âč àŁȘ Ë Until Death Do Us Apart â Spencer Reid.
You thought being divorced from Spencer Reid meant you were finally done taking care of him. But when heâs injured on a mission and the hospital refuses to release him without someone willing to take responsibility for his recovery, youâre the one who signs the papers. And suddenly, youâre right back where you started, taking care of him like your life still depends on it.
àšà§ ââââ second chance romance. ex wife & prosecutor!reader. located in season 8 (very out of canon, with many changes! maeve do not exist duh and diana reid's alzahimer is diagnosed earlier). spencer's migraines. main masterlist.
â„ïž chapter one: your smile, my ghost (4,8k): When you get a call in the middle of the night, the last thing you expect is for it to be the hospital informing you that your ex-husband is hurt and needs you.
â„ïž chapter two: your heaven, my hell (8,2k): When your ex-husband gets discharged from the hospital, he expects to go home...just not the one you take him to.
â„ïž chapter three: your coffee, my tea (8,9k): It's easy to keep your distance from your ex-husband when you only see him to give him medicine and food. But it's not the same when he insists on getting close to you and needing you as much as before.
â„ïž chapter four: your kiss, my cheek (8,6k): Amid lingering steam, unspoken feelings, and the impossible reality of sharing a home with your ex-husband again, two familiar faces arrive for dinner.
hi lev!! saw this on twitter and thought u might be interested xx : https://arrokoth486958.itch.io/butcher-me-not
oh wow!!! not only does it look interesting but it also has everything i love:
Being threatened by a butcher âïž
Having your mouth thoroughly inspected âïž
Being treated like someoneâs property âïž
will def dig into it a bit more!!!! i found that the art is done by Arrokoth, who lists themselves as the artist and illustrator on their vgen acc. but hopefully a few on the dev team have Daum or Naver Cafe i can stalk for details or post more q&as on twt. thanks!!!!
Be honest, are you a bad person in any kind of way? I've been finding out about gross stuff that a bunch of blogs I really liked did and I feel icky :(
check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome
summary: being the adventurous one of the pair, you liked to play with your boyfriend whenever and wherever you please. including the elevator! much to the humiliation and dismay of your poor, poor boyfriend, spencer.
tags and warnings: smut, sub!spencer x dom!reader, no sex u just make spencer cum in his pants, semi-public sex, exhibitionism kinda, almost caught (nobody catches u though), could qualify as dubcon, over the clothes stimulation, light choking
a/n: haha get it. going up. like his erection. his dickâs going up in his pants. anyway. spencerâs ramble in the beginning is very not subtly yoinked straight from the fibonacci episode because. well. writing my own spencer rambles is hard when the author isnât as smart as him okay. ALSO THANKS FOR 1000 NOTES ON THE LAST SPENCE FIC!!! MORE TO COME AND MY REQUESTS R OPEN!
âItâs an irrational number known as phi, based on the ratio of line segments to each other and to the whole. I-Itâs called the golden ratio, itâs a ratio we find all through life. In fact, most people we find conventionally attractive are based on that ratio. The unsub made an, uh, a reference to Leonardo Di Vinci, remember this? Di Vinci used it in a lot of his paintings. As a matter of fact, the last supper is the perfect exampleââ
The words tumbling out of Spencerâs mouth along with the pair of your footsteps are the only sounds echoing through the quiet halls of the rather antique hotel you were resting in for this case. A pleasant location. Clean carpets, which had Spencer pleased. Deep wood and golden light hanging above. The elevator was a bit on the slow side, however. Or maybe that was due to the building being so very towering in height. The ride to your room had to be at least a handful of minutes, and you and your boyfriend werenât even sleeping at the very top.
As Spencer speaks, your eyes drift to the hanging lights above, the ones that stretch honeyed light across the winding hall. Normally, you would be nodding along, even if you couldnât quite keep up with his mind. But this time, you stayed quiet. You just kept walking, Spencer trailing at your side, mouth moving like a motor as you both enter the old elevator as it groans and creaks.
Spencer, never one for social cues, seems entirely oblivious to your curious demeanor. Spencer keeps talking animatedly as the doors slide shut. ââŠand the Fibonacci sequence is directly related to phi! The way seashells spiral, flower petals arrange themselvesâ itâs all golden ratio-based. Even human faces⊠statistically speaking, facial symmetry aligned with phi correlates with perceived attractiveness at a 67% higher rate than averageââ He pauses only to adjust his glasses and press the button for your floor. The silence from you feels normal to him. After all, you always listen quietly when he shares his mind.
Before the doors shut, you take a moment to peer around the enclosed space. Small, even for an elevator. The way you crane your neck around, itâs almost as though you're looking for something.
You press the floor button again before the doors can shut, and the glow of the number disappears, effectively stopping the elevator before it can begin its descent. Instead, you crouch down, absurdly choosing to press the floor at the very, very bottom, just shy of the basement.
âThe whole concept is represented by the pendant the unsub had, including the logarithmic spiral created by⊠umâŠâ Spencer starts to trail off, hands hovering in the air. âBy- by using the fibonacci sequence, and if we pull up the towns all of the⊠missing are fromâ you, I, uh- I think you pressed the wrong floor?â He furrows his brow at your strange behavior, pointing to the row of numbers on the wall. With his infallible memory, he can be certain he had it right the first time.
But you're still poking your head about the elevator like you're looking for something, hardly acknowledging him. âWhyâd you stop?â You ask.
âUh⊠I meanâŠâ He clears his throat awkwardly. âI stopped because weâre going to the wrong floor. Our floor was 7? Weâll have to go all the way to the bottom now, whyâd you do that?â
You step impossibly closer to him, shuffling in front of his body to create a barrier between him and the doors as they slide shut with a creak. âGo ahead, I was listening,â you nod encouragingly.
For a second, Spencer just stares at you with a suspicious look. Then, with a furrowed brow, he remembers his train of thought and resumes talking, albeit with slightly less energy than before. âSo⊠phi is approximately 1.6180339887âŠâ
The elevator has begun its descent. You watch above your shoulder as the aged dial begins to slide across the numbers at a snailâs pace.
The longer Spencerâs mouth moves, he almost becomes absorbed enough again to forget you were headed to the wrong floor. âItâs- itâs funny, actually, 11235 is a Fibonacci series, each number added to the number before. So itâs what the unsubâs ticks mean, subconsciously counting out fibonacci sequences over and over in his head! I meanâŠâ
The elevator hums, you take another step even closer, taking advantage of the way heâs absorbed with his own ramblings again. With movements as casual as you could manage, you slide his cardigan off his shoulders, gently tugging his tie loose and popping open the top button of his shirt.
It doesnât last long. His eyes are watching your every move and he slowly trails off as he stares at you with utter bewilderment. â⊠itâs a Fibonacci⊠seriesâŠ?â He blinks. Once. Twice. âWhat- what, uh, what are you doing?â He makes no move to run from your hands, just looking back and forth between your fingers and your face, utterly lost.
Your lips hastily press to his with a force, and Spencerâs eyes blow open wide. His back thumps against the elevator wall. His lips move clumsily against yours by pure reflex. One hand hovers awkwardly near your waist while the other presses flat on the wall beside him for balance.
When you pull back, he pants, staring at you owlishly and looking delightfully vulnerable. âWhaâ what?â
It all happens so fast. As the elevator hums and creaks with slow movements, your hands slide down his shirt, trailing from his neck to his chest, to his abdomen, then latching to his crotch and caressing his dick through the fabric of his khakis.
Spencerâs jaw falls open in a gasp, body slightly curling in on itself at the touch. He stares down at your hands on him, face burning red from his hairline to his collarbone. Then his eyes snap back up to you. âHey! What are you- ah! Whâ whaâ whatareyoudoing?â He tries to ask again, voice coming out a little too high.
âWhatâs it look like Iâm doing?â You chuckle, batting your lashes up at him.
It looks like you're touching his penis. Through his khakis. In an elevator. But that doesnât make sense, right?
âI-uhâŠâ He canât seem to form words. Just staring, wide-eyed and blushing furiously. âWâ weâre in an elevator!â He whisper-yells.
âUh-huh,â you keep rubbing circles over his cock, pressing the heel of your palm into the bulge of his head under his pants.
