yetâI have nothin' to give you. We're living on charity. I can't hunt or fight like this, and the idea of you takin' on work toâ"
"I don't need you to do any of that. I'm not helpless."
"What about after the child is born?" He demands, his voice suddenly hard. "And you are weak, and you have no house of your own orâ"
"You almost died." Your voice trembles violently. "I don't expect you to build me a house or brawl."
"Maybe you should." His voice is rough, "You're pregnant. I don't want you to worry about a house or whether I can protect you."
"I wish you'd stop treating me like I've changed." You snap tearfully.
"Haven't you?" He says, and his gaze goes to your stomach, swelling more every day.
"I'm still me. I can still shoot andâ"
"It ain't that, either." He says, as if you cannot understand him. "You've always been strong, far stronger than me."
"Are you not happy, then?" You whisper, and hot tears pool in your eyes; you press the heel of your palm to your eye to try to stem them. "Is this not what you want?"
Perhaps he regrets it, regrets marrying you. Perhaps he saw the way you put it all at risk on the mountain. Perhaps this is all an obligation to him. Picking up where Arthur left off, fulfilling a promise. No. A voice whispers to you. No, this is Charles. He loves you. He married you. He loves your baby, too. But the thought of regret has already sent a pain so sharp that it makes you fold into yourself a little.
"What? No, of course I am." Charles says fiercely. " I am."
You look at his face; it's raw with honesty. His hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it away, continuing.
"It's justâ" He pauses, a little helplessly. "You look so fragile."
Wiping your face, you begin to protest.
"I know you aren't." Charles says quietly, "Still, I'm afraid."
"Of what?"
"My father failed my mother. I do not want to fail you."
"But you've never failed me." You whisper.
"I told Arthur to leave the reservation. To go back and try to get everyone out."
"Charles, he wanted that. It was just us that he didn't want to leave."
"Maybe you'd have had longer with him if I hadn't."
"Maybe." You choke a little on the word. "But you did the right thing."
"Did I?" He says softly.
Rising from the chair, you draw him close, pressing his scarred cheek to your heart. Charles sighs and leans into you as you thread a hand in his thick hair.
"Arthur thought so. He always thought the best of you." He stiffens when you say that.
"Sometimes I feel I have stolen this from him," Charles says softly, into the fabric. "It ain't like he was less deserving."
The guilt in his voice makes your throat close up. Charles, who has sheltered you and swept up all your broken pieces, soldered them back together and cradled you so that you may never break again. Charles, who believes he has no right to this, the life inside of youâthe expansion of your world.
"He had it." You whisper. "And that was it for himâhe wasn't ever going to have it with me."
Charles lifts his head from you, his brow knitting. You smooth it with your fingertips.
"Arthur had a son." You say, the last secret between you two hanging in the air. "He passed."
"I did not know."
"It's okay. I didn't for a long time. It was before us, and it wasn't something he shared until he knew."
Knew he was dying, knew he was leaving you. He had not wanted there to be anything you did not know of him. Now, the final secret between the two of you is no longer; it is spent on soothing Charles's fear.
"You haven't stolen anything. I'm yours; this child is ours."
A sigh escapes Charles's lips, and he smiles a little. Tugging you off your feet, he pulls you into his lap. One of your slippers slides off, your feet dangling.
"Don't. I'm heavy, and you're still recovering." You say, without much conviction.
"I can't even do this now?" He raises his brow, and a trace of his rare humour bleeds into his eyes. "Can't even lift my wife."
Tucking your hair behind your ears, he presses a kiss to your cheek.
"Idiot." You say fondly. "Buffoon."
"You okay otherwise?" Tentatively, he lays his palm on your belly. You put your hand over his, lacing your scarred fingers together.
"Sore. Abigail says I should feel kicking soon."
"Kicking." Charles's voice is filled with wonder. "Itâit's hard to believe that a child is in there."
"I believe it alright." You say wryly. "Have you ever known me to turn down a cigarette?"
"Sorry. I must smell of smoke." His voice is guilty, and you smile into his neck.
"I'm not vomiting so much anymore, Abigail says it stopped around this time for her, too."
"Good." His voice is warm, "It ain't like you to vomit at the sight of dead rabbits."
"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" You tease, wiping away the remnants of the conversation off your face. Shifting in his lap, you twine your arms around his neck to face him.
"Girl."
He says with such certainty that it must be true.
The sky turns silvery blue, Beecher's Hope fills with pale morning light. In a few hours, the house will wake. Abigail will fuss around the kitchen, and Uncle and John will bicker over mugs of coffee. John will suggest that Charles groom the horses and regain his strength. For now, it is just you and Charles, the whole world cradled between you.
Pairing: Epilogue Charles Smith x F!Reader/ Former Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
WC: 7K
Summary: Arthur is dead, and the years are long.
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, piv, unsafe sex, oral sex, hand jobs, grief, pregnancy (don't boo me!) canon typical violence, racism and misogyny, death, animal death, sickness, photo credits here, here, here
A/N: This is a continuation of my fic I miss the sun, he knows. If this doesnât go in a direction you were expecting, that makes two of us! But I have to post, or I'll keep stewing in self-doubt. I hope you enjoy it and consider letting me know what you think.
1899, Wapiti Reservation
"Stay here. Help Charles, help them."
"Stay? You piece of shit."
You wish you could hit him. The arm that you are sure is broken has been strapped to your chest, and you cannot. Arthur's face is exhausted, worn with grief. Eagle Flies lies dead behind the veil of the tent, and the air is thick with the song of mourning. He does not flinch, and Charles turns away, muttering that there is much to do. So it is just you and Arthur, standing on the ruined camp.
"Please. Please, I'll come with you." You are begging, now. Folding your good hand into his worn jacket, you clutch at him. "My arm is fine. I can ride andâ"
"Sweetheart," Arthur says, patience lacing every word. His bloodshot eyes are soft with affection "You're hurt." He peels back the fingers fisted in his lapel and flattens them over his heart. Each breath rattles through his lungs. His heartbeat, once steady and reassuring, is erratic against your palm.
Sighing, he gathers you to him, curling his arm around your good side. He threads his other hand through your hair, cradling your head to his chest. Your cheek moulds to his heart. You let him protect you with his body for the last time.
He's so thin. He needs to eat more.
. . .
1902, Cumberland Forest
The throat under the steel toes of your boot swallows with fear. The muzzle of your gun presses hard into the skin of a liver-spotted forehead. Just an old man. You wait for pity to pierce the crocodile-hide of your heart. It doesn't. Grinding the tip of your boot into the paper-thin skin of his neck, you watch as he splutters. Droplets of spittle coat the toe of your boot and soak his tobacco-stained moustache. This putrid show of weakness sends a wave of revulsion over you. You press the gun into his forehead so far back that it smushes the back of his rotten head into the dirt.
"He's no good to us dead," Charles says mildly.
"Ain't no good to anyone alive." You ease the pressure of the gun back.
"Three hundred dollars seems like a pretty good reason to keep him alive."
William Randall. Killed his young wife, killed his children, too. Then lit off to live like a wild man in the woods. A three-hundred-dollar bounty for a man approaching his seventies. Wanted alive so the good people of Valentine can see the Sheriff enact justice. Light work for you and Charles. Apparently not.
You look back at Charles. He stands, quite at ease. The ends of his long, dark hair lift in the wind and pieces come loose from the cord, pulling it off his face. They drip into the collar of his coat. His face is unreadable. You take your boot off the old man's chest, and he coughs. Chest rattling, he curls in on himself, coughing and writhing. You flinch violently at the sound, and your grip falters on the gun. Before you can gather your wits, Randall yanks the knife from your boot and a starburst of pain explodes on your shoulder. It sends you reeling back. The old bastard is spry. Charles is on him in a moment, dragging his body up and slamming him face down into the dirt.
You groan and drag yourself up.. Charles has his knee planted on the old man's thin back. Blood soaks into your old duster coat. Arthur's old coat. Charles turns his head to look at you, his brow knit.
"I'm fine." You call. "Just my shoulder. He slashed it." You lift yourself from the mud, pressing the heel of your palm, trying to stop the slow spread of the blood over your coat. The mud soaks into your breeches, cold and slimy. Charles grabs Randall by the wisps of grey hair covering his skull and holds his hunting knife to his throat, beads of blood collecting at the razor edge.
"Want me to kill him?" He looks at you, solemn as an owl.
"Nah. Like you said, no good to us dead." You manoeuvre yourself to your feet, and with all the strength in you, kick the old man's jaw sideways.
Charles ties the man up, lest he wake up and try to escape. Fat chance of that happening with a broken jaw and the ankle Charles obligingly shattered. You lean against Guinevere heavily, and she noses at you, anxious. A little blood drips onto her silken red coat. Your initial assessment was correct; it is just your shoulder. But the blood loss makes your vision swim. Charles turns into an amalgamation of colours, blending in against the backdrop of the woods. Once Randall is stowed on Taima, who paws restlessly, he catches your elbow. You hadn't even realised your knees were trembling.
"That's a lot of blood." His voice is calm. Carefully, he peels open the collar of the coat and feels along the wound. His hand is warm, and you watch minute movements of his jaw as he checks you for any serious injury. From his saddle bag, he takes a clean rag and, with a soft apology, tourniquets your arm. You gasp and clutch at the frayed sleeve of his coat. Murmuring soothingly, he adjusts your wrist against your side so you do not jostle the wound.
"Think you can ride?"
"'Course I can ride." You scoff, and then wince as speaking jostles you. He does not contest this, but helps you onto Guinevere all the same, boosting you up with his hand braced on your calf.
A six-mile ride feels like six years. Your vision swims, and a steady drip of blood is pooling under your coat. You fist the reins and blink hard. Every rock and ditch makes itself known to your shoulder. Even the sway of Guinevere's flanks makes you gag a little, your head stuffed with cotton.
"Camp here tonight. I can ride into Valentine tomorrow to deliver. You can rest."
"So you can claim all my money?" You giggle very unseriously. Charles's brow knits with concern.
"I wouldn't." He says quietly. "But we can wait to deliver him, I was only worried his heart would give or somethin'."
You feel rather foolish, looking at his serious face. The blood rushes to your head, and when you dismount, he is there to catch you. Gratefully, you slump into the circle of his arms. He's warm, and the fabric of his coat is rough against your cheek. Charles's breath comes quick and panicked against your hair, but when he speaks, his voice is steady as ever.
"Could use a few stitches. Still bleeding."
You find yourself eased onto the ground and steered into a sitting position. When you slump into the broad bulk of his shoulder, his arm goes around you, and you feel his flask against your lips. The whiskey in it burns against your mouth pleasantly. He is talking, low but urgent. You cannot make out words, only the deep rumble in his chest. He smells like smoke and leather. Familiar.
Drifting, a velvety sleep overcomes you. The quiet, even voice in your ears turns gravelly and accented. The hands on your face and hair do not touch you impersonally, like a carer's. Instead, it is a lover's touch. You go, willing.
You wake to the crackle of a fire and a piercing pain in your shoulder. Blearily, you get your bearings. Charles sits across the fire, a piece of wood and a carving knife in his hands. Wood shavings curl into scrolls, falling at his feet. You sit up, feeling at your shoulder. It has been sewn and bandaged neatly.
"Charles?"
Looking up, he rises from his spot at the fire, and he kneels beside your bedroll. The shirt you wear is one of his, you realise. Soft and brown, the collar sags around your clavicle.
"I cut you out of your shirt." He says apologetically. "Don't think it'll scar too badly, though."