Spencer makes a tiny, strangled noise. His hands finally move. One flies up to cover his mouth. The other holds the wall behind him uselessly. His eyes dart across your face as he sputters, panicked. âThere- there are generally cameras and microphones p-placed inâ mmm! Placed in elevators f⊠for safety reasons!â
âI already checked. I didnât see any cameras. This place is too old-fashioned.â
He whines girlishly as her palm presses more firmly against his straining cock. âMicrophones, then! M-Microphones can be quite easily⊠oh, fuck⊠hidden from view if the owner of the establishmentââ
âThen you better keep your voice down, huh?â
Spencer bites his lip hard, trying to muffle the onslaught of dirty sounds threatening to escape. âY-Yes,â he whispers, nodding frantically. âVoice down⊠quiet⊠oh, god.â
Heâs trying so hard to be obedient, but every rub and squeeze and brush sends electric pulses through him and heâs already throbbing. His breath comes in short, panicked little puffs through his nose like a startled rabbit.
âW-Why?â He nearly sobs.
You tilt your head innocently. âWhy what?â
Spencer swallows, his throat bobbing. âW-Why are you⊠doing this? I meanâ weâre in a public elevator. We have a case. And I-I was just talking about math.â
The elevator continues descending, dinging as it passes floors 16⊠15âŠ
You rub your thumb over the shape of his tip and Spencerâs knees feel weak. You just shrug, ââCause I like to tease you.â
He whines, humiliated. âI⊠I like your teasing too,â he admits in a tiny, breathless voice. âB-but usually with words. Not this.â Heâs completely overwhelmed by your casual dominance over him, and panicking over how much it was turning him on.
He gasps sharply when you massage his bulge just right. âPlease! Please, pleaseâ hey! donâtdonâtdonâtdonâtââ
Your hand stills slightly. âDonât?â
Spencer squirms, watching you toy with him helplessly. âI meanâ yes! Wait, noâ I meanââ His voice cracks. âPlease, please, I-I really donât wanna cum right now...â
You chuckle, biting your lip. âYou sure?â
Spencer nods rapidly, eyes wide with panic. âNo. Noâ I meanâ yes! Just not⊠not like this. Not in the elevator.â
âOh, but I wanna play with youâŠâ You pout.
âP-Playing is fine! I love playing!â he blurts, then sheepishly lowers his voice to a frantic whisper. âBut maybe⊠maybe in our room? Where we can close the door andâ and change clothes if needed?â Heâs grimacing now from the touch, his expression twisting like heâs in pain.
âOh, you donât wanna cum in your pants, huh?â You tease.
He ducks his head into your shoulder to stifle the sounds. âN-No,â he mumbles into the fabric of your shirt. âIâI have a meeting in an hour. With Strauss. And my pants are⊠theyâre not stain-resistant.â
âAww! Thatâd be so cute!â
Spencer lifts his head slightly, horrified. âCute?!â he squeaks. âWhat? No! Not cute. Embarrassing! P-professionally devastating!â
Ding! Just then, the elevator doors fly open as they reach the floor nearest to the basement.
Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin when the doors open, practically leaping away from you, only to see an empty, dimly lit hallway. The second they close again, he exhales sharply, shoulders slumping.
You casually hit another button with your elbow. The elevator starts moving up to the very top.
âTop floor?â he asks quietly, eyes wide with hope. âOur room is on 7âŠâ
âWeâre not going to our room, Iâm fucking you here, silly.â
âH-here?!â he squeaks, eyes darting around the tiny elevator. âIn this⊠this box? B-But theâ the microphones! The elevators are monitored for safety violations andâ and crimes! Public indecency is a crime!â
But he stops when your hand comes up to squeeze his throat, a thrill shooting through him and straight to his loins.
His lips part slightly as he stares at you with wide, glazed over eyes. âWhy donât you keep talking to me about your math sequences? Hm?â You coo, rubbing your thumb over his adam's apple.
âI-IâŠâ He swallows hard against your palm. âF-Fibonacci sequence⊠um, mmm, itâs a recursive series wh-where each number is the sum of the, uh? Two preceding ones⊠and umâŠâ Itâs hard for him to remember when the majority of his blood flow was going straight to his cock.
âYeah?â You encourage him with a nod, so Spencer keeps babbling, dazed and breathless.
âS-so 0, 1⊠then 1⊠and the next is, oh, the next is two, so itâsâ it builds exponentially. Like a spiral! Mm-hm. A logarithmic spiral which relates to phi again because of the golden ratio division in geometry which creates perfect aesthetics like Da Vinciâs paintings or seashells orââ
He pauses when you squeeze his throat just slightly tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his voice crack cutely.
ââŠa-and the ratio of a shellâs chambers to its width follows, ah, phi exactly, which means nature uses math for beauty and-and symmetry, like how people are attracted to faces with phi proportions statistically but god, youâre squeezing my neckâŠâ
You grin. âYou like it?â
âY-Yeah,â he breathes, âI mean, scientifically speaking⊠mild pressure to the carotid artery increases blood flow which could theoretically heighten arousal butââ
âYou didnât finish telling me,â you remind him, but math was the furthest thing from his mind.
Spencer thinks, trying to remember where he left off, but nope. All gone. Erased by your hand on his throat and the heat coiling low in his stomach. âI⊠uhâŠâ He swallows hard under your fingers. âI forgot.â
âYou forgot!â You laugh, âOh, no you didnât, you donât forget anything.â
Spencer pouts. âI did! I swear!â he insists, voice high and flustered. âMy brain⊠I canât really⊠recall anything.â
You rub your nose against his affectionately. âAm I making you dizzy, my sweet boy?â
Spencer nods slowly, eyes half-lidded. âYeah. Dizzy⊠and warm⊠and my heartâs going really fast.â It wasnât only the pressure on his throat, or the hand caressing his throbbing cock. It was the way you looked at him, touched him like you wanted to devour him alive in this stupid elevator.
Dizzy wasnât the right word, he was overloaded. But dizzy works.
âYouâre so cute when youâre all spacey,â you whisper.
Spencerâs face scrunches up, embarrassed and deliriously happy. His lips twist into a tiny smile, but he quickly tries to hide it by shyly pressing his face back into her shoulder.
âAm I making you feel good?â
âMmm-hmm,â he hums into your skin.
You glance over your shoulder to see another number lit up on the panel. âUh, ohâŠâ You bite back a smile.
Spencer lifts his head slowly. He doesnât notice the new number lighting up, still lost in his stupid, blissed-out haze. âHuh?â
âWe got a visitor!â
Spencerâs body tightens. He straightens up instantly, panic flashing across his face as his dizzy brain scrambles to come back online. âOh, no,â he frantically smoothes down his shirt and fixes his tie with shaky hands. He combs his hands through his hair and wipes any trace of lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand. He shoots you a wide-eyed look that says what do we do?!
But you are the face of indifference. You detach yourself from his side and turn your back to him, folding your hands in your lap like someone simply riding the elevator while Spencer is still panting and sweating and struggling to not look suspicious at all.
As the doors ding open, Spencer ducks his head down and half-turns his body away to hide the erection straining against his pants from view, while you are all but the picture of inconspicuousness.
A hotel janitor in a blue uniform steps in, pushing a cleaning cart. He nods politely at you, to which you respond with a small, polite smile back, then glances briefly at Spencer.
Spencer keeps his head ducked, shoulders hunched like heâs studying the floor tiles. One hand grips the railing for balance; the other crosses over his lap awkwardly to block his erection from sight.
The janitor presses button 3 and hums quietly to himself. And so, all the way back down you go, slow and quiet. Spencer stays statue-still, like heâs not allowed to breathe too loud. The janitor stands on the other side of the cart, occasionally glancing at his clipboard.
You remain perfectly calm. Not a single nervous twitch.
Every second feels like an eternity to him as they creep back down to floor 3 with this random man who could turn around and see his horribly suspicious posture at any given moment.
The elevator dings as it reaches floor 3. The janitor gathers his cleaning supplies and wheels the cart out without a word, leaving you and Spencer alone again, doors sliding shut behind him.
Spencer exhales like heâs been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. Only then does he finally unclench, shoulders dropping, and look at you with wide, traumatized eyes.
âReally? I mean, really! Th-this is why I said doing⊠that in an elevator was a-a ridiculous idea!â
âDoing what?â You hum as you casually press another floor on the console.
Spencer gapes. âDoing that!â he hisses, waving a hand vaguely at the space between you, where seconds ago you were touching him. âRight before, with th-theâ! And theâ! âŠYou know what I mean!â
You turn around, and Spencerâs protests and complaints simply evaporate when you latch your lips onto his. Spencer makes a soft noise into your mouth and kisses back, clumsy but eager. His hands lift to cradle your face instinctively, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he tilts his head to deepen it.
Your thumb circles around the head of his cock through his pants. Spencer whimpers into the kiss, hips grinding forward slightly to chase the contact. He breaks the kiss for a second to gasp, forehead resting against yours. He breathes your name like a plea.
âWhere were we?â You grin cheekily.
âWe were⊠uhâŠâ He swallows, eyes fixed to your lips. âI think you wereâ you were torturing me.â He leans in to kiss you again like your mouth was magnetic, which you greedily accept.
You laugh softly against his lips, massaging his pulsing cock once again, smoothing your palm over his bulge. âNot gonna stop until you cum for me, okay?â
The thought is terrifying and thrilling at the same time. He whines against your lips, squirming as you massage him through his pants with just enough pressure to drive him insane. âIâI canât⊠I donât wannaââ he stammers between kisses, but his hips betray him by rolling into your touch. âPlease, I-I really donât wanna ruin my underwearâŠâ
But his body isnât listening. Every rub of your hand sends sparks through him, and the coil in his stomach tightens dangerously.
âCâmon, itâd be so cute. I bet youâre all leaky under there anyway.â
Spencer whines, mortified. âI-Iâm not leaky!â
You laugh at his childish protest.
He flushes. âI-I donât⊠leak! I control my bodily functions!â
But then your hand squeezes again, firm this time, and all defensiveness withers as a sharp gasp and a whine escape him.
âBet you wish you could fuck me, huh?â
He nods mindlessly. âMhmm. Yeah, a lot.â
The elevator dings. The doors slide open to reveal a quiet, dimly lit hallway. He recognizes it. Your room is just down the corridor. Spencer stares at it like salvation, then back at you, eyes wide with hope.
But your hand doesnât stop moving. Caressing him, toying with him, rubbing his bulge. You make no move to take the both of you back to your room to have sex properly. No, because itâd be silly of him to think youâd have any interest in proper sex.
Whatâs making his stomach sink, however, is the way youâre not pressing another button. The way youâre letting the heavy elevator doors stay wide open as you touch him, letting all his needy little noises escape into the corridors for any unfortunate passerby to overhear.
Spencerâs voice cracks as he whispers, âH-hey⊠the door⊠itâs openâŠ?â He tugs weakly at your sleeve, eyes wide with nervousness. The hallway is silent now, but anyone could turn the corner. âPeople could, um⊠could see us?â He adds in a tiny, embarrassed squeak. He wants this, desperately, but not like this. Not out in the open where someone might walk by and see him panting, blushing, completely at your mercy.
You simply follow his eyes, glancing at the open door, considering it nonchalantly, then wordlessly return your focus back to him and his dick, much to his frustration.
âP-Please,â he whispers shakily. âCan we⊠go to our room? Just a few steps? Please?â
You sharply pat his cock right where heâs most sensitive, and it sends a jolt through him. âI told you, silly, I wanna play with you here.â
Spencer yelps. His knees buckle. âO-Ow!â It didnât actually hurt, but it stung in that electrifying way that was making his cock throb even harder. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes from overwhelming sensation and your stubborn refusal to move this somewhere private.
Spencer bites his lip, eyes watering. âI-I donât wannaâ I donât wanna cum in my pants⊠please, pleaseâŠâ
Teasing him, you ask, âWhy not?â
Spencer blinks, baffled. âB-BecauseâŠâ he stammers. âItâs messy! Andâ and Iâll have to change my clothes, and we didnât pack extra underwear because we thought this trip would be short andâ andââ He hesitates. âAnd I donâtâ I just donât wanna feel sticky and gross all day!â He whines miserably.
You chuckle, affectionately leaning your head on his shoulder like your hands arenât down there working to make him explode. âBut this cock is mine,â you murmur close to his ear.
He whimpers, tilting his head instinctively to give you better access to his ear. âI-I know⊠I know, I know,â he admits in a tiny voice, defeated but oddly turned on by how easily you claim him. âYeah. Yours. But can I please cum in bed?â
You ignore him. âMine, isnât it? All mine? Mine to play with?â
Spencer nods frantically, eyes fluttering shut. âY-Yours,â he breathes. âAll yours. You canâ you can play with me whenever you want.â The thought of being yours is almost as intoxicating as the physical sensations.
âUh-huh. Then thatâs all you need to worry about.â
Spencer hides his face in your shoulder again, breathing fast and shallow. Itâs terrifying, being exposed like this. But also⊠thrilling. The risk makes every touch feel ten times more intense.
âTell me how good Iâm making you feel, Spencer,â you murmur to him sweetly.
âS-So good,â he whispers against your shirt, voice trembling. âYouâre making me feel so goodâŠâ His face burns with shame and pleasure. âYouâre⊠youâre the best, the best at this⊠I love it, I love you.â His hips seek more friction, rocking up into your touch.
âI love you too, my sweet boy. Are you getting close?â
Spencer nods against you, his breath coming in quick little puffs. âI-I think so⊠really, really close.â
You smile, feeling his tension, his breath picking up pace against your skin. You press a soft kiss to the top of his head before whispering, âThatâs okay. You can cum if you want to.â
He swallows a moan, his body shaking. âI-I can⊠I can cum?â
âUh-huh, you wanna cum for me? Wanna be my good boy and make a mess? Just for me?â
Spencerâs stomach flips. The words are filthy, and so tempting. He wants to, desperately, heâs so near to tipping over the edge. But the thought of actually doing it here and now, exposed and vulnerable, still worries him.
He whines softly. âY-Yeah⊠but Iâm scared.â
âOh, baby,â you coo, âIâve got you, itâs okay.â
Your voice, soft and loving, quells the fear, and for a moment Spencer is lulled into believing you two are in the privacy of your own bedroom. Your hand is perfect, moving with just the right pressure and rhythm.
âFuck, feels really good. Feels really, really good,â he cries pathetically. He moans your name in a plea for mercy. âFuck, I think Iâm gonnaâŠ! Please, please, oh fuck! I think Iâm gonnaââ
Everything tightens. The coil in his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. He clutches your shirt like a lifeline as he stops denying himself and the pleasure crashes over him in sweet waves. A quiet gasp escapes him before he can stop it, and suddenly heâs cumming right there, still fully dressed, pressed flat against you. He moans like a girl into your skin, jaw falling open wide as his release coats the inside of his boxers. You keep working him through his orgasm diligently.
The afterglow hits, warm and floaty. But he can feel it as he pants, coming back down from his high: the horrific wetness against his skin. And when the wire in him fully snaps and he goes slack in your arms, he grimaces.
Spencer is a limp, dazed puddle. Heâs panting, sweaty, and so embarrassed by the mess in his pants. He hides his face further in your shoulder with a tiny groan of humiliation.
You just hum, gently stroking his hair, quite pleased with yourself. You kiss the top of his head sweetly. âItâs okay,â you murmur, soothing. âNobody else booked this floor, anyway.â
Spencer nods weakly against your, still hiding. âOkayâŠâ he pants, voice muffled by fabric. âThatâs⊠thatâs good to know.â
The two of you are silent for a moment as Spencer recovers, the only sound his heavy huffs and the faint hum of the lights beyond the elevator. ââŠDid you like it?â You eventually ask.
Spencer lifts his head slowly, finally meeting your eyes, cheeks still pink. âMm-hm,â he nods shyly. âA lot.â
You smile, letting out a warm chuckle. âGood.â
You press the button to slide the doors closed, giving the two of you a quiet moment in your little bubble before any reality can creep back in again. Holding his warm cheek, you press your lips to Spencerâs.
He quickly leans into your kiss, eyes fluttering shut, melting into you with lingering affection and arousal. When you part again, he sighs contentedly and rests his rests his forehead against yours.
Eventually, he interrupts the peace with a meek voice, âCan I⊠can I please go change my pants?â
You giggle at him and lovingly pat his cheek with a nod.
Word Count: ~19,6K (I know it's quite long, but once I started I couldn't stop.đ«Š)
Setting: Sixth year, during the Triwizard Tournament
CW: discussion of parental abandonment, anxiety around abandonment/attachment, brief mention of a parent leaving a family, a slut-shaming comment (challenged, not dwelt on), a panic-attack-adjacent moment, angst, a few kisses, one shirtless-adjacent scene (nothing explicit), swearing, emotional hurt/comfort, a misunderstanding trope, a brief argument, happy ending.
Summary: Everyone at Hogwarts knows two things: Fred Weasley is hopelessly, publicly, embarrassingly in love with you, and you don't do relationships â only casual, only temporary, only safe. So when you bet him he can't last a month as your boyfriend without losing his patience, you expect an easy win. You've never lost a bet in your life. You didn't expect this one to cost you your heart.
Masterlist here!
Director's note: Maybe some of the days or timeframes of the bet sound incoherent(? I'm not good with numbers and I got a little confused in the middle, but I think it turned out well. Anyway, please think of it as fiction! I loved how this one-shot turned out, and I'm planning a themed series of one-shots with Harry Potter characters. I hope you like it!