"When have I ever cared about that?" You snort with wry laughter. Once, a long time ago, a whole lifetime ago, you were ashamed of them. You had wanted to look as pretty and as lovable as Mary Beth or be as graceful as Tilly. All those women, like beautiful flowers in the desert of your life. Arthur used to kiss the scar where he shot you and tell you that it looked like a comet against your skin.
Charles has seen you, you realise. Your cheeks burn hot.
"Where's Randall?" You say suddenly, thinking of the three hundred dollars.
Charles grins a rare, wide grin and rises. With Charles no longer blocking your vision, you are treated to the sight of William Randall, the family killer, trussed up like a hog and tied to a tree in his shirtsleeves.
You feel better already.
. . .
1902, Valentine
"Is my nose really so big?"
The woman in the bounty poster stares back at you, her face hardened by rough living, her eyes sharp and mouth downturned. The cloud of hair rendered around her head makes her look wild and unkempt. The scar on her face cuts through her brow viciously. You touch your hair. Three thousand dollars for the woman in the poster. Good thing that isn't you, you have long since changed your name. Ripping the poster from the board, you shove it into your coat pocket. Your shoulder aches from the wound. Stitched up at Charles's insistence, it throbs under your ruined coat.
"The saloon's got a room. Could ride out to the reservation in the morning." Charles says from behind you. The sun is beginning to set, and staying in plain view is unwise. Valentine has expanded from the backwards cattle town; it is harsher and darker. Buildings have sprung up from where there was only flat earth and soft grass. Eyes are everywhere. A woman in men's garb and a man as scarred and massive as Charles are sure to attract attention. But the two of you are effective. So you go by different names and drag in criminals of a lower status than yourselvesâand you get by.
The saloon room is dark and small, but clean. It is not crowded, but there is no point getting separate rooms. You would not be able to sleep without the even sound of Charles's breathing. You lie side by side, faces turned to the slanting ceiling. A thin shaft of light illuminates the room. The bed is too soft.
Charles speaks first.
"Arthur's grave is out this way."
You shut your eyes.
"Could ride past it. If you want." He says, no pressure behind his voice.
You have not seen Arthur's grave. You only know that it was Charles who buried him, and you are grateful that it was. If it had been you, given the chance, you might have crawled into the grave with him. You would have curled yourself around the bones that had carried him for so long and let yourself be taken by the elements. A hillside, Charles said. Where he would have wanted to be. As long as you do not see it, Arthur is where you want him to be. You might wake and find him snoring next to you. You can imagine that you hear the scratch of his pen, or feel the scrape of his beard against your face.
You wake slowly to the faint light seeping through the saloon window's grimy panes. Sometime in the deep of night, Charles must have shifted in his sleep, his arm now slung heavily across your waist. He's warm, and you can feel his heart beating steadily against your spine. Mumbling, he buries his face in the loose masses of your hair.
You shift in his arms, and he stirs into wakefulness, not before you feel the hard press of him against your lower back. There is a heartbeatâs worth of stillness where neither of you moves, where the creak of the bed and the faraway buzz of the waking town are the only sounds in the room. Then he draws in a sharp breath.
âSorry,â he mutters, voice thick and low, and his arm jerks away as if burned.
"Itâit's fine." But he is already turning away, dressing hastily. You exhale, an odd, brimming guilt in your stomach. Sleeping side by side under the stars is one thing; the whole land is your witness. Despite how quiet he is, it is never awkward between you two; there is always that steady companionship. The peace of knowing he will never push you to speak.
Charles is so warm.
. . .
1903, Temporary Wapiti Settlement
Hidden in a wide crevice of rock near the settlement is a creek. Water has been scarce, and you have had to make do by washing yourself by wiping the sweat and grime off your bodies with rags. Bounty hunting alone is tough on the body, and having Charles with you has made it easier.
Carefully, you work the buttons of your shirt open. Your shoulder aches from the wound, but it has healed considerably better than you thought it would. You unwrap the bandage, flexing a little. It will leave a scar, one of many. You survey yourself without emotion. The scars on your stomach and arms, and slashing over your collarbones. Vanity no longer afflicts you, and you have come not to worry about beauty any more. Undressing, you remove your hair from its plait and comb it out with your fingers. It has grown since you took a pair of shears to it and cut it to your jaw. It just sweeps the tops of your breasts, now. It is not convenient to have long hair in the wild. Charles does, though. It had struck you as odd that he would keep it so long. When you asked him, he said that it was something his mother believed was important.
The water is warm. Slipping in, you let it soothe your aching muscles.
Footsteps crunch softly on the gravel. You turn your head. It is Charles. Fully dressed, still in the clothing you wore while travelling. His shirt, tucked into his trousers, and his vest open. The afternoon sun slants through the crevice, gilding his dark head. His hair has been freed from the piece of twine he had been using on the ride, and the breeze picks it up so it curls in the air like black smoke.
He stills completely when he spots you, dark eyes widening a fraction as they find you among the water-worn stones of the creek. Surprise distorts the strong planes of his face, and his hand goes to the back of his neck as he averts his eyes. Even though it is just your shoulders and the hints of your breasts he can see, you feel oddly exposed. How ridiculous. It is only Charles who has seen you undressed a thousand times before. His voice carries over the bubble of the creek and the call of the birds.
"Didn't know you were here." His voice, low and steady. His skin is so smooth and dark that you never see him flush, but you can hear it in his voice. Fixing his eyes on the ground, he takes a half-step back. "I can go. Give you some peace."
"IâIt's alright. Nothing you haven't seen before." In all these weeks travelling to see Rains Fall, how many times have you curled into the same bedroll for warmth? How many times has he woken you from the nightmares that plague you and held you till you fall asleep again? You have lived in such proximity that it should not be strange for him to see you undressed. Still, he hesitates, "There's no point to riding back. Stay."
Quietly, he sheds his clothing on the gravel surrounding the spring. You turn your head to give him some privacy, but in your periphery, the expanse of scarred skin is slowly revealed with every movement. His ribs are a bruised, blotchy purple, just visible in the deep, warm brown of his skin. He winces as he unbuckles his belt and shucks his trousers off. He is so graceful that you forget how large he is sometimes. Arthur had never been graceful, his bulk always apparent in the way he fought, the way he made love.
This thought dissolves as the water ripples with Charles's entry. Sighing, he shuts his eyes as he leans against the rock basin. The ends of his inky black hair swirl at the surface of the water.
"Feeling better?" He says, angling his head towards your shoulder.
"It's my own fault." You say, "I lost focus."
He shuts his eyes again, and you find yourself oddly struck by his nakedness. He is not hairy, as Arthur had been; the skin of his chest is smooth and deep brown, littered with scars. The ball of his bicep flexes as he takes a cupful of water in his hand and splashes it onto the laceration on his ribs. You had not noticed he was hurt. Then again, he does not let you worry about much.
You turn in the water, and Charles reaches for you, that instinctive movement so like the one where he draws for his shotgun.
His hand catches your elbow to keep you from slipping against the slick rock. You look up at him. He is already looking at you.
The body keeps score, you have realised. While your mind roils with guilt, your body wants and wants. Charles's hand has curled to cradle your elbow, and a keen desire to read his mind strikes you. Immovable as he seems, Charles is a man. He must have desires, too. Unconsciously, you have turned your body to his, the way a flower faces the sun. If you could not see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, you would think he was made of stone.
Turning your palm inward, you brace it against the inside of his forearm. The veins in his forearm pulse with his breath. You slide your hand upward, along the swell of his bicep, the slashing scar on his pectoral. The scar is ridged against your fingertips. He is still now, barely breathing. His heartbeat slams against your palm.
Slowly, his hand begins to search you. The pads of his fingers are rough as they travel up your shoulder, thumbing the healing wound.
"It's healing well." He says, you can almost hear a tremor in his voice.
"Yeah. It's thanks to you. I wouldn't have stitched it if I were on my own."
Somehow, you stand close in the sway of the creek, braced on each other for balance. Something brushes your thigh. Charles tenses, all the muscles in his body locking. Oh.
Shifting, he leans his body away from yours. "I didn't mean toâ" He mutters, the scar on his cheek turning pink.
âNo.â Your fingers tighten around his wrist before you can stop yourself. âDonâtâyou donât have to pull away.â
His eyes flick up to your face, searching. The sound of the water, like bells.
"I want to. I do." You splutter. "But Iânot all at once."
He exhales. His other hand comes up to rest at your waist, careful, like heâs afraid youâll break. âAlright,â he murmurs. âAlright.â
Curling your arm about his neck, you press close. His hair is thick and silky against your hand, and you tentatively pull your fingers through it. Then, he sighs and presses his mouth to yours, tentatively at first but then with a swift urgency that leaves you gasping and clutching at him. How long has it been since you have been touched? Mumbling, you brace your back against a rock. He crowds you against it. Both of you deserve something to ease the loneliness.
Reaching under the water to grasp him, you circle your hand around the heft of his cock. He grunts and twitches in your hand. Tentatively, you stroke upward, and he makes a strangled noise. He is hard and thick in your hand. Pressing your thighs together, you twist your wrist experimentally. The thick fringe of his eyelashes brush the tops of his high cheekbones. The scar on his cheek pulls taut. Slowly, you move your hand, studying the play of his muscles. Groaning, he drops his face to the slope of your neck, tasting the droplets of water collected there.
Then, his hands search between your thighs and find the parting in between. He, too, moves experimentally. Easing one thick finger in, he mouths the curve of your neck. You tighten around him, and he gentles the movement, those deft archer's fingers making you gasp. Everything in you is aching and crying out, desperate to be touched. He eases a second finger in, and you whimper, a desperate, animal sound.
"Too much?" Charles whispers, mouth brushing your temple. You kiss his cheek, his jaw.
"Go on, Charles."
. . .
1904, Three Sisters
Taima is dying. Her head rests in Charles's lap, his big hand smoothing along her shuddering neck. She is felled by a bullet, a flyaway one from a stage you and Charles foolishly tried to rob. And now Charles, always proud, always steady, comforts his dying horse. The spots on her flank blur as you blink away tears. You stand in the grove, the wind whistling around you. His hair lifts in the breeze, but otherwise, he is still.
"It's getting dark. Should bury her." You say softly. He says nothing. You cannot see his face.
Tentatively, you reach out and touch his shoulder. He flinches as you do, and you withdraw your hand.
"Go." His voice is choked. "I'll catch up with you."
"Charlesâ"
"Go." His tone is so final that all protests die on your tongue.
You leave him to mourn her.
. . .
1904, Temporary Wapiti Settlement
Dragging the comb through your hair, you peer into the wooden-framed mirror. The scar curving along your temple and through your brow is softened by the low light. The new Wapiti settlement is small, and the people are tired. Rains Fall has more streaks of grey in his hair by the day. Still, you had wanted his blessing. Any family you have is long dead or long gone; it has just been you and Charles. You are handfasted on the settlement, with as much ceremony as is possible. But it is enough, and the ceremony has never meant much to you anyway. It means something to Charles, though.
The tent flap falls shut behind Charles with a soft rasp of canvas, sealing the night outside. The wind murmurs against the walls, distant firetalk fading to a hush, leaving only the two of you in the low glow of a single lantern. You sit on the edge of the cot, still in the soft, borrowed dress. He stands a moment too long by the entrance, broad silhouette filling the space, his hair loose and catching gold in the light. When he turns, his eyes find you with that rare flicker of uncertainty you've only seen in private. Slowly, he lowers himself beside you, close enough that the heat of him cuts the chill.
"I ain't got much to give youâ" He begins.
"Don't be foolish."
He takes your hand and presses something cool and beaded into it. Turquoise and bone, and smooth wood. It slips through your fingers. The necklace you have never seen him without.
"Charles. This is your mothers. I couldn't possiblyâ"
"It's yours." He says simply. "Like I am."
You want to tell him you have been his for years now. That you will be his for as long as you live. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Charles takes your hand, the necklace still fisted in it, and kisses your knuckles. His mouth is soft against the scarred, bruised skin. Silently, he draws you to your feet and steps behind you, the cot creaking softly as your knees brush it.
Your pulse stumbles as Charles gathers your hair over one shoulder with infinite care, his knuckles brushing the back of your neck. The beads are cool against your skin, and rest just below your collarbone. He hesitates, and you feel the soft press of his lips at your nape, where he fastens it. Charlesâs hands slide slowly down your arms until they rest at your elbows. When you lean back against him, you feel the hitch in his breathing.
Turning, you face your husband. You lean up on your tiptoes and press your mouth to his. There is only his sigh into your open mouth and his arms around you. You reach for the top button on his shirt and giggle as it slips from your hands, trembling with anticipation. You loosen another one, and his breath hitches. His fingers find the ties at your collar and undo them with the same reverence he shows everything else. He presses a kiss to the column of your throat, and you twist your fingers into the thick, soft hair at the base of his skull. Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, you touch him, the hard planes of his chest and stomach.
"Charles." You say softly, sweetly. "Charles, you are so beautiful." You press another kiss to his sternum. He tips your head back in his hands and kisses your eyelids, slow. When you kneel, kissing the spot above his navel, he catches your shoulders, stroking the line of your jaw.
When he eases you onto the cot, he settles on his knees. You look down at his face, framed by your thighs and watch the lamp dance in his brown eyes. He takes your ankles in his wide hands and lifts them onto his shoulders. From this angle, you are laid bare and open for him. Charles bends his dark head to the soft inside of your thigh, the rasp of his stubble making you shiver. The want building all day is met with his soft mouth. Crying out, you twist your fingers into his hair and arch into his face. To steady you, he reaches up and flattens his big hand over your quivering belly; you grasp it blindly. Once you are left gasping and sweaty, he relents and rubs his cheek against the soft thatch between your legs.
Breathlessly, you beckon him closer. Crawling over your prone body, he cages himself over you. His long, muscular legs hang over the edge of the cot, tangled with yours. As he picks open your dress, you finally relieve him of his breeches. Then the two of you are joined. Strands of his dark hair are plastered to his face, and his eyes are sealed with pleasure. You take a moment to appreciate the architecture of his body, lined with heavy muscle and golden brown skin. Cradling his face in your hands, you kiss away the sweat beading at his temple, the bridge of his nose. You push at his chest, urging him to roll over.
"Charles." You whisper. "Lie down."
With difficulty, he opens his eyes and loosens his grip on you. You flatten your palms against his chest, and he falls back willingly. There is a shimmer of sweat on his chest, and the heavy length of his cock is angry red at the tip. Pulling the dress over your head, you swing your leg over his thighs to straddle him. He groans as you grasp his cock to guide it into yourself. Bracing your hands on his stomach, you sink on him slowly. Steadying you with one hand to your hip, he reaches up with the other to lay his palm over your sternum; your heart kicks against him. Tightening around him like a vice, you undulate your hips a little faster. Suddenly, he heaves himself up so you can twine your arms around his neck and he can mouth the peaks of your breasts. Cradling his head to your heart, you stroke his soft, dark hair as he comes. You kiss him as you reach your finish, you mouth at the salt on his cheek.
Afterwards, you lie with your cheek against his chest on the little cot. Throwing your leg over his hip, you lift his hand and bring your mouth to the rough pads of his fingers.
"Don't. I'll want you again." He says, a little helplessly.
"Mmph." You draw his index into your mouth. His cock stirs again, and he rolls onto his side, taking you with him. This time, he draws your leg over his thigh, chest to chest. He takes you again, with less ceremony than the first time. When you sleep, it is with him still inside of you, his head to your breast.
Dawn filters through the canvas, and you wake to Charles's broad form dressing next to the cot. You tuck your hand under your head and watch him. How many times have you watched him dress before, but never as his wife. Only as his companion. He buttons his loose shirt over his broad chest and ties his hair up with a piece of twine. When he draws his bow over his shoulder, he notices you watching. Leaning over the bed, he hesitates and then presses a kiss to the peak of your bare shoulder.
"Rains Fall asked me to go hunting with him." He says softly. "I thought I'd let sleep."
"Mm. He must miss Eagle Flies." You yawn. "I can help out around here."
"Could join us."
âIâd only slow you down,â you murmur.
âThatâs not true.â
A small smile tugs at your mouth. âIt is a little.â He smiles in response. "And, you can get used to Falmouth. He's still skittish." Your wedding present to him had been Falmouth, a spotted stallion that had taken you three bounties to purchase. He will not replace Taima, Charles's companion since he was eighteen, but Charles had needed a horse.
"Rains Fall. He doesn't say much these days." Charles says, thoughtfully.
"I know. Go. It'll be good for him." And for you too, you think.
"You'll be alright here?" He says, fingers still lingering on your arm.
"Sure. They're packing up this camp, I'll keep myself occupied."
Charles leaves, pressing a last kiss to your hair, his eyes lingering on your body under the pelt.
You stretch. The tent feels large without him. You've been pressed so close to him that the beads around your neck have left divots in your skin.
It must be early; the air is chill. Nobody would grudge you another hour of sleep.
. . .
1906, Saint Denis
"It's okay. It's just me. Wake up."
Charles's hands are soft on your hair. When he lifts you into his arms, you go limp. Regaining your senses, you can smell the oil from the lamp and the cool night air from the cracked-open window. The rented room that has been your home for months now is small and cramped. Charles hates it. Sometimes, he wakes in the night and sits on the small terrace, smoking for hours. He says he cannot breathe in Saint Denis, that the city doesn't suit him. It doesn't suit you either; you miss the open plains and long to press your cheek to cool grass. To sleep under the stars and smell fresh country air. Shivering at the draft, you cuddle into his broad chest. The acrid tang of sweat and drink clinging to his skin makes you wrinkle your nose.
"Bad dream?" He says against your hair. Pulling back, he cups your hot cheek in his hands. Nodding, you snuffle closer.
"I didn't hear you come in."
"Got back a few hours ago." He says softly, stroking your loose hair.
"You smell bad." You say, but slip your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder anyway.
"Was too tired to wash." He says, and you lift your head to look at him. Charles's face is distorted with concern, and the light from the window illuminates his eye, swollen half shut. "And, too drunk."
"Did you lose?" You reach up to touch his swollen eye, he winces a little and then kisses the heel of your palm.
'Course not. He got a lucky hit in." The hint of indignance in his voice brings the slightest of smiles to your mouth. He relaxes when he sees it. "What about you? You get him?"
"Some idiot with a whole crew got to him first." You roll your eyes as you recount the day. "Don't know why you'd need a whole crew to get him. He came up to my shoulder. A strong gust of wind would've sent him to the grave."
Bounty hunting in Saint Denis has proved a little easier. Charles throws fights, and you pick up petty criminals off the outskirts of the city. This time, it has been a bespectacled doctor who had been lacing his medicines. It would have taken you an hour had that buffoon Jared Golding not gotten to him first. A whole crew of thoroughbreds. Guinevere, fast and faithful as she is, had been no match.
"S'alright. The payment from this fight should tide us over a while."
"Oh, your poor eye." You say, the guilt is hot and sudden. Tipping your head up, you press a kiss to the purpling mess.
" It ain't too bad." He says, a little embarrassed at the affection. "The other fighter came off a whole lot worse."
"I'm sure he did." You say, nuzzling his cheek. "But it's my fault you're throwing fights. I shouldn't have killed him."
"He started with you. I'd have killed him if you hadn't."
"I know." You say mournfully. "But you hate this." Nosing at your hair, he kisses your forehead in response.
The sun is beginning to spill through the windows, and there is no point trying to sleep. You slip out of bed and make two cups of coffee in tin mugs and hold a cool cloth to Charles's eye as he drinks his. You assuage your own guilt by kissing his battered face and combing out the tangles from his long hair.
"Got no bounties today." You say, buttoning your shirt. He sits at the small, round table, clad only in his breeches and nursing his third cup of coffee. "Could take the day off."
"A day off." He says slowly. "You alright?"
"Fine." You do not meet his eyes.
"What do you want to do on your day off?" He catches your wrist and pulls you to stand between his knees. Bracing your hand on his shoulder, you look down at him. His eyes are steady, but you can see the concern behind the question.
You do not tell him that you dreamt of Arthur, his voice wrecked with illness and pain, lying white-faced and feverish. You do not tell him that Arthurâs face had gone strange and blurred at the edges, then changed not all at once, but in terrible pieces until it was Charles looking at you through the same pain. Charles with Arthurâs voice. Charles begging you, over and over, to save him from the slow erosion of his insides.
âI want to go to the gunsmith,â you say. âGet my gun fixed.â
He nods once. âAlright.â
âThen I want to walk through Chinatown.â
âMm.â
You swallow, then let yourself smile a little. âAnd then I want you to take me to bed.â
That gets the ghost of a smile from him. âThat so?â
âThat so.â
His hand tightens lightly around your wrist. âAlright, then.â
The knot in your chest does not ease until later that night. You lie on your belly with Charles over you, his weight warm and solid along your back. His hand rests over your hip, while the other braces beside your head as he ruts with slow, careful rhythm. His breathing is rough against your shoulder, but his touch stays gentle. You sleep easily.
. . .
1907, Mount Hagen
Charles has been shot.
The frost bites through the worn knees of your breeches as you kneel beside him, his blood bright and terrible against the snow. For one blank second, you cannot make sense of it. Then he makes a low, ragged sound, and your body moves before your mind does, half-dragging him behind the boulder as another bullet cracks past.
âCharles.â Your hands are already on his shoulder, pressing, slipping, pressing again. âCharles, stay with me.â
His face has gone ashen. Blood pours between your fingers, warm enough to make you feel sick. âIâm okay,â he says, but the words are thin.
âNo, youâre not.â Your voice comes out too sharp, too fast. âYouâre bleeding too much.â
âI said Iâm okay.â
âYou donât know that.â You press harder, as if you can force the wound shut by will alone. âHas it hit anything important?â
âI donât know.â
âHow can you not know?â Fear knots your throat so tight you can hardly breathe around it. âCharles, look at me.â
He does, and the sight of his eyes half-lidded with pain almost makes you fold in on yourself. Snow has fallen onto his hair, his shoulders. The bright glitter of it makes your eyes burn.
The shooting has stopped, you realise dimly, and the silence is worse than the gunfire. Sadie appears through the snow, breath ragged. âHey. Youâre okay,â she says, though she sounds like sheâs trying to convince herself. âYouâre okay.â
Charles lets out a rough breath. âI will be.â
You sag closer, hands still pressed to the blood. âThen weâre getting you out of here.â
âNo.â He shifts weakly and winces. âGo on with John.â
You shake your head once. âNo.â
"Move fast. Or they'll come down that hill and kill us all."
"I won't."
âGo,â he says again, quieter now. âI can follow. Just not fast.â
You stare at him, at the blood soaking through his shirt, at the strain in his mouth that heâs trying so hard to hide. Your fingers tighten on his coat.
âI donât care about Micah. I donât care about any of it. Let John have him.â
Sadie glances between you and Charles, then steps back, leaving the two of you in the cold. Charlesâs gaze stays on your face.
âJohn and Sadie need you.â
âDonât.â You blink hard, but it does no good. âDonât ask me to go.â
He studies you for a long second, blood still spilling through your fingers, his own breath shallow. âWhy? This is what you wanted.â
The words tear out of you before you can stop them.
"Because I'm not having this child without you."