Before any of this was a bet, Fred Weasley had been shameless about it for two full years before the bet ever existed.
He wasn't subtle. He never tried to be. He'd corner you in corridors just to tell you your hair looked good, hand you the last treacle tart at dinner before you'd even reached for it, materialize at your elbow in Hogsmeade with some excuse about âjust happening to be going the same wayâ. Half the school had watched him do it so often it had become a kind of background noise to Hogwarts life, like Peeves or the moving staircases â Fred Weasley, hopelessly gone on you, making absolutely no effort to hide it.
"You're doing it again," you told him once, fourth year, when he'd shown up at the library table where you were studying for no reason except that he'd seen you go in.
"Doing what?"
"Following me around like a lost Kneazle."
"I prefer 'devoted.'" He dropped into the chair across from you, propping his chin on his hand, watching you with the kind of open, unembarrassed adoration that should have been unbearable and somehow, infuriatingly, wasn't. "Also I wasn't following you. I was here first."
"You were not."
"Prove it."
You couldn't, because he'd clearly followed you in, and he knew it, and he grinned at you like getting caught was half the fun.
He flirted with other girls, plenty of them, loudly and cheerfully â but it never once looked the same as whatever this was. With other girls it was a performance, easy and weightless, over the second it stopped being fun for either of them. With you it had teeth in it. It meant something, and everyone could see it meant something, including, eventually, the entire castle.
There was an afternoon in fifth year â you never knew about it, not for a long time â when a Slytherin boy named Warrington had made a comment in the corridor outside the Great Hall, loud enough in a malicious tone for a knot of people to hear, about how you'd 'been through half the boys in your year' and ought to charge admission.
Fred had been three feet away, and something in his face went very still and very cold in a way that people who only knew his easy grin rarely saw.
"Say that again," he said, quiet, which was somehow worse than shouting.
Warrington, sensing an audience and stupidly emboldened by it, said something about how he was "just being honest," and Fred stepped in close enough that the corridor went silent around them.
"She can kiss whoever she wants, however many times she wants, and it's worth exactly nothing to you," Fred said. "You don't get a say in what she does with her own life. And if I hear you talk about her again â if I hear you talk about any girl in this castle like that again â you'll wish McGonagall had gotten to you before I did."
He hadn't hexed him o punch him. Hadn't needed to. Warrington had gone pale and muttered something and left, and by the next week the story had made its way quietly through Gryffindor and half of Hufflepuff, and nobody â not once, in all the time since â ever said anything like that about you again where it could be traced back to a source.
You never found out it was Fred. He never told you, never held it over you, never once used it as leverage in all the months that followed. It simply sat there, one more thing he did for you without expecting anything in return, the kind of thing that made George, who had seen it, look at his twin sometimes like he was trying to solve a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
All Hogwarts had opinions about you, and none of them were particularly kind.
It wasn't just that you moved from person to person without apology â that alone might have earned you a raised eyebrow and nothing more. It was that you did it loudly, unapologetically, with a kind of sharp, biting wit that made you genuinely frightening to cross. You'd been known to reduce a seventh-year Slytherin to stammering silence in the middle of the Great Hall over a comment about your skirt length. You'd hexed a boy's eyebrows off in third year for grabbing your wrist too hard on the dance floor, and never once apologized for it, even when a professor docked house points. You picked fights the way other people picked flowers â easily, often, and without much regard for whether it was strategic.
"She's not exactly warm," a Ravenclaw prefect had said once, within earshot of Lee, not realizing â or not caring â that word traveled. "Fun to watch from a distance. Terrifying up close."
It wasn't entirely fair, and it wasn't entirely wrong either. You were sharp. You picked fights with people who deserved it and let the collateral reputation fall where it may, because defending yourself â and, quietly, defending anyone smaller or softer than you â had always felt safer than being soft yourself. Better to be the girl people whispered about than the girl people could hurt.
This was, more or less, why the rest of Gryffindor found Fred's devotion so baffling. It wasn't that you were unlikeable. It was that loving you looked, from the outside, like signing up for a fight you hadn't started.
"You're an idiot, mate," Lee Jordan said, not unkindly, one evening in the common room a few weeks before the bet, watching Fred watch you across the room with an expression Lee had personally seen aimed at nothing but a decent plate of chips before. "She's turned you down, what, four times now? Five?"
"Six," George supplied helpfully, not looking up from his cards. "I'm keeping a tally."
"She called me an insect last week," George added, half delighted, half baffled, "because I asked if she and Fred someday they would go out and she would be my sister-in-law.. An insect, Fred. Unprovoked."
"You deserved it," Fred said, not looking up from his toast. "You'd been needling her for ten minutes."
"That's not the point. The point is most people would be scared off by that. You're just â encouraged."
"She only bites when she's protecting something," Fred said, simply. "Usually herself. Sometimes other people. It's never actually cruelty, George, it just looks like it if you're not paying attention."
"You're never going to wear her down by mooning at her from across a room," Lee tried again.
"I'm not trying to wear her down," Fred said, mildly. "I'm not a bloody millstone."
"Then what are you doing?"
Fred considered the question with more seriousness than either of them expected. "I like her," he said. "Properly like her. Not the version everyone talks about â the reputation, the casual thing. I like that she memorizes people's likes and dislikes and never tells anyone she does it. I like that she reads the same three books over and over because she says knowing how they end is comforting, not boring. I like that she's rude to people who deserve it and unbearably gentle with everyone who doesn't. I like that she pretends she doesn't care what happens to Kettleburn's ridiculous creatures and then sneaks food to the injured ones at two in the morning." He shrugged, entirely unembarrassed. "I'm not chasing an idea of her. I know her. That's the whole point."
Lee and George exchanged a look.
"You've actually got it bad," Lee said.
"Been saying that for two years," George muttered, and dealt another hand.
"Someone should have thought about why she bites first," Fred added, quieter, almost to himself, "since she's spent five years making sure nobody else bothers."
The thing about Fred Weasley was that he never pretended to be subtle about it.
You'd been at the Three Broomsticks for exactly eleven minutes when he abandoned the sixth-year Ravenclaw girl he'd been leaning over â hand braced on the table, grin doing all the work his mouth hadn't gotten around to yet â because you'd walked past the window. Just walked past it. Hadn't even looked in.
He was outside a minute later, coat half-on, cheeks red from the cold or from running, you couldn't tell which.
"You didn't come in," he said, like it was an accusation.
"I wasn't invited."
"You don't need an invitation, you're â " He gestured at you, vaguely, as if the rest of the sentence was self-evident. "You're you."
Behind him, through the frosted window, the Ravenclaw girl was watching with the particular expression of someone recalculating her entire evening.
"Go back inside, Fred."
"Come with me."
"I have somewhere to be."
You didn't. But it was easier than telling him the truth, which was that being anywhere Fred Weasley was for longer than ten minutes had a way of rearranging things in your chest that you'd worked very hard to keep in order.
He caught your wrist â not hard, just enough that you stopped. "One of these days," he said, "you're going to run out of somewhere to be."
"Careful, Weasley. Almost sounded like a threat."
"It was a promise." He let go, stepped back, and the grin came back like it had never left. "See you at the match Saturday? George says Angelina's captaining us to an early grave but I have faith."
"Wouldn't miss it."
You would have missed it, gladly, except that everyone in Hogwarts had come to understand, without ever being told outright, that watching you and Fred Weasley orbit each other without touching was better entertainment than most of what happened on a Quidditch pitch.
It was Angelina who finally said it out loud, three days later, sprawled across your bed with a Chocolate Frog card held up to the candlelight like she was reading tea leaves instead of Dumbledore's face.
"You know he means it. The thing he says. That you're âthe love of his lifeâ."
"He says that to everyone."
"He says charming things to everyone. He says âyou're the love of my lifeâ only to you. There's a difference." She flicked the card onto your blanket. "He turned down Diane Fenwick at the party last week. Mid-flirt. Because you walked by and glanced at him for maybe two seconds."
"I didn't glance."
"You glanced."
"I was looking for the exit."
Angelina gave you a look you'd been on the receiving end of enough times to recognize instantly â patient, a little exasperated, entirely too knowing. "You like him."
"I like a lot of people. Liking people casually is sort of my whole thing."
"Right. Casual." She said the word like she was testing it for weak spots. "Except you've never once been casual about Fred. You've been very deliberately, very determinedly not about Fred, which isn't the same."
You didn't answer that, because there wasn't a good answer that didn't require unpacking things you'd rather leave packed.