Even Sadie does not speak. The wind seems to go quiet around the boulder. You stare at Charles, suddenly sick with the fact that it is out now, impossible to take back, impossible to bury in the lining of your skin.
For a long moment, he only looks at you.
Then his face changes â not in disbelief, exactly, but in shock so deep it seems to cut straight through pain. âYouâreââ
You give a tiny, helpless nod. âI was going to tell you.â
âWhen?â
"After this. After I kill Micah."
Madly, you wonder if he is upset with you. With his blood spilling through your fingers and his face grey with pain. You wonder if he thinks what a reckless, selfish woman he has married. One who will risk anything, everything for vengeance.
But then, his hand comes to cover yours. You exhale, a cold puff of air that makes your relief visible. The light weight of Sadie's hand is on your shoulder, but you barely feel it. You watch Charles's eyes, glazed with pain and love.
"I'm sorry." You whisper, stroking his hair away from his face with your free hand. His skin is slick with sweat despite the cold, but his heart, thrumming beneath your hand, is strong. "I should have told you. I thought you wouldn't let meâ"
âNo.â His voice is low, roughened with pain.âNo.â
He swallows, and you see the effort of it. See him try to gather himself for you.
Then his fingers tighten over yours with weak insistence, as if he can tether himself on earth, simply by touch.
âYouâre not leaving me,â he says.
. . .
1903, Ambarino
"I'm getting married."
The breeze sifts through your hair. You look down, feeling idiotic. Arthur's grave is a cross. On it, inscribed;
"Blessed Are Those Who Hunger And Thirst For Righteousness"
Blessed. Arthur would have laughed. Are you supposed to weep? That is what women are supposed to do. Weep into hankies and lay flowers on the tombs of their lovers. You do not have flowers. What you do have is the mad urge to laugh.
Arthur Morgan is dead. Dead! His massive, powerful body has been reduced to bones underneath your feet. The man who loved you and fucked you and danced with you by the fire is dead. The man who killed for you and killed with you and seemed tall as the mountains, as bright as the sun.
Charles has buried him, and you think what it must have been like. Charles shooing crows off Arthur's rotting flesh, picking maggots out of his sunken face. Charles has said none of this to you, but you know.
He had been so tired. He had been so brave.
"I don't want to leave you." Arthur's eyes are bloodshot. Exhausted. He has woken at midnight, his skin burning with fever. He sits at the edge of the cot, his aching head cradled in his hands. You sit beside him, kissing the sharp jut of his shoulder blade. You taste sweat.
"I'm hard to get rid of." Your voice trembles. You force a smile.
"I know." He enunciates slowly, forcing the words through the feverish delirium. "But I'm tired. Real tired."
"Rest a while, then."
"You'll wake me?"
"'Course."
"Will youâwill you rub my head a little? It hurts."
You sit up on the cot, patting your lap. Crawling over your legs, he puts his head in it. Silently, you run your fingers through his hair, press your thumbs against his sweaty temples. His breathing evens, and he drifts. You lean down and whisper in his ear.
"Rest, my love. Rest."
The soil is cool beneath your cheek. The sun breaks through the clouds, blanketing you in light.
Summary: It's Charles' birthday and as a knitter you have a sweater curse scare.
A/N: soo ... this isn't very good, but not everything has to be and iâve been thinking about this for way too long. i started the first attempt of writing this around christmas, then valentine's day and half a year later lo and behold, iâve actually finished something. and hopefully this eases me back into writing. also if I had a nickle for everytime i post a silly little fic about charles and knitting ... i just really wanna knit this man a sweater and socks okay.
Word Count: 1k
Warnings: Literally none, it's silly
âŠâąâââàčâ ⯠âŻâ àčââââąâŠ
Sweater curse you huff to yourself as you adjust the bow on top of the dark green gift box that contained the labour of your love and dedication to your lovely boyfriend â well, love and a lotta sweat, curse words, and a tendonitis scare.
Your phone buzzes again, another message from your friend insisting that they were joking and that surely there would be no break up over a knitted sweater.
But the damage had been done. You arenât superstitious per se, but the sweater curse is running rampant in the knitting community, and every app you open it seems there are more and more stories. Then again, the knit garment now laying neatly in the box probably had enough of your hair knit into it that, as that one post said, he will be bound to you forever.
That has got to cancel each other out right?
You shake your head as if to get these thoughts out. Itâs silly, Charles isnât going to end this relationship, a loving, dedicated one you may add, just because you decided to invest a couple months into making him a sweater for his birthday, dark blue with a rainbow trout in the middle front.
And well sure, over the course of your relationship you made him several things, a pair of gloves, a scarf, and maybe, just maybe, there was a little voice of doubt in the back of your head that had made you wait three years to knit a sweater- ugh no, stop it.
Then finally youâre pulled out of your thoughts when the bathroom door opens and Charlesâ tall figure pads across the hall, only a towel slung low on his hips, to the bedroom to get dressed for work.
You push yourself off the floor then, knees stiff and achey from spending too much time on the floor. You definitely didnât spend half the night weaving in ends and finishing the embroiderey of the fish after you had gotten home late because you guysâ friend insisted on celebrating the birthday boy early. At least that gave the sweater the time to mostly dry from when you blocked it earlier that day.
You get on your tip toes to get that satisfying feeling of popping your ankles as you rub your bleary, tired eyes.
âI hate when you do that,â calls Charles from the other room.
âLiterally how did you even hear that?â
The retort is left unanswered as you carry the box over to your tiny kitchen and place it on your even tinier kitchen table. It took up almost the entire surface next to the flowers either you or him brought home almost weekly. This week you got an extra big bouquet of spring flowers given the occasion.
You eye the arrangement for a moment, trying to measure out space for the plate of birthday cupcakes but they would have to stay on the counter.
While you get those out of the fridge you call out to Charles, wondering whatâs taking him so long.
âAre you almost ready?â Your hand reaches for the singular candle that you found in your stash of birthday decorations, not glorious but it will have to do, as you listen for an answer.
âCharles?â you call again and then finally you hear the steps in the hallway, turning around plate balanced on your palm while you try to steady the candle in the chocolate butter cream with two fingers.
âMorninâ, happy birth-â the rest of the sentence fades into another, worried, almost alarmed. âoh you okay there?â
He is standing in front of you, fresh shirt on that was just the right bit too small, hair tied back into a bun, all things you would normally enjoy seeing early in the morning if it wasnât for his sour face, maybe mixed with guilt and his hand clutching his phone.
âWe need to talk-â
No, oh no no this isnât happening.
You donât let him finish as your brain immediately jumps to conclusions caused by all the talk of the god damn sweater curse.
âAre you breaking up with me?!â Your voice goes up an octave and you have to set the plate down lest you drop its contents.
And now the poor man looks entirely confused, the unvoiced ending of his sentence still hanging in the air. He blinks once, twice.
â⊠about tonight,â he finally says. âWe need to talk about to- why would you think I was gonna-â
Oh thank god. You could feel the relief instantly. Good thing you didnât overreact.
âSweater curse,â you say simply, lamely almost, as if that explains everything.
âItâs too early for riddles,â he groans. Charles looks even more confused, a note of playful exasperation in his voice. âI just wanted to say that we have to push back our reservation an hour I need to cover for someone at work⊠now about this sweater curseâŠâ he tilts his head, clearly waiting for an explanation.
âOhâŠâ
Wordlessly you grab his gift from the table and hold it out to him. You donât even know how to explain this to him without sounding entirely crazy.
His eyes drop to the box and he carefully undoes the bow with the fingers you know to be incredibly gentle. He lifts the lid, one eyebrow raised as he looks up at you for a moment before he reaches for the sweater.
He holds it up, examining the even stitchesâsure with the occasional twist or other little mistakeâthe color work, greens and pinks and grays making up the trout. And you canât see it, view blocked by the garment, but his lips widen into a smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners. And when his hands lower you donât have the time to react.
His thumb and forefinger grasp your chin and youâre pulled closer until finally his warm lips meet yours. You can still taste the toothpaste on them when he murmurs into the kiss: âYou made this?â
Your head bobs in a nod, lips never disconnecting as you finally finish the words you set out to say earlier: âHappy birthday.â
âThank you, itâs incredible.â He pulls back and looks at you for a moment, his thumb gently sweeping over your skin. âThat sweater curse ⊠is it one of them TikTok myths?â
He was definitely teasing you now and you canât help but groan but you nod.
âYeah, knitting superstition.â
âYou spend entirely too much time online, silly goose.â He grins before he pulls you into another kiss that makes you forget all about the other unlucky people whose (ex-)boyfriends couldnât appreciate handmade knitwear.
âŠâąâââàčâ ⯠âŻâ àčââââąâŠ
i hope you enjoyed this! <33
also in my mind charles is a late october/november baby but that didnât work for this.
a/n: Yes it's me again, clearing my wip list a little. It's always when I am the busiest that I can't stop writing. I just wanted to try something a different for our Charles, something where we can see more of his violent side, and I wanted it angsty because it made more sense. I love a good fairy tale kinda love story, but it was very interesting to write this kind of ending for once. I hope you will enjoy the angst. Thank you to my baby @thedilfdiaries for reading my draft and for helping me decide on the moodboard, I love you so much đâ€ïžâš. Thank you to @mezzaninebeetle55 for your support and for reassuring me about my Charlesâ characterization, I hope it will break you lol, love you honeyđ«¶đŒđ«
The evening sun rays pierce through the broken window, projecting Charlesâ threatening shadow onto the wooden floor, within reach of your limp body lying on the kitchenâs floor. The sounds of his ragged breaths slowly stir you out of your lethargy, a sharp whimper escaping your mouth as you try to sit up.
Charles doesnât turn around immediately, hesitating to face you, realizing only now that the copper smell of blood permeates the air of the small house and that the dark red river flowing at his feet would probably have you running away.
The images that courses through your mind should be coming straight from a nightmare. But as you grow more aware of your surroundings, you realize that it wasnât a mirage: pistol firing, a man crawling away, brain scattered all around the place⊠It was real.
The little cabin sounded like the perfect idea, a couple hours ago. You and Charles had been riding for more than 2 hours, noticing the clouds growing bigger and darker in the afternoon sky. The dry path trodden by your horsesâ hooves started being tainted by dark polka dots, and Charles made the call to take a path cutting through the woods. He knew a place, he explained, somewhere uninhabited in ages, where he usually stops to rest when he goes into town. You followed, holding onto your hat for dear life as the wind started to blow harder. Charles was quiet, unshakeable, leading Taima to the hitching post at the back of the house, and silently urging you to hop off your horse.
âStay hereâ He muttered, picking his gun from his belt, and sliding a couple of bullets inside. He disappeared behind the house and you stood there, alone, nervously biting your lips as you noticed the first lighting striking right above the hills. The afternoon sky was split in half, and you were standing right in the middle. You prayed for this house to be the promising shelter it looked like from the outside, with the moss covering the stones and the rodents looking at you from the ajar door. At least there was no tree lying on the roof, and it seemed watertight. Another lightning struck the sky, making both of the horses neighing. You step closer to them, trying to calm them down. Taimaâs agitation stopped as soon as she spotted Charles in the door frame.
âItâs clear. You can get in.â He said, stepping down. Charles had been thorough with his inspection, careful, like he always does. He checked the whole house silently, every window, every door, from the upper floor area to the hidden cellar. Any places someone could be hidden in, he checked. He wasnât going to risk your safety.
You smiled as you passed next to him, immediately welcomed by the foul smell of humidity when you crossed the threshold. You coughed looking back at Charles who stood right behind you.
âAinât exactly pleasing, but I am sure after we light a fire it will be betterâ He said, watching as you traced the edge of the mantle with your finger. You blew on the grey dust and frowned.
 âThereâs nothing sweeter than the scent of rotten wood anywayâ You joked, slowly acclimatizing to the room youâll probably spend the evening in.
Charles chuckled low at the irony. You pulled out a broken chair from a corner, and sat.
âI better go get some wood before it gets worse out there. I wonât be longâ He said, waiting for you to look away from the dirty dishes staining what probably used to be a sink many years ago.
âIâll be okay. Go.â You agreed, a comforting warmth spreading inside of you as you noticed the concerned way he looked at you. Charles nodded and waited for a beat, before the heavy wooden door started closing carefully behind him.
        Charles let out a heavy sigh once outside. He isnât really fond of extending his trips unexpectedly, but this time it seemed necessary. The cold wind surprised him as he walked to Taima to grab his machete. He gave her a quick pat on the head, very grateful you rode back earlier to stop there. He doesnât like brutal weather changes, especially for Taima, he knows it gets her very agitated sometimes, especially after a long trip. The rest was good for everyone.
        The rain started falling hard not even 10 minutes after Charles got deeper into the forest. He had the time to get as many logs as he could, making sure they wouldnât get soaked in the process. He thought about tracking a rabbit or two, but the escalation of the electric activity got him suddenly worried. Charles retraced his steps, hair and vest dripping from the rain.
He hadnât even reached the house when he saw it. Your horse was gone. Taima was unhitched and slowly running towards him.
His eyes could never deceive him. His tracking and observation skills have always been unmatched. He had never failed. Never. Not since he was a young child, still learning how to survive in a hostile environment. He had never put anyone in danger either. But today he did. A sense of dread took possession of his body when he realized you were probably in danger. Charles took Taimaâs reins and hitched her back to her spot. The loud thunder covered her weak neighs. He didnât have the time to calm her down. This would have to wait.
He dropped the logs near the doorstep, and decided he needed to thread very carefully. He had no idea how many men were inside, if they were carrying heavy weapons with them⊠He pulled the machete from behind his back, and approached the side of the house. The sound of plates falling to the ground, followed by a man yelling startled him.
Charles stood there for a minute, trying to peek inside without being seen, and realized he couldnât see you. He couldnât hear you either. He crouched to move onto the next window, and saw two men were standing there, each carrying a pistol at their gun belt, but you were still nowhere to be seen. His heart started beating faster when he imagined you being unable to defend yourself, overpowered by the two brutes, your face frozen in fear while they beat you up, or worse. Bile started rising in his throat. He couldnât let emotions get a hold on him. He needed clarity to try to save you.
Charles had a couple of seconds to figure out how to deal with this. Using his gun now would be too dangerous, especially since he couldnât see you. One of the men could still be hurting you, what if his sudden appearance was what led him to shoot the final blow? If you were still alive, he couldnât let that happen. So Charles decided on using the machete. With a neat throw, he could easily hit his first target. That should be enough to put the man down while he would be neutralizing the other one. Charles had to use the surprise at his advantage.
He got closer to the door, and kicked it open violently. The first man turned around abruptly, a curse forming in his throat. But Charles threw the machete his way. The weapon flew through the room, and hit him in the guts. The force of the blow and the shock made him step back, his hands covering the bloody cut smearing his shirt. The grave clinking sound of the metal falling on the floor accompanied Charles footsteps as he walked further in the room. The second man, the one hoovering above you, turned around and clumsily looked for his gun.
Charles was already aiming at him.
âDonât even think about itâ He warned, slowly bringing the trigger to the wall, ready to shoot him. The man raised both his hands above his head as he faced him, mumbling something about finding an arrangement.
âYou wonât come out of this alive, and you better get away from herâ Charles urged, nodding to the side, silently instructing him to move next to the window.
A whine coming from behind forced Charles to look away for a moment. The injured robber was crouched in the corner near the mantle, blood fusing from his stomach.
âYou ainât got the guts you bastardâ He shouted at Charles, furiously.
âOh yeah?â Charles questioned back, smirking. He waited for a single beat, and blindly shot the other man standing near the window, right in the face, rejoicing in the terror flashing in his last opponentâs eyes. The dull thud of the corpse tumbling forward echoed through the room.
âSir⊠please.. I got a familyâ The injured man started pleading as he watched Charles glancing at the dead man coldly.
âYeah? And why would I care about that?â Charles stated as he put his gun back in his holster.
The man took the opportunity of Charles being distracted to pat his own pockets in search for his hidden knife, and threw it his way. Charles didnât even budge when the blade hit his thigh. He moved fast, crouching in front of the robberâs body and kicking his gun out of reach. The man looked pale, the wound still bleeding heavily. Charles peered down at him, his face emotionless. The other man kept begging for mercy, whimpering and struggling to breathe.
But mercy comes from the grace of God and good people, mercy is something estranged to men like Charles, men that had been granted by evilness since they learnt how to walk. He only knew how to hurt and punish, how to take lives and watch people expel their last breaths.
Charles pulled the knife out of his thigh, and threw it on the floor. The other man looked at the ridiculous injury, shaking his head in disbelief as he realized the fate awaiting for him.
Mercy had never been in the cards for Charles. Heâll make sure it wonât be in the cards for men like him either.
The silhouette of your limp body laid in front of the sink, finally caught Charles âeyes. He had been too afraid to even take a look at you. And his fear was understandable. Your pale blue dress was stained with blood, the upper part completely torn. Your face looked bruised, and Charles âbreath caught in his chest. He clenched his fist, and stood up, slowly walking to you, cursing himself as he realized that he came in too late. You werenât moving, he couldnât notice the rise and fall of your ribcage through the fabric of your clothes. He should have never left.
The sudden sound of something moving on the wooden floor forced him to whip his head around. He knew the other man couldnât be standing behind him, he wasnât a threat anymore. And he was right. The weakened body of the coward who dared to assault you was looking for an escape. He was crawling away, smearing his blood everywhere as he drew himself a path towards the door.Â
Charles grabbed his leg carelessly, pulling him back to him. The other guy started to cry as he was forced to face the outlaw again.
âWhat did you do to her?â Charles uttered with a growl.
âPlease⊠Please⊠You can take all my money.. Just âŠâ The robber said in between sobs.
Charles punched him square in the jaw, not even wincing as his fist collided with the other manâs face, the flesh deforming instantly with the force of the blow.Â
âNothing⊠nothingâ He answered, blood running out of his nose.
âLie to me again and Iâll make sure youâll die slowlyâ Charlesâ hand gripped the manâs collar and he shook him.
âI donât wanna dieâ He replied, eyes wide.
âThen talk.â Charles said, unclenching his grip.
âWe didnât have the time to do anything⊠Itâs⊠itâs himâ He pointed out to the corpse a few feet away from him. âHe just knocked her out, said it would be easier to get what he wanted from her this way⊠I swear I didnât do anything to herâ
Charles dropped him violently. His ears were ringing. He glanced at you one last time. Your rigid face. The smile he used to see adorning your lips is probably gone, forever.
The sound of the bullet falling in the chamber was the last thing the wounded man heard before his head exploded. Charles wiped the blood splashes off his face with his sleeve and stood up, panting.
âCharlesâ You whispered, weak and supplicating. Each breath you took hurt your soul. You quickly gave up on the idea of standing up when you felt the whole room turning upside down just from raising your head from the floor. Charles' eyes found yours and you saw his lips moving, as he whispered your name, before the lights turned dark and his silhouette disappeared right in front of you.
The night fell quietly a couple hours ago, but you canât bring yourself to go to sleep. You barely closed an eye the last few days. Youâre sitting by the fire, playing with the fringes of your shawl, listening to the whispers of the flames. The shadow hides most of your wounds and bruises, but you can still feel the pain. Your heart took a blow too, and the man currently standing at the edge of camp seems even further away now.
You glance down at your hands, and brush the dirt off your bandage.
You remember the feeling of Charles' strong hands washing up the dried blood from your face, your arms, your neck.
The stinging sensation followed as he faintly pressed a cloth soaked in rhum against your busted lip, the multiple cuts on your arms, the gash on your forehead.
He avenged you, and brought you back to life.
The storm was raging outside. You fell in and out of consciousness a couple of times, noticing Charlesâ shadow seated right by your side. You winced as you sat up, and searched for his eyes in the darkness of the small house. But he never looked at you. You grabbed the tin mug with fresh water he set next to you earlier without a word and gulped it down.
Charles stood up as soon as you were awake and walked away. He took off his jacket and held it in front of the fire he started while you were unconscious. You frowned, surprised by his reaction. You wondered why he wasnât looking at you, and why this sudden need to wear dry clothes. Charles wasnât the type to be bothered by this. Youâve seen him ride through the rivers, pants completely soaked, or stand guard for hours underneath the rain, his shirt almost becoming see through. You laid back against the cupboards and the sudden coldness hitting your skin made you freeze instantly. You looked down at your chest, sobs rising in your throat as you finally noticed the state you were in. Your shirt was completely torn, and the top of your dress offered little more coverage. You wondered how the skirt was still hanging on, but somehow it did. You noticed a tiny pin holding most of the fabric together, but the skin of your breasts was showing. This makeshift shirt wouldnât survive a ride back to camp.
âWe canât stay hereâ Charles finally stated. You could see his head turning your way slightly. But his eyes stayed focusing on the floor. You shifted, trying to stand up, and he hesitated to run to help you.
âAre you..â Charles started, incapable of pretending not to be concerned. He started walking away from the fireplace.
âI am okayâ You coughed, holding your hand in front of you defensively. Charles stopped. You didnât want him close. Not now that you saw the state you were in. The pin didnât even resist you standing up. You took leverage on the wooden cabinets as best as you could. Everything hurt, and your balance wasnât exactly your strongest suit at the moment. You threw up in the old sink, the pain shooting in your ribs and the foul smell of dead bodies too intense for you to handle.
Charles was behind you in one quick motion, his hand resting clumsily above your naked shoulder. He didnât know if he should touch you. He decided it was best not to. He poured you another mug of water and handed it to you. You thanked him, hiding yourself as best as you could with your arms crossed on your chest.
âHere⊠It ainât as dry as I was hoping butâŠâ Charles held out his jacket to you, and turned his head towards the fire while you tried to put it on your back. You whined as you slid your arms into each sleeve, the pain almost unbearable. You closed the buttons up to your neck, grateful for the great coverage the jacket offered. It was large enough to avoid adding pressure to your bruised flesh, and long enough to cover all the blood staining your dress.
Charles put out the fire and held your arm to support you as you walked outside. The rain must have stopped at some point. Stars were shining above you and the wind was blowing gently, like a peaceful summer breeze. It smelled like wet pine needles and burnt wood. If it wasnât for the corpses silently starting to rot inside the house, the blood drying through the cracks of floor, and the sharp pain torturing your bruising flesh, you could have been thinking it was all just a bad dream.
Charles helped you up on Taima, and you felt no shame when you whined in agony as you settled on the horse. Charles wiped his hand across his face, the guilt starting to consume him slowly.
Itâs the only thing he thought about the whole ride, as you wrapped your arms around his middle and held onto him. He tried to ride slower than usual, the hissing and moans of pain you let out each time Taimaâs speed was too much for you were unbearable the first couple of times. He didnât have the heart to endure this for 3 hours. He replayed the whole scene in his head again, and again, and realized the shock you must have been in when you woke up the first time and saw him standing there with the dizzying thrill of vengeance and the thirst for blood written all over his face. The fear in your voice when you called out his name the first time⊠How can you stand being so close to him right now? Charles wished he could ride faster so you wouldnât have to be in his presence anymore.