It was true, what people said about you â that you didn't do serious. You did fun, you did easy, you did a few weeks of somebody's attention and then a clean, friendly end before anybody got in too deep. It wasn't cruelty. It was maintenance. You'd learned a long time ago that the deeper a thing got, the more of you it could take when it left, and you had exactly one data point on what that looked like, and it had nearly ended your father.
Fred Weasley was not a few-weeks kind of complication. Fred Weasley was the kind of complication that rearranged furniture in a person's life and didn't apologize for the mess.
So you didn't do Fred. You did everyone except Fred, sometimes rather pointedly, and if his ears went a bit red every time he found out about it, that was his business, not yours.
The bet happened almost by accident, the way the worst â or best â decisions usually do.
It was at Katie Bell's birthday, the common room too warm and too loud, and Fred had been telling some story about the twins' latest almost-catastrophe with a swamp-in-a-teabag prototype, gesturing so widely he knocked over someone's drink, and you'd said, half into your own cup, "You'd never survive being someone's boyfriend for longer than a week, you know. You've got the attention span of a niffler."
The common room didn't go silent, exactly. But it definitely leaned in.
Fred set his drink down very deliberately. "I beg your pardon."
"You heard me."
"I could absolutely be someone's boyfriend."
"For a week. Maybe. Before you got bored, or they got bored, or George set something on fire and you forgot the person existed."
"Name a month," Fred said, "and I'll prove you wrong."
"A month?"
"A month. Thirty days. You pick the person, I'll be the perfect, patient, devoted boyfriend, and you'll eat your words."
And this was the part where you should have laughed it off, should have said 'sure, ask Diane, good luck,â should have done anything except what you actually did, which was look at him â really look, the way you tried very hard not to â and hear yourself say:
"Me. I'm the person."
The common room, this time, actually did go quiet.
Fred blinked. "You?"
"Me. One month. You be my boyfriend, properly, no cheating, and if you make it thirty days without losing your patience with me â " you paused, because some reckless, self-destructive part of you had already decided to make this as impossible as you could â "I'll stand up in the Great Hall and tell all of Hogwarts I've fallen hopelessly in love with you."
Somewhere behind you, George choked on a Butterbeer.
Fred didn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "And if I lose my patience even once?"
"Then I get to say I was right, and you never bring it up again."
"Deal." He held out his hand, and when you shook it, his grip was warm and sure and didn't let go half a second longer than it should have. "Thirty days, starting tomorrow."
"You're going to lose."
"Maybe." His eyes were bright, delighted, entirely too pleased with himself. "But I've wanted this for two years, love. I'll take losing on these terms over winning on any other."
You went to bed that night with your heart doing something complicated and refused, absolutely refused, to examine it.
You had a plan, and the plan was simple: be exactly difficult enough, exactly often enough, that Fred's patience â which you privately suspected was more myth than fact â would crack within the week.
Day one, you were forty minutes late to meet him at the lake, on purpose, and arrived to find him lying in the grass reading a Quidditch magazine, entirely unbothered.
"You're late," he said, without looking up.
"I got held up."
"Sure you did." He turned a page. "Sit down, I saved you the good spot, the one without the ant hill."
"I didn't say I was staying."
"You didn't say you weren't, either." He patted the grass beside him, and â this was the maddening thing about Fred â he didn't beg, didn't sulk, didn't make you feel guilty for the lateness. He just waited, easy as anything, like your company was worth the wait and the waiting itself wasn't a hardship.
You sat down. You told yourself it was strategic â better to needle him up close.
That first week you noticed, despite yourself, the small things. The way he always split whatever food he had in half without being asked, sliding the bigger portion toward you and pretending he hadn't. The way his handwriting went looping and careless in his own notes but turned neat, almost careful, on the little scraps of parchment he occasionally left folded on your books â a joke, a doodle, once just the words 'you looked tired at breakfast, sleep well tonightâ â as if the difference in penmanship was his way of saying âthis part is serious, even when I'm not.â
He had a habit, too, of touching the back of his neck when he was nervous, which he almost never was except, you began to realize, around you, in the seconds right after he'd said something that mattered to him and was waiting to see how you'd take it.
You weren't supposed to be cataloguing these things. You did it anyway.
Day four, you flirted, deliberately and obviously, with a Hufflepuff boy in front of him at breakfast, waiting for the flash of jealousy, the crack in his composure. Fred watched for a moment, then turned to George and said, loudly enough for you to hear, "d'you reckon she's trying to make me jealous, or does she actually fancy Wentworth's personality?" and went back to his eggs, apparently unbothered, though you noticed â you always noticed, damn it â that his knuckles had gone white around his fork.
He found you after breakfast anyway. Not angry. Just there, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened, and he'd slipped his own scarf around your neck without asking, because you'd complained about the corridor draft the day before and he'd apparently filed it away like everything else.
"You're not going to ask about Wentworth?"
"Do I need to?"
"Maybe I like him."
"Maybe you do." Fred shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Doesn't change my thirty days. I'm not trying to win you by being the only option, love. I'm trying to win you because I'm the best one."
You had absolutely no response to that, so you didn't give him one, and he seemed content to let the silence sit between you all the way to Transfiguration, his sleeve brushing yours the whole walk, never quite closing the last inch of distance unless you closed it first.
It happened in the middle of the Great Hall, at lunch, with absolutely no warning and no discernible reason, sometime around day ten.
Fred stood up from the Gryffindor table, climbed â actually climbed, one boot on the bench, one on the table itself, ignoring the way plates rattled and pumpkin juice sloshed dangerously close to the edge â and cleared his throat with the exaggerated gravity of a man about to deliver a State of the Union address.
"Fred," you hissed, already feeling your face heat up. "What are you doing."
"Attention, Hogwarts!" he announced, arms spread wide, entirely unbothered by the two hundred faces now turning toward him. "I would like it formally recorded that I am, as of this moment, the luckiest man in this castle, possibly this country, arguably this hemisphere."
"Fred, get down â "
"I am dating," he continued, undeterred, gesturing grandly at you like you were a prize being unveiled at a fair, "the cleverest, funniest, most terrifyingly competent witch in our year, who has, against all odds and several of her own better instincts, agreed to put up with me for thirty days! I would like everyone here to know that I do not, in any way, take this for granted."
Someone at the Hufflepuff table actually started clapping. McGonagall, three seats down at the staff table, had pressed two fingers to her temple in the specific way she did when deciding whether a rule violation was worth the paperwork.
"You're an idiot," you said, hiding your face in your hands, mortified down to your toes, while half the hall laughed and George banged appreciatively on the table.
"A very devoted idiot," Fred corrected, hopping down at last, landing with a flourish, entirely pleased with himself. "Ten points from Gryffindor, probably, but worth it."
He was right. McGonagall docked exactly ten points on his way out of the Hall, muttering something about theatrics under her breath, and Fred didn't look remotely sorry about any of it â grinning at you the whole walk to class, utterly without shame, while you buried your burning face in his shoulder and told him, with zero real conviction, that you were never speaking to him again.
You forgave him by dinner. You suspected he'd known you would would before he even climbed onto the table.
One evening that same week, George cornered his brother by the fire while you were off at something, and asked, half-teasing, half-genuinely baffled, the question that had apparently been bothering both him and Lee for a while now.
"Why do you keep at it? She's said no more times than I can count. Most blokes would've called it after the third."
Fred didn't even look up from the essay he wasn't really writing. "Because she's not actually saying no to me. She's saying no to the version of this that scares her." He tapped his quill against the parchment, thinking. "You know she's got the entire Hogwarts kitchen staff's names memorized? Talks to every one of them like they matter, because to her they do. You know she reorganizes her whole schedule during exam week just to sit with first-years who are panicking, doesn't tell anyone she does it, would be mortified if I brought it up to her face. She picks fights with people who bully smaller kids and never once mentions it afterward like it's something worth being proud of, even though it obviously is."
"That's â a lot of very specific detail, mate."
"I pay attention." Fred finally looked up, and there was nothing performative left in his face at all. "Everyone sees the version of her that flirts and moves on and doesn't stick around. I see the rest of it. The part she doesn't let people see because she thinks it'll get used against her eventually." He shrugged. "I'm not chasing someone who doesn't exist. I know exactly who she is. That's rather the whole problem â once you know, you can't really unknow it."
George didn't have anything to say to that, for once, and simply reached over and clapped his brother on the shoulder instead.
Day twelve, you told him, flatly, over a shared table in the library, that you thought this whole thing was stupid and he should give up now and save you both the trouble.
Fred looked up from his essay, and for once there was no grin, no performance. "Why do you want me to give up?"
"Because you're wasting a month on something that isn't going to end how you want."
"That's my risk to take."
"It's not just your risk. It's mine too, and I don't â " You stopped yourself, aware you'd said more than you meant to.
"You don't what?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
He didn't push. That was the thing about Fred that you hadn't accounted for, hadn't built into your plan at all â you'd expected loudness, persistence that grated, the kind of pressure that would make walking away easy. Instead he gave you room. He noticed when you needed the room and he gave it to you without making a production of it, and somehow that was so much harder to resist than anything else could have been.
It was that same evening, walking back from the library, that he asked, apropos of nothing, "What's your favorite flower?"
"Why do you want to know that?"
"Because I don't know it yet, and I'd like to."
You considered lying, just to be difficult, and then didn't, mostly because the question had caught you off guard enough that the honest answer came out before you'd thought better of it. "Lilies."
"Yeah? Any particular reason?"
"They're the only thing that ever grew properly in the garden at home. My dad planted them the year my mum left, said the garden needed something that would keep coming back even if nobody remembered to look after it. They just do it on their own." You shrugged, embarrassed at how much you'd said. "I don't know. I like that about them."
Fred didn't say anything clever back, for once. He just nodded, filed it away the way he filed everything else, and didn't bring it up again for weeks â not until much later, when he mentioned to Hermione in passing that he wanted to get you lilies for your birthday, and Hermione, delighted and a little smug, informed him that in the old language of flowers, lilies carried a particular meaning: I dare you to love me.
Fred laughed for a solid minute once she told him, half disbelieving, entirely charmed, because of course â of course â the flower you loved without knowing anything about its meaning turned out to be exactly, precisely the dare the two of you were already living inside.
Whatever else you wanted to say about Fred Weasley, this much was true and had always been true, long before the bet: he noticed people. Not in the loud, performative way he flirted â that was for show, mostly, harmless and a little silly â but underneath it, quieter, he actually saw people.
He'd seen you, once, crouched by a first year's trunk in the corridor outside Gryffindor tower, helping a small, frightened boy repack the mess of robes and books he'd spilled everywhere after some older student shoved past him too fast. You hadn't known Fred was there until you stood up and found him leaning against the wall, watching, something unreadable in his face.
He'd seen you with Ginny, too â hadn't said anything at the time, hadn't needed to, but he knew you'd sat with his little sister the night of her first period, scared and embarrassed and not wanting to bother Molly over the holidays, and that you'd talked her through it with the kind of steady, unbothered warmth that made a terrifying thing feel ordinary. Ginny had told him, eventually, in the offhand way siblings share things, and Fred had filed it away like he filed away everything about you â evidence, slowly accumulating, of the person underneath the reputation.
He'd seen you be kind to professors, too, the ones the students mostly ignored or mocked behind their backs â Professor Kettleburn, half-forgotten by the current wave of Care of Magical Creatures students, and you always stayed a few minutes after class to ask him something, anything, because you couldn't stand the idea of someone feeling invisible in their own castle.
None of that was casual. None of it fit the story Hogwarts told about you, the story you told about yourself. Fred had known, for two years, that the girl everyone thought was allergic to seriousness was in fact one of the most quietly serious people he'd ever met â she simply reserved it for everyone except herself.
He didn't say any of this to you. Not yet. But it was why, when you tried to provoke him, tried to be difficult and prickly and impossible, he never quite managed to be as frustrated as you wanted him to be. He wasn't fighting the version of you that you were trying to perform. He was fighting for the version he'd already seen.
What you didn't expect â what genuinely surprised you, somewhere around the second week â was how much you had started noticing about him.
You noticed that he was left-handed but wrote with his right because a teacher had corrected him as a child and he'd never bothered to switch back, and that when he was truly exhausted, past the point of performing anything for anyone, his handwriting would slip back to the left without him seeming to realize it.
You noticed the small scar above his eyebrow that he'd gotten from a garden gnome incident at age nine, which he told you about with such delighted, self-deprecating detail that you'd laughed until your ribs hurt.
You noticed that he hummed under his breath when he was concentrating on something fiddly â usually a prototype for one of the twins' inventions â and that the humming stopped entirely the second he thought someone was watching, like he was embarrassed by a habit that was, in fact, one of the more endearing things about him.
You noticed that he always let George take credit for the funnier of their jokes in front of teachers, quietly stepping back so his twin could have the moment, and that he never once seemed to mind.
You noticed the way his ears went pink before the rest of his face did, every single time, a full half-second warning system for whatever he was about to say.
None of this was information you had gone looking for. It had simply accumulated, the way sand collects in the folds of a coat without anyone noticing they've been to the beach, and by the time you realized how much you knew about Fred Weasley that had nothing to do with his reputation, it was already far, far too late to pretend you hadn't been paying attention.
It happened on day sixteen, in a mostly empty corridor after dinner, torchlight throwing long shadows, and you weren't entirely sure afterward which of you moved first.
You'd been arguing â not seriously, the kind of argument that was mostly banter with teeth â about whether he'd cheated by having George slip you compliments on his behalfâhe hadn't, George had done it entirely of his own accord, delighted by the whole arrangementâ, and somewhere in the middle of your sentence Fred had simply stepped closer and kissed you.
It was not a gentle, testing kiss. It was two years of 'almost finallyâ allowed to happen, and for several long seconds you kissed him back like you meant it, like your hands hadn't fisted in his shirt entirely on their own, like this was easy, like this was nothing.
Then you pulled back, breathing unsteady, and said the cruelest thing you could find fast enough to reach for:
"I've kissed better than you, Weasley. You're not the first, and you won't be the one who makes me fall for anyone."
You watched it land. Watched something flicker across his face â hurt, quick and real, before he shuttered it.
"Alright," he said, quietly.
"Alright?"
"You're allowed to say that. Doesn't mean I believe it." He tucked his hands in his pockets, and there was none of the usual performance in his voice, just something steadier and sadder. "But you don't kiss someone like that if you're trying to convince them you don't feel anything. You might want to work on your delivery."
He walked away before you could answer, and you stood alone in the corridor for a long time, furious at him for being right and furious at yourself for kissing him like you meant it, because you had.
The next Quidditch match fell three days later, Gryffindor against Ravenclaw, and Fred found you at breakfast that morning with a piece of chalk-paint and an expression far too pleased with itself.
"You're coming to watch."
"I always come to watch."
"You're coming to watch as my girlfriend, which means you're required, by ancient and binding tradition, to wear my number." He was already reaching for your cheek before you'd agreed to anything, carefully painting a small, crooked 5 just below your cheekbone, tongue between his teeth in concentration like it was the most important spellwork he'd ever attempted.
"This is ridiculous."
"This is tradition." He leaned back to inspect his work, grinning. "There. Perfect. Now everyone in the stands will know exactly who you're cheering for."
"I could cheer for you without face paint, Fred."
"You could. But this is more fun." He kissed the corner of your mouth, quick, easy, like it cost him nothing at all to be that soft with you in front of half the Gryffindor table, and jogged off toward the pitch before you could tell him to stop grinning like an idiot.
You cheered loudest for him that match, whether you meant to or not, and when he help to scored â showing off, clearly, doing an entirely unnecessary loop before landing â he looked straight up into the stands and found your face in the crowd like he'd known exactly where to look the whole time.
The invitation came two days before the holidays, delivered with the kind of casualness Fred clearly hoped would disguise how much he wanted you to say yes.
"Mum's doing Christmas at ours. Everyone'll be there. You should come."
"Fred, we're in the middle of a bet. I don't think 'meet the family' is part of the terms."
"It's not a term. It's an invitation." He shrugged, but his ears had gone slightly pink, the way they did when he was hoping harder than he wanted to admit. "You don't have to. But I'd like you there. And Ginny's been asking, and Mum already knows about you â "
"Your mum knows about me?"
"Ginny wrote her a very detailed letter. I had no editorial control." He grinned, but it softened almost immediately. "Come. Please."
You went. You told yourself it was for the sake of the bet, optics, keeping up appearances â you did not tell yourself the truth, which was that some small, starved part of you wanted, badly, to know what it felt like to be somewhere a family actually wanted you.
The Burrow was chaos in the best way you'd ever seen it â crooked, warm, impossibly full of noise and love in a way that made your chest ache before you'd even taken your coat off. Molly Weasley hugged you like she'd known you for years, pulled you into the kitchen, put a mug of something hot in your hands before you'd said a full sentence, and asked about your classes with a warmth so unguarded it nearly undid you on the spot.
"Fred talks about you constantly," Molly said, conspiratorially, stirring something on the stove. "Has done for ages. I was starting to think we'd never actually meet you."