It was dawn when the two of you finally returned to camp. The girls were already awake, worried that something happened to you. They rushed by your side as soon as Charles put you down and took you back to your tent. There were questions on the tip of every tongue that morning. But neither you or Charles talked about what happened. And Charles didnât even bat an eye when Micah commented on your âdisheveled appearanceâ later that day at dinner, implying that of course Charles had to rough you up a little to get what he wanted from you, there was no way you would give yourself to an ugly beast like him. You would have punched him yourself if you could. The girls chimed in and asked him to shut up. Susan walked to Charles to offer him a plate, but he declined, glancing at you for a moment. Your eyes met his, but he quickly looked away. You watched him stand up and grab a rifle. His silhouette stayed planted firmly at the edge of camp for most of the night. Â
        Just like tonight. Itâs been a couple of weeks now. Charles has barely been around. As soon as he comes back from a score or a hunting trip, he walks as far away from you as possible. And not a single word had been exchanged between you two.
You had been looking for the right words day and night, in vain. You were ashamed, eaten away by the guilt of having been incapable of fending for yourself, of forcing Charles to get into such a display of rage and violence. And you knew Charles was probably afraid of approaching you for this exact reason. This distance growing between you broke your heart. Even though Charles wasnât the kind of man to chat around a cup of tea, he warmed up to you the past few months. Supply run after supply run, you were looking forward to riding with him to town each week⊠but now, now you fear that Charles wonât ever ride next to you again. Heâs been going with Arthur instead. You know you arenât exactly in the right shape to help anyone right now but still⊠It hurts.Â
You need to talk to him.Â
Standing up on trembling legs, you walk by your tent and stop for a moment. It takes more than a couple of steps for you to get rid of the numb feeling in your muscles. You open the wooden box next to your cot, and take the little handkerchief hidden in there.
        The leaves crumble underneath your boots as you take the path to the edge of camp. There is no point in rehearsing what you want to tell him. Youâll just go with the flow, but the nervousness is gnawing at you. You fidget with the fabric, eyes intensely focusing on Charles' back. He is leaning against a tree, and as you approach, his shoulders start to tense in awareness of your presence. He turns around before you can call his name.
âGood eveningâ You say, offering him a soft smile.
âHeyâ Charlesâ face scrunched up in pain unintendedly as his eyes finally set on you, the moon illuminating the fading bruises and scars across your skin.
âQuiet night?â You say, trying to keep your tone light despite the awkwardness.
âNothing to complain about so farâ He replies, letting the butt of his rifle hit the ground in front of him.
The silence sits heavy between the two of you for a long minute, before you find the courage to talk again.
âCan we⊠Can we talk?â Your expression is tense, and the way you are gripping the side of your dress with your free hand makes Charles nervous, but he nods, letting you cross the tree line and head for the little makeshift camp he seeks refuge in lately. You sit on the chair, and wait for Charles to take place in front of you. You know he wonât ask questions to make your job easier, so you just have to dive in.
âI made this for youâ You say, unfolding the handkerchief on your knees, and smoothing the folds neatly, before handing it to him.
Charlesâ hand reaches out and he holds the fabric for a moment, caressing it with the pad of his fingers.
âItâs silkâ He notices, unfolding it to discover the flowery pattern you embroidered there. There is a dove flying right above the petals too. Charles nods as he traces the outline with his fingers.
âI am not very good at this⊠But I thought I could try to make it prettier, so itâs not just some random handkerchief. Donât look at the bird too closely thoughâ You say laughing softly. Charles looks at your face, reddened by the orange hue of the flames. His heart clenches when he notices the way you canât let your lips stretch along with the lines of your smile.Â
âItâs beautiful. Thank youâ Charles says sternly, folding the fabric again and hiding it in his pocket.
You feel the moment evaporating quicker than you expected⊠This gesture is⊠a pretext, a way to talk to him⊠But itâs not easy at all to break down the walls that have been building between you.
âI should go back.â Charles says as he stands up.
âPlease. Donât. Let me just⊠I am trying to find my words Charles but itâs not⊠I am just trying to understand. Is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?â You finally let out, voice strained with sadness. Tears are already forming in your eyes as you wait for his answer.
Charles is towering over you, staring at the blurry field of canvas standing far behind you. He sits back down, sighing heavily.Â
âThatâs notâŠEverything is fine, you did nothing wrongâ He replies, but he is avoiding your stare and you know he is just saying this to put an end to this conversation.Â
âCharles⊠Stop lying to me. You havenât talked to me in two weeks, you donât even look at me when we cross paths, if we cross paths, cause you havenât spent more than 2 consecutives nights in camp⊠I am just trying to understand, if itâs something I said, or did, let me at least apologizeâŠâ
Charles says your name. He tries to keep his voice soft, but it comes out as a warning.Â
âI donât like thisâŠâ You lose your self control as soon as you hear him. You start crying, but your tears arenât doing anything to help your case. âCharles, pleaseâŠWe can try to fix this, right? Can you at least look at me?â You insist, the only thing preventing you from dropping to your knees and begging him is the weakness of your body. You might not be bowing down to him, physically, but the vulnerability you are showing right now hits just the same. Charles turns his head towards you and frowns as he notices the sadness on your face. He looks in pain, just from watching the scene you are making right now.Â
âLook⊠I mean it. This has nothing to do with you. And there is nothing to fix. Itâs better this wayâ.Â
The shame is now unbearable for you. You wipe your eyes with the sleeves of your dress and stand up quickly. You almost tumble over. Charlesâ arm flexes by his side and for a second you think he is gonna prevent you from falling. You thought wrong.Â
âRight. Everything is fine. I am sorry for bothering you⊠I guess⊠I just wanted to say thank you for rescuing me. For making sure I came back home alive. And I am sorry. About what you had to do to defend me. Now Iâll leave you aloneâ. You reply, voice hoarse with cries.
Charles watches as you leave, hoping for a moment that maybe you will look back, maybe youâll run his way and yell at him, and that heâll find a way to explain this time. But you donât. Your silhouette fades away behind the tents. He doesnât go back to his spot immediately, and sits by the fire instead, pondering if he did the right thing or not. He doesnât even know how to make sense of his own feelings. He remembers the look on your face that day, your eyes slowly opening as he stood there towering over the man he just brutally murdered, the sad expression on your face, the guilt too, for forcing him to do this, to protect you. But thatâs his true nature. And Charles is glad you witnessed it. You live in the same violent reality as he does but somehow got spared to be at the first row of such brutality. Because you are a woman. But thatâs what he is. Thatâs what men like him do. He canât ignore his true nature. And he canât stomach to see you being afraid of him ever again. Keeping his distance is the only way to protect you both from heartbreak and disappointment.Â
The purple hues of dawn are starting to color the sky when Charles hears Javier walking behind him. Without a word, they swap places, and Charles walks silently back to camp. Everyone is still asleep. He needs coffee and a couple hours of sleep, then he will be on his way to the Heartlands. He hasnât been around the area for a while, it will be nice to clear his mind. As he stops by the coffee pot, he notices you resting on your cot under the willow tree. Youâre sleeping, peacefully. Charles can finally enjoy the sight of your face without seeing the fear and sorrow in your eyes. He knows that it probably will hurt for a while, but eventually heâll breathe better knowing that he spared you the pain of living a life with someone like him by your side.
a/n: thank you so much for reading. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated đ„°
Charles / clingy fem!reader as requested by @cherryheairt
After being rescued, you cling on to him. But once you become the butt of a joke about it, you pull away. Much to his dismay.
You'll never forget how it felt to look into his big, brown eyes for the first time. In the middle of a shootout, in fear of your life, you sighed in relief.
You had no confirmation that he wasn't the enemy, mind you. It was just... something about him. You felt so comfortable, so safe. He practically wrapped you in his arms and hauled you away, strong muscles protecting you from harm.
Your body felt fuzzy and you snuggled into him on instinct. Pathetic, really.
Unfortunately, others agreed.
For weeks after he took you back to camp, you followed him around like a lost puppy. To be fair, it wasn't that far from the truth.
"Need somethin'?" His deep baritone voice muttered. He didn't ask you that all the time. He understood you. He knew you just needed somebody to hide behind. To feel safe with.
You breathe in, "Oh! uh- erm- Do you?"
He sputters out a breathy chuckle, "Just sit down."
You blush but obey, grateful he's not making fun of you or anything. Thats one reason you lov- cared so much for his friendship. Although... you weren't sure he saw it that way.
You were probably just some annoying little sister that wouldn't leave him alone. He was just too kind, or perhaps too busy, to tell you to leave him be finally.
It's true, the camps gossip was getting to you.
"Got your little chick, mama hen?" Uncle laughed, causing a few snickers from those within earshot.
"Sober up, Uncle. Make yourself useful, like Y/N." Charles' tone was sharp as he said it, like he might've actually cared.
He pushed a knife and rag into your hand, nudging you. He was giving you some easy work. So no one could say anything about you. Your heart warmed at his gesture.
But the day after was worse. Sean, no doubt wasted, wandered over acting like a chicken. Arms akimbo like wings and bawking like a chicken about to lay.
You hid your eyes in embarrassment but looked up in time to see the deathly glare that Charles sent Sean's way. He didn't have to say anything to make the boy back away.
"Grumpy fella' can' even take a joke!" He threw his hands in the air as though you were the strange ones.
You meant to thank Charles, but he was back to his work of cleaning saddles, this time with a frown.
That's it, you really were making things harder for him. In his kindness, he never would've pulled away first. You'd have to bite the bullet, take one for the team.
You didn't sit next to him at the fire to drink your coffee, as you usually did. You didn't follow him from task to task. You went to Grimshaw to ask for chores instead of him. You ate by the girls, sitting on the very hem of the blanket, too afraid to get any closer.
It wasn't the most miserable day of your life, at least. You kept your wandering eyes mainly to yourself, too! You should be proud of yourself.
By day three, your eyes moved of their own accord, watching him chop wood in an unbuttoned shirt, long johns nowhere to be seen. Just him, trousers, and an axe.
Surely, that loose hair is a hazard? You fantasized running your fingers through it, braiding it as he laid in your lap.
"I think it's clean, girly." Abigail said, pointing to the over-scrubbed shirt you were raking over the washboard.
"Oh!" You blinked, "There was a, ahem, stubborn stain..."
"...Right." She smirked.
You sighed obliviously, wringing the shirt out with longing eyes.
Charles' eyes darted over to you as you washed clothes. Bent forward and scrubbing with fervor. He was a respectful man, on the whole, but the angle revealed more of your chest than he'd ever seen. He was grateful for his dark skin, it hid his flush well.
He's man enough to admit that he'd... missed you a bit. He wasn't sure why you weren't with him like usual. Sure, he wants you to get closer to the women. But not at the expense of your time with him. You weren't... avoiding him, right?
He stood, leaning on the handle of the axe, catching his breath.
"Bird left the nest?" Arthur chuckled, pausing next to him with a sack of grain over his shoulder, "Happens to the best of em'. Bet she's glad not to hear them jokes anymore."
He laughed as he walked away, but Charles' eyes widened. Were you embarrassed by what the others had said? He thought that he made it plenty clear he didn't care what they said.
He only shut it down for you.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the loose fabric of his unbuttoned shirt. Your eyes lingered on him until you saw him staring back. You looked back into the wash bin so quickly he was surprised you didn't have whiplash.
So that's how it is.
The next morning he waited around for you to grab your coffee and then followed you to the edge of camp, where you had been awkwardly standing as of late.
"Oh, good morning, Charles." You looked down and tapped the flimsy tin cup with your nail.
"Morning." His voice was raspy with disuse from the night. It sent a shiver down your spine.
"Eh... sleep?" You cleared your throat, "Did you sleep good?"
He smiled, "Yeah. You?"
His smile was contagious. You always mindlessly mimicked it when you saw it, "Mhm. I like this place. The crickets make me sleepy."
Charles reached forward and tucked a stray hair away, behind your ear. He didn't say anything. You felt your heart beat unevenly. Then thud so deeply in your chest you thought you might fall over.
"That's good. I like the crickets too." He smiled softly, sweetly.
You nodded your head, heart eyes staring at him like its the only thing you knew how to do. It kind of felt like that.
"I-I should go ask Grimshaw what she needs." You looked down sheepishly and walked over to her tent.
"I could use your help, if you're up for it."
You didn't expect it, but you turn around anyway, "Oh, really? You're... sure?"
He nodded once, patiently. He was going to get it through your thick skull sooner or later that he liked having you around as much as you did.
"So what do you need?" You sat next to him by the water.
"Need you to braid these real tight." He hands you stripped and dried grass, ready to be turned into bowstrings.
You got to work, happy to be of use to him. He smiled and snuck a look at you now and again. Your focused face charmed him, and he felt himself lean farther into you.
By the end of the day, you felt like he was the one following you. It was simultaneously strange and flattering. What was even stranger is that he kept it up for a few more days.
"Wanna go for a ride?" He said on a particularly warm afternoon.
You shrugged, "You know I haven't got a horse."
He smirked, "Didn't ask if you had a horse. Asked if you wanted to ride."
You blushed and nodded, "Sounds nice."
You were hoisted onto the horse first, Charles climbing behind you. He seemed to know where he was going, hinting at some secluded field he liked. The cool wind whipped around you, making you forget about the heat of summer.
When you arrived, the sun was threatening to set, setting the valley aglow. It was more of a ridge, high on a steep hill, overlooking a vast plain.
"Oh, Charles!" You gasped.
He laughed, "I know. It looks beautiful at this hour." He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you down.
You steadied yourself with your hands on his arm. He made no move to go, but to be fair neither did you. His hands burned into your skin through your dress, forever etching themselves onto your flesh.
He felt the same though, your fingers so much smaller than his, pressing tiny fingerprints into his forearm.
You couldn't handle it any longer, and slid your arms away. He got the hint and let go of you, walking away. He cleared his throat and walked to the edge of the ridge, sitting down.
He held out his hand and you took it, lowering yourself into the grass. A comfortable silence fell for some minutes as you both watched the sun slip away past the horizon.
Then you watched as the moon rose, taking its placing in its milky glory.
"I've gotta say..." You shifted nervously, "I'm a little surprised you asked me to come."
His brows furrowed, "Why?"
"Oh, well... you know..." You laughed and waved your hand dismissively.
"I don't." His expression didn't change.
You curled inward, "I'm just sort of... clingy. Annoying. I know it, it's fine. People joke about it-"
"I thought I told them to stop. Are they still bothering you?"
Your breath hitched, this was not going according to plan, "Well, yeah. It helps that I..."
"Avoided me for days?" He sounded almost... pouty?
You sat straight, "That's not- I wasn't!"
"But you did. You could've told me and I would've shut them up."
You shook your head and looked at your lap, "But they're right, Charles."
His hulking frame shrunk a bit with his slouch, "About what?"
"About me. I... I get in the way and I follow you around. You're just the first person I met so I thought we were friends but I took it too-"
"We are friends. Friends are around each other. I don't see what the issue is." His hand inched toward yours, fingertips brushing, "If you really bothered me, you would've known. Trust me."
His clever smirk made you twist with one of your own, before you bashfully look away.
"I guess..."
His hand fully covered yours, "Stop listening to other people when I'm right here. Listen to... me, instead."
"So you don't mind? When I hang around you?" You picked at your sleeve and hesitantly looked into his eyes. The same brown eyes that captivated you from day one.
"I don't mind." I like it. He wished he could say it but the words died on his tongue. Perhaps he could tell you soon, or maybe you'd understand him anyway. That was one reason he lov- cared so much for your friendship.
"W-Well okay, then. And thank you, for saving me. I know I've said it before, but..."
"Anytime." He leaned over and tucked your hair behind your ear with his free hand, "So I can see your eyes."
Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear â being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you donât know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Donât Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize youâve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didnât mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasnât just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jasonâs pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his ânightly activities.â When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brotherâs field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.
Can I: Itâs your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. Youâd promised yourself youâd make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.
Glad It Was You
Prove It To You
Hit Me
The Magic Words: Youâve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.
Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?
Scuff Marks: Your car breaks down, and you meet your best friend's brother, Jason.
Brother's Best Friend: Sleepover at Wayne Manor with a side quest of making out with your secret boyfriend.
WaitâŠWe're Not Dating: For the entire year you and Jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea you weren't.
It's Just a Crush: You have a crush on Red Hood, and your best friend stephanie brown thinks itâs so funny. Funny enough, she introduces you to her brother, Jason Todd.
Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend.
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dickâs apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isnât picking up the phone, so Damianâs eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brotherâs English Lit teacher.
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Sleeping in his bed turns into something more
Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when itâs you heâs inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damianâs outrage.
When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayneâs first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayedâ only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happenedâand his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that listâand try to fix that, not knowing that youâre Damianâs only exception.
Animal Interests: Damianâs father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet.
Who Said The Waynes Were Cold: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now heâs praying for your (ex) boyfriendâs downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Manâs Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the coupleâs early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
Edit: had to fix the spacing it didnât copy well from Google Docs
ââââââ
Eyes fluttering open, the fog of sleep slowly lifted as thin red numbers glowed through the darkness of your bedroom. Rubbing at your eyes, you squinted toward the alarm clock across the room.
5:48 a.m.
Curled beneath your comforter, a smile tugged at your lips.
After one long stretch, you peeked over your shoulder to find your boyfriend still fast asleep. Johnâs broad chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm beneath the sheets. He looked so peaceful like this, especially after the night youâd had.
The two of you had gone out drinking with friends and stumbled back to your flat thoroughly intoxicated. Somewhere between getting home and passing out, an argument had broken out over the last peanut butter cookie youâd baked that morning.
Unfortunately for you, John had won.
The disagreement had escalated into a drunken wrestling match in the kitchen, ending with John shoving the entire cookie into his mouth while you tried to pry it from his hands.
Youâd been so offended by his lack of generosity that youâd gone to bed with your back to him. John, naturally, found the whole thing hilarious. Heâd spent the next ten minutes calling you petty, dramatic, and the prettiest brat heâd ever met.
In response, youâd informed him you would never bake for him again. He dramatically declared that you clearly didnât love him.
Even now, the memory made you smile. John could be an ass when he was drunk, but you loved him anyway. Quietly slipping from bed, you headed for the shower.
When you emerged a short while later, freshly dressed in light blue jeans and a faded green flannel rolled to your elbows, you peeked back into the bedroom. A grin immediately spread across your face.
For once, you were awake before your military boyfriend. John usually rose with the sun whether he wanted to or not. Seeing him still asleep felt almost unnatural.
Which gave you an idea. A terrible idea.
But at the time, it felt brilliant.
The bedroom remained dim, pale morning light filtering through the open window and casting a soft grey glow across the floorboards. Careful to avoid the ones that creaked, you crept toward the bed.
This would be your revenge for the cookie.
John was sprawled on his back, head tilted slightly to one side and snoring without shame. His beard had grown thicker during leave, giving him the appearance of a lumberjack whoâd somehow wandered into military service. His dark hair had grown long enough that he could finally push it back after a shower.
You loved the overgrown look. It somehow made him even more rugged.
Standing beside the bed, you made a decision you would almost immediately regret.
With a squeal, you launched yourself onto him.
The plan was simple: Straddle his waist, grab his scruffy cheeks, kiss him awake.
That was not what happened.
A startled shriek tore from your throat.
Something hard slammed into the side of your face and your world flipped.
One second you were laughing. The next, your face was crushed into the mattress, your arms pinned painfully behind your back. You couldnât breathe, you couldnât think. Everything had happened too quickly that fear flooded your chest.
âLet go! Let go! Let go!â You kicked and thrashed, your voice cracking. A crushing weight pinning you helplessly into the mattress.
The pressure disappeared instantly.
Heavy footsteps stumbled backward across the room. When you finally lifted your face from the olive green covers, you gasped for air and dramatically looked around. You found John crouched several feet away, looking absolutely horrified.
âFuck.â The color had drained from his face.
âI didnât mean to hit you.â His hands hovered helplessly near your face as though he wanted to check for injuries but wasnât sure if touching you would make things worse.
âOw.â It was the only word you could manage. Slowly pushing yourself upright, you leaned back on your heels.
Judging by the look on Johnâs face, whatever had happened wasnât good. It certainly didnât feel good. A deep throbbing radiated from just above your left eyebrow, spreading into your temple and down toward your jaw. When your fingertips brushed the area, you winced immediately. The spot was already tender.
âY-you hit me.â The disbelief in your voice cracked into a sniffle. Almost instantly, tears welled in your eyes.
âIâm so sorry, darling.â John climbed onto the mattress, only to stop himself halfway through reaching for you. His hand hovered uncertainly in the air. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel unsafe around him.
Guilt twisted sharply in his chest. He wanted to explain that youâd startled him. Wanted to tell you it had been pure instinct. But that felt too much like shifting the blame. And John knew from experience that anything resembling blame would either make you defensive or send you retreating into yourself.
âWe have to see my dad today!â The panic hit you so suddenly that John physically flinched.
The tears vanished. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over your own feet before stumbling toward the dresser mirror.
âWait. Are you okay?â John stared after you, suffering a bit of emotional whiplash as you went from nearly crying to frantically inspecting your reflection.
âYeah, Iâm fine.â You grabbed your face and groaned. âBut youâre not going to be.â
Getting off the bed John stepped closer. The area around your eye was already turning red. A bruise was beginning to form beneath your cheekbone, stretching toward your temple.
His stomach dropped. If he was being honest, heâd hit you pretty hard. You were lucky the sharp edge of his elbow hadnât split the skin.
âDarling, can I please look at it? I didnât mean toââ
âI know!â You cut him off immediately.
âNow that I think about it, jumping on my military boyfriend while heâs fresh home from deployment might have been the dumbest idea Iâve ever had. I genuinely donât know what I was thinking.â The words werenât really directed at John. They sounded more like a furious lecture aimed at yourself.
John watched you pace back and forth in front of the dresser, muttering under your breath. With a frustrated sigh, heâd finally had enough of your spiraling. Reaching out, he caught your wrist and gently tugged you toward him. The movement startled you enough that your pacing stopped immediately.
Before you could protest, Johnâs hands settled on your hips. Letting out an involuntary squeak, you found yourself lifted clean off the floor and placed on top of your shared dresser.
Now sitting several inches higher, you were finally closer to eye level. Your face immediately grew warm. John ignored your flustered expression and tilted your chin upward between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand brushed a few loose strands of hair behind your ear as he inspected the damage.
The bruise wasnât nearly as bad as heâd suspected. The area was swollen and already darkening, but the sharp point of his elbow had missed. Heâd caught you with the flatter part of the bone.
All in all it was painful. Embarrassing. But not serious.
Relief settled into his chest. Unfortunately, it was competing with another feeling. Annoyance. Youâd seen his nightmares. Seen him wake up swinging before. So why in Godâs name had you thought launching yourself onto a sleeping soldier was a good idea?
The woman sitting in front of him was brilliant. The smartest woman John had ever met. Which made this even more baffling.
âYou sure youâre okay?â he asked.
âYes.â You groaned and glanced toward the mirror again.
âI still donât know why I did that.â You huffed.