"He's â persistent."
"He's smitten, dear, there's a difference, and don't let him tell you otherwise." Molly's eyes crinkled with quiet amusement, and then, gentler: "You look tired. Not sleep-tired. The other kind."
You hadn't expected to be seen that clearly, that fast, by someone you'd known for twenty minutes, and it knocked something loose in you that you weren't prepared for.
"I'm alright."
"You don't have to be, in this house. Whatever you're carrying, you can put it down here a while." Molly patted your hand once, brisk and warm, and went back to her stirring like she hadn't just cracked something open in your chest with a sentence.
The days passed, the afternoon turned bright and cold, and the whole yard behind the Burrow dissolved into an impromptu game â some chaotic Weasley variant of tag crossed with a made-up Quidditch drill, played entirely on foot because Ron insisted his broom needed ârepairsâ that suspiciously coincided with him being terrible at flying that week. Ginny recruited you onto her team without asking, on the grounds that you âlooked fast,â and George immediately declared this an outrage and demanded a trade.
Fred ended up on the opposite team, which meant the entire game rapidly stopped being about the actual rules and became almost exclusively about the two of you trying to tackle each other into the frost-hardened grass, laughing too hard to actually catch anyone properly.
"That's cheating," you shouted, when he scooped you clean off your feet to stop you scoring past him, spinning you half around before setting you down, both of you breathless and pink-cheeked from the cold.
"Everything's fair in love and backyard Quidditch."
"You made that up just now."
"Doesn't make it less true." He was grinning at you in a way that had nothing performative left in it at all, snow-dusted and delighted, and for one unguarded moment you grinned back just as helplessly, forgetting, entirely, that this had ever started as a bet.
From the kitchen window, Molly and Arthur stood side by side, drying dishes that had long since stopped needing drying, watching the two of you chase each other across the yard.
"She's laughing," Molly said, quietly, like it mattered. "Really laughing. Have you seen her do that before?"
Arthur shook his head, smiling. "Not like that." He nudged his wife gently. "Reminds me of someone else I used to watch through a window, actually."
Molly swatted him with the dish towel, but she was still smiling when she turned back to the glass.
Dinner that night was loud and enormous, plates passed hand to hand faster than anyone could track, Fred's knee pressed warm against yours under the table the entire meal, and it was somewhere in the middle of the noise and the warmth and the sheer, overwhelming muchness of the Weasley family that it slipped out of you before you'd caught it.
"Could you pass the potatoes, Mum?"
The table didn't go silent all at once. It went silent in pieces, the way a held breath does, Ron's fork stopping halfway to his mouth, Ginny's eyes going wide, George actually turning to look at you properly for the first time all dinner.
You heard it a half-second after you'd said it, the word sitting in the air long after it left your mouth, and your face went hot with a mortification so total it felt like drowning.
"I â sorry, I didn't â " Your chair scraped back before you'd finished the sentence. "Excuse me."
You were up the stairs before anyone could stop you, into the first empty room you found, door shut, back against it, hands pressed to your burning face, humiliation crashing over you in waves you couldn't seem to get ahead of.
Hermione found you there less than a minute later â she'd been at the table too, had followed without a word, and simply sat down on the floor beside you without asking permission or offering platitudes.
"That was mortifying," you said, voice thick.
"It was an accident. Nobody thought anything of it."
"Everybody thought something of it, Hermione, I just called Molly Weasley âMumâ in front of her entire actual family and Fred and â " Your voice cracked. "I don't even know where that came from. I don't call anyone that. I haven't had anyone to call that in five years."
"Maybe that's exactly where it came from," Hermione said, gently. "You've been sitting in a house that feels like what you didn't get to have. It doesn't mean anything's wrong with you. It means you noticed something you needed."
You didn't have an answer to that, and Hermione, wisely, didn't push for one, just sat with you on the floor until your breathing evened out.
It was Fred who came up eventually, knocking once before letting himself in, dropping onto the floor across from you with the specific, careful casualness of someone who'd clearly rehearsed several serious speeches on the stairs and decided, at the last second, against every single one of them.
"So," he said. "Word around the house is you've adopted my mother."
You groaned into your hands. "Fred."
"I'm only saying, if this keeps up you'll technically outrank me. Mum's had five sons and a daughter, and you managed it in one dinner. Efficient, really."
"I want to disappear."
"Don't. I like you visible." He nudged your knee with his. "For what it's worth, Mum nearly cried into the gravy boat after you left the table. Good tears. She's been saying for weeks she hoped you'd feel comfortable enough here to slip up exactly like that."
You peeked at him through your fingers. "You're not going to let me be embarrassed about this in peace, are you."
"Not a chance. It's far too good material." But his voice had gone soft underneath the teasing, and he reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that didn't match the joking at all. "You didn't do anything wrong. You just felt safe somewhere for a second and it came out sideways. That's not something to apologize for, love. That's just a house doing its job."
You let yourself laugh, finally, shaky and real, and let him pull you up off the floor and back down to a dinner that had, mercifully, moved on to arguing about dessert by the time you returned.
Later that night, unable to sleep, you found Fred out by the garden fence, staring up at a sky far too full of stars for anywhere near a city, and settled beside him without a word.
"Can I tell you something nobody outside my family knows?" he asked, after a while, voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him.
"Of course."
"George and I want to open a joke shop. A real one â Diagon Alley, our own name on the door, everything we've ever built and tested finally getting sold properly instead of confiscated by Filch." He picked at the fence post, not quite meeting your eyes. "Mum thinks it's a phase. Dad's supportive but worried, because it's not exactly a stable career, is it, and everyone assumes we'll end up doing something safer eventually because that's what's expected." He exhaled. "We've got savings hidden away. Not much. Enough to start, maybe, someday, if we're careful and lucky. But I don't really tell people that part, the plan, because it's â it's the thing I actually want, underneath all the jokes, and it feels like it'd hurt more than usual if someone laughed at it."
"I'm not going to laugh at it."
"I know. That's rather why I told you." He glanced over, something unguarded and slightly nervous in his face â the same look you'd catalogued weeks ago, right before he said something that mattered. "You're one of maybe four people who know that's real and not just a running joke with George."
"For what it's worth," you said, quietly, "I think it's a brilliant idea. And I think you'll actually do it. You're the most relentlessly clever person I've ever met, when you're not busy being an idiot about girls."
"Only one girl," Fred said, "and she's sitting right here," and you let him take your hand in the dark without pulling away, both of you quiet for a long time after that, comfortable in a way that had nothing to do with a bet at all.
"My mum left," you said, eventually, into the dark. "When I was eleven. Told my dad she couldn't do it anymore â couldn't do me anymore, said living with us would kill her. She wasn't wrong to leave, probably. But she made it sound like I was the reason staying wasn't possible."
Fred didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "That's not love talking. That's her limits talking. Those aren't the same thing, even if it felt like they were."
"You don't know that."
"I know you helped a terrified eleven-year-old with her first period because you didn't want her to feel alone with something scary. I know you sit with Kettleburn because you can't stand the idea of him feeling forgotten. I know you shoved half your dinner at a first year last week because his trunk got trampled and he looked like he hadn't eaten." He looked at you, steady, unflinching. "You are not difficult to love. You're just used to people who weren't equipped to try."
You didn't have an answer for that. You let him keep the silence with you instead, and for the first time in longer than you could remember, the quiet didn't feel like something you had to fill or flee.
You wrote to your father that week, from the Burrow's kitchen table while Molly hummed over the stove, and found yourself telling him more than you'd meant to â about the noise and the warmth of the house, about Fred, about the word that had slipped out at dinner and the shame that had followed it.
His answer came back three days later, his familiar cramped handwriting filling both sides of the parchment.
'You don't have to feel guilty for wanting a full table, love. I've watched you build yourself into someone who doesn't need anyone, these last five years, and I've let you, because I didn't know how to teach you otherwise while I was busy learning it myself. But your mother leaving wasn't a rule about what happens to people who let themselves be loved. It was one woman's limit, not a law of the universe. I've thought that every day since, and I should have said it to you sooner. If this Weasley boy makes you feel like a full table is possible again, don't apologize for it. Let yourself have it. We're a good team, you and I, always have been â but a team of two was never meant to be the whole shape of your life."
You read it twice, sitting very still at the Weasleys' kitchen table, and folded it carefully into your pocket instead of your trunk, where you could find it easily whenever you needed to.
Back at Hogwarts after the holidays, the little things kept accumulating, on both sides, in a way neither of you commented on directly.