âBloody stupid idea if you ask me.â John hadnât meant to say it out loud but he did. And your head snapped around looking at him in disbelief.
âIâm not stupid.â You insisted, clearly offended. The immediate defensiveness caught him off guard making his brows raise.
âI didnât call you stupid.â John said matter of factly.
âYes, you did.â
âNo, I didnât.â
âYou literally just did.â
âI said the idea was stupid.â
âSame thing.â
John stared at you.
âNo. It isnât.â
âYes, it is.â
The argument was escalating so quickly he almost got whiplash. Moments ago youâd been worried he had fractured your face. Now you seemed more upset about a single word.
âIt wasnât your brightest moment.â John corrected.
If heâd sounded even remotely apologetic, you might have let it go. Instead, he sounded irritated.
Your eyes narrowed making John roll his own and go to make the bed in hopes to create some distance.
âYou should be nicer to me.â Your tone was snappy as you stared at your boyfriend who was visibly annoyed with you.
âWhy?â John asked unamused while tucking the sheets in neatly.
âYou hit me.â Sliding off the dresser, you folded your arms and stared at him expectantly.
John returned a deadpan look.
âRight.â Then he went back to making the bed.
In his mind, he was being perfectly reasonable. You, on the other hand, had launched yourself at a sleeping man with military training and unresolved trauma. The bruise felt more like an occupational hazard than an assault.
âWell now my dadâs going to kill you.â
John glanced over his shoulder. Billy was the least of his concerns. Right now it seemed like youâd finish him off first.
âBillyâs a reasonable man.â John sighed.
You laughed, making John frown, blue eyes finally coming up to look at you.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â
âDarling.â
You pointed at the rapidly darkening bruise.
âMy dadâs going to see this and immediately assume you beat me.â Your face matched your tone, a subtle nudge for John to stop being an idiot.
ââŠRight.â For the first time all morning, John looked concerned.
âJust tell him the truth.â John suggested.
âYouâre a terrible liar anyway. If he thinks youâre hiding something, itâll look much worse.â Tossing his hands slightly in the air they fell back down clapping against Johnâs thighs.
âMaybe we should cancel.â Looking at your self again you grimaced at the bruise.
âNo.â John crossed the room and cupped your face again. His expression softened immediately.
âIt was an accident.â His thumb brushed gently beneath the bruise.
âYou swear youâre okay?â The guilt was back. Heavy, persistent, no longer able to out run that he really did strike you whether it was intentional or not.
You could see it written all over his face. Leaning down, he pressed a feather light kiss against your bruised temple.
âI feel awful.â He whispered.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
âIâm fine. I promise. It hurts a little, but it looks way worse than it feels.â You confessed.
John studied you for another moment before finally nodding. Then his jaw tightened. Determination replaced guilt. Which was a surprise to you.
âIâll make it up to you.â He stated matter of factly.
You immediately snorted.
âI think youâll be making it up to my dad.â
ââââââ
âDo I look okay?â you asked.
âSure.â John didnât even look at you.
âJohn.â You poked his shoulder. That finally got his attention.
âI told you at the flat that half a pound of makeup would make it more obvious.â The look he gave you was almost pitying.
You sighed in defeat. Yet again he was right.
âYeah. Iâm starting to think you were right.â You groaned.
âI usually am.â
You rolled your eyes. He could be so smug even in these tense moments. It could be infuriating.
âItâs going to be fine.â Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, John pulled you against his side and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You nodded still feeling unsure and a strange tightness gripping your chest.
Then John knocked on your fatherâs front door. A few seconds later it swung open. Revealing a man about Johnâs height, built like a wall only not as muscular as he was when you were a kid.
âWell, look who finally decided to show up.â Billy stepped aside with a grin, waving the two of you inside.
John entered first, squeezing your hand before letting go. You followed behind making sure to kick your shoes off in the pile by the door that was mostly your fatherâs. John placed his neatly to the side which made the mess look a little odd.
By the time your shoes were off, your father had already disappeared into the kitchen. He returned carrying two beers, Budweiser to be exact. Your favorite wine sat decanting on the kitchen counter.
Your fatherâs flat was small. The first room you entered was one long rectangle, the living room. He had a simple leather sofa, coffee table, and a entertainment system with a tv on the opposite wall. 1/3 into the room it turned from hardwood to the kitchen tile. And right before the kitchen to the right was a small hallway that lead to the bathroom and bedroom.
âGlad to be home?â Billy asked, handing a can to John.
âBeen nice.â John accepted it with a nod.
âY/Nâs been spoiling me with cooking.â Johnâs words went from sincere to having a twisted look on his face from how unpleasant he found American beer. Billy snorted out a laugh at Johnâs expression.
âSmart man.â Taking his beer your dad motioned it towards you.
John glanced at you trying to silently remind you. Tell him now before he had a chance to jump to conclusions. You nodded feeling your heart pound in your chest.
The two of you had already agreed it would be better to explain immediately. Before assumptions could be made. Before your dad noticed.
Taking a breath, you opened your mouth.
âI bet. Whatâs she been maââ
Billy stopped mid sentence. His eyes narrowed, fixed on your face. The room suddenly felt very quiet. You knew immediately heâd seen the bruise. Even underneath the makeup, the blueish purple discoloration was impossible to completely hide.
âDadââ
Two loud thuds echoed through the room. The coffee table scrapping violently across the floor.
âDad!â You screeched.
Your father had crossed the room so fast you barely registered it. One second he was standing beside the couch. The next, he had John by the front of his shirt. Billy shoved him backward hard enough that he stumbled into the coffee table before colliding with the wall.
The beers hit the floor. Foam exploded across the hardwood some seeping into the old second hand rug your dad thrifted. Your father looked ready to commit a felony. It wouldnât be his first so you were anxious John was about to be murdered.
John, meanwhile, simply raised both hands. He didnât fight back. Didnât even look surprised but like a man ready to descalate the situation.
âGet the fuck out of my house.â Billyâs voice shook, teeth gritted, eyebrows knit together. This wasnât fear for his daughterâs safety but pure white hot rage.
âDad, stop!â You grabbed at his arm.
âCan I at least explain?â You begged.
âExplain what?â Billy barked. âExplain why he hit you?â
âIt was an accident,â John said calmly which made Billy laugh. The sound was entirely humorless.
âOh, I bet it was.â He said incredulously. âAnd Iâll make what I do to you look like an accident.â He growled in Johnâs face.
âI jumped on him while he was sleeping!â You shouted. That finally got his attention. The room fell silent once again.
âI thought itâd be funny. I scared him and he accidentally caught me with his elbow.â Billy looked between you and John. Trying to decide if he believed it. Johnâs expression wasnât helping your case.
He looked profoundly disappointed. Finally, Billy released his grip. Though not before shoving John back into the wall one last time. Then he turned toward you.
âWhat were you thinking?â He snapped, his focus now on you.
You froze.
âA sleeping soldier fresh home from deployment?â Billy continued. âOne youâve watched wake up from nightmares before?â The disappointment in his voice somehow hurt more than the shouting. And John stood there wondering how much you shared about him with your father.
âWhat did you think was going to happen?â He demanded.
âI wasnât thinking.â The answer came out small and somewhat frantic. Billy let out a sharp breath through his nose.
âExactly.â He scoffed.
You immediately looked away. Because you already knew what was coming. The same question heâd asked a hundred times growing up.
âAnd what do we call people who donât think?â Billy asked.
Eyes fixed on the floor you watched the beer leak from the red and white can. You couldnât ignore the heat that crept up your neck.
âStupid.â The word barely left your lips.
And for the first time all day, John understood.
The argument from earlier. Your defensiveness. The way youâd reacted when he called the idea of you jumping on him stupid.
Heâd thought you were being stubborn like he knew you could be. Instead, heâd accidentally stepped on a bruise far older than the one on your face.
âOi.â John stepped forward.
âIt was an accident.â His hand settled against your back. A small protective gesture. Billyâs attention immediately shifted toward him.
âYeah. And you still hit her.â John rubbed the back of his neck.
Fair point.
âHow exactly do you plan on making that up?â The question rung through the air, a beat of silence following it.
âWhat?â John asked dumbfound.
âBetter spoil her dumb ass rotten.â Billy pointed a finger at him.
âIâm talking flowers. Dinner. Jewelry. Empty your damn wallet.â Your dad barked at John.
Despite everything, John could only blink completely caught off guard.
âYou serious?â He asked almost tripping over his words.
âDead serious.â Billy threw his hands into the air and turned away. Clearly too angry to decide whether he wanted to yell more or lock himself in another room. Walking away and down the hall you and John both stood there stunned.
âAnd clean up the beer!â A door slammed somewhere deeper in the flat.
Silence followed. A longer silence than normal, as you watched the foam of the beer on the floor fizzle. John looked down at you, who was clearly disassociating.
âYouâre not stupid.â John spoke quietly but sternly as if to make sure Billy didnât hear him.
You bent to pick up an empty can. Ready to rinse them out and clean up the mess like your father had just ordered you both to do.
âYeah, I know.â The lie wasnât particularly convincing. John caught your elbow before you could pick up the cans.
âYou.â Johnâs voice softened. Avoiding his gaze your name fell from Johnâs lips as an attempt to get you to look him in the eyes. Reluctantly, you looked up.
âYouâre not stupid.â Something in his expression made your chest tighten. His crystal blue eyes speaking to you in a way you didnât know you needed.
âIt was an accident. A bad idea, sure. But youâre not stupid.â John continued.
You stared at him. For a moment, you felt like a little girl again. Like he wasnât talking to the woman standing in front of him. As if he was trying to convince a little girl whoâd spent years hearing otherwise.
Eventually, you nodded. Trying to ignore the swelling pain behind your eyes from suppressed tears.
âYeah.â This time you almost believed it.
âIâm sorry he grabbed you.â John chuckled darkly at your apology, an attempt to get him to stop comforting a clearly sensitive scabbed over wound.
âHonestly? Thought he was about to swing.â
âMe too.â You laughed with no humor.
âI donât blame him.â John shrugged, his hand rubbing your shoulder lovingly. You couldnât hide the frown that took over your pretty lips. Johnâs head tilted slightly and he placed a kiss to the top of your head before hugging you close to his chest.
âIf some bloke put a bruise on our daughter, Iâd probably react worse.â The words left his mouth before he seemed to realize what heâd said.
Both of you froze. Yet another beat of silence filling the small flat.
âOur daughter?â you repeated breathlessly.
John immediately looked horrified.
âYou know.â He cleared his throat âHypothetically.â John rubbed the back of his neck and shifted a step backwards.
A grin spread across your face. A dangerous one. The type John saw right before you geared up to tease him.
âOh no.â He groaned.
âOh yes.â You giggled.
âWhat?â
âYou like me.â You spoke proudly.
John rolled his eyes. Unable to hide the laugh, one of those bashful ones that rumbled from his chest.
âYeah. Some might even say I love you.â The humor was still there but you could see in his eyes he meant it.
âSome might.â You agreed.
âI love you.â And there he was. Your charming, larger than life, man. Your grin softened instantly. No teasing was needed you just wanted to let this warmth take over and chase away the shame that was trying to cling to your heart.
âI love you too.â
John leaned down and kissed your forehead again, bringing you back into his rugged chest.
âNow letâs clean up these beers before your father comes back and finishes the job.â John shooed you toward the kitchen.
âFair.â You grabbed a towel from the kitchen while John picked up the now empty cans.
âThen we can order food and watch a movie while he broods.â You suggested.
âIâll handle the spilt beer.â John took the towel from you. His fingers lingering a second longer against the back of your hand, eyes glancing at your left ring finger that laid bare.