Fred gave you his jumper without being asked, the first properly cold morning back, sliding it over your head before you'd finished complaining about the temperature in the corridor, sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. He saved you breakfast on the mornings you slept through your alarm, wrapped in a napkin and left on your usual seat with a scrawled note 'eat something,â before he'd gone to Quidditch practice. He fixed your hair without thinking about it, tucking a strand behind your ear mid-conversation the way you'd catalogued him doing for weeks, an absent, easy gesture that had nothing showy in it at all.
You, in turn, had started doing things you didn't fully notice yourself doing until Angelina pointed it out over lunch one day.
"You've been carrying an extra quill in your bag for two weeks."
"So?"
"Fred's quills keep exploding because George keeps testing prototypes on them. You've been quietly replacing his without him asking." Angelina raised an eyebrow. "You also started reminding him to eat when he skips lunch because he's too deep in some invention to notice he's hungry."
"I haven't â " You stopped, because you had, actually, done all of those things, without deciding to, the way you'd apparently decided things about Fred a long time before you'd agreed to admit it.
"You're taking care of him," Angelina said, not unkindly. "You've just been doing it so quietly you didn't clock it as anything."
You didn't have a response to that, mostly because it was true, and because some part of you had apparently started treating Fred's wellbeing as something worth quietly managing long before you'd agreed this was anything more than a bet.
There were other things, too, that you only noticed because you were looking for reasons to stop noticing him, and kept finding the opposite.
You once braced for him to say something petty about a boy you'd dated briefly the year before. Instead Fred just shrugged. "He seemed alright. Didn't work out, clearly, but I've no interest in trashing someone just to make myself look better by comparison. Not really my style."
When Angelina needed to talk to you privately during a Hogsmeade trip, Fred didn't sulk about being excluded or ask what it was about. He simply said, "Take your time, I'll get us a table," and did exactly that, without a single pointed question when you returned.
He'd shout compliments across the Great Hall without a shred of embarrassment, but the second you were alone and something had actually gone wrong â a bad grade, an argument, a bad day â his teasing dropped instantly, replaced by something quieter and far more careful, like he understood the difference between performance and the moments that actually mattered.
None of it was dramatic. All of it, taken together, was somehow harder to argue with than any grand gesture could have been.
It hit you at the most ordinary moment â Fred's hand laced through yours at breakfast, nothing dramatic, nothing new â and still your chest went tight and your pulse spiked and some old animal part of your brain screamed this is too much, this is too close, this is exactly the kind of thing that gets taken away.
You excused yourself before anyone noticed, made it to an empty corridor, and stood there with your back against cold stone, breathing hard, furious at your own body for betraying you over something as small as a held hand.
Fred found you five minutes later â you hadn't heard him follow, hadn't wanted him to â and didn't touch you, didn't crowd you, just stood a careful few feet away.
"You don't have to tell me what that was," he said quietly. "But I'm not going anywhere, whatever it was. Take whatever time you need."
"I don't understand why this is so hard," you admitted, voice cracking. "It's just a hand. It's nothing. Why does nothing feel like everything with you?"
"Because it isn't nothing to you," Fred said gently. "It hasn't been nothing in a long time. That's allowed to be frightening. It doesn't mean you're broken for finding it hard."
He didn't bring it up again after that â no careful check-ins over breakfast, no meaningful looks â just quiet, steady normalcy that let you decide, on your own timeline, whenever you wanted to explain it further. You didn't, not for a while. He never once made you feel like you owed him the explanation sooner.
The closer you got to the end of the bet, the less it felt like a bet and the more it felt like something... natural, something that was always meant to be.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday, late, the common room fire burned down to embers, most of Gryffindor tower gone up to bed. You'd been curled against Fred's side on the sofa, half-listening to him and George argue happily about a Filibuster firework variant, and at some point, without deciding to, you'd simply fallen asleep against his shoulder.
Fred noticed the exact moment it happened â your breathing evening out, the weight of you settling fully against him â and went very, very still, like any movement might undo it.
"Oi, don't wake her," he hissed, when Lee came thundering down the stairs a few minutes later with some story that clearly required a loud audience.
Lee stopped dead, took in the sight of you asleep against Fred, and grinned slowly. "Oh, this is precious."
"Lee, I will hex you."
"Wouldn't dream of waking her." Lee lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper, which somehow drew more attention than his normal volume would have, and George, delighted, immediately shushed the common room with the enthusiasm of someone orchestrating a very important event.
"Everyone quiet, Fred's got a girl asleep on him and he looks like Christmas came early."
"I hate all of you," Fred whispered, and did not move an inch, one arm curled carefully around you, expression so unguardedly happy that Angelina â arriving from the girls' dormitory, hand in George's the second she reached the bottom step, since the two of them had gotten together earlier that term â actually laughed out loud at the sight of him.
"Someone get a camera," she said. "This is going in a frame."
Someone did, in fact, get a camera â Colin Creevey, roused from his dormitory by the commotion and thrilled beyond measure to be included â and the photograph that resulted, developed and delivered the next morning, showed you fast asleep against Fred's shoulder, his arm around you, his face turned slightly toward you instead of the camera, wearing an expression of such uncomplicated happiness that even you, seeing it for the first time, felt something in your chest go soft and unguarded.
Fred kept that photograph in his trunk for the rest of the year, tucked inside the cover of his Charms textbook where nobody but him would think to look.
You woke an hour later, disoriented, to find the common room mostly empty and Fred still exactly where he'd been, patient, unmoving, one hand resting loosely against your hair.
"You didn't wake me up."
"Didn't want to." He smiled, soft in the low firelight. "You looked like you needed it. Figured Lee's shouting could happen literally anywhere else in the castle."
"How long was I out?"
"Hour, give or take. George took a photo. Fair warning, it's going to end up somewhere embarrassing eventually."
You should have minded that. You found, somewhat alarmingly, that you didn't.
All that new familiarity, this affection, awakened something in you had come loose and frightened, and you did what you always did when things got too real too fast: you reached for the one language you trusted completely.
You sent Fred a note â the password to the prefects' bathroom, a time, nothing else. He arrived to find candles floating over water gone opal-soft with bubbles, and you, waiting, dropping your robe with a steadiness you didn't feel, offering him exactly the kind of easy, physical, uncomplicated thing you knew how to give without breaking.
Fred didn't move toward you. He looked, for one unguarded second, and then very deliberately looked away, reaching for a towel and holding it out instead.
"Put this on."
"Fred â "
"I'm not doing this." His voice was gentle, but there was no give in it. "Not like this. Not because you got scared and this is easier than talking about it."
Something in you flared, humiliated. "I'm offering you exactly what you've wanted for two years and you're turning it down?"
"I've wanted you. All of you. Not the part you hand out easy so the rest stays safe." He kept his eyes carefully, deliberately on your face, patient even now, even with you furious and half-dressed and lashing out. "If we do this â when we do this â it's going to be because you want me, not because you're trying to prove something's still simple between us. That's not a punishment. That's just â that's what I want it to mean, when it happens."
"You're an idiot," you said, voice thick.
"Probably. Ask George." He held the towel a little further out. "Get dressed. I'll wait outside. We can still talk, if you want to."
You didn't talk that night. But you didn't send him away either, and something about the walk back to the common room in silence, his hand loosely, carefully not-quite-touching yours the whole way, felt like the first honest thing that had passed between you in weeks.
It happened on day twenty-four, and it was, in retrospect, almost funny how small the argument actually was.
Fred had made plans â dinner, just the two of you, sneaked down to the kitchens with help from a very smug house-elf â and you'd cancelled at the last minute with a flimsy excuseâJust because your self-destructive side was faster than your new feelingsâ, then been caught twenty minutes later by George, laughing easily with a Ravenclaw boy in the library, clearly not otherwise occupied at all.
Fred found you afterward, jaw tight, some of the easy warmth gone out of his face entirely.
"You lied to me."
"I didn't lie, I just â didn't feel like dinner."
"You didn't feel like dinner with me, so you made something up instead of just saying so." His voice had an edge to it you'd never heard directed at you before, frustration finally breaking through weeks of careful patience. "Do you know how that looks? I planned something, I told the elves, I was excited, and you couldn't even be bothered to tell me the truth instead of making something up."
"I didn't think it mattered that much â "
"It mattered to me!" It came out louder than he meant it to, echoing slightly in the empty corridor, and you both went still, startled by it. Fred's hands had curled into fists at his sides, and for one long, terrible second you thought, with something like grim vindication, 'there it is. There's the crack. He's finally doneâ.
Then you watched him catch himself. Watched him take a breath, visibly, deliberately, and unclench his hands one finger at a time.
"I need a minute," he said, quieter now, strained but controlled. "I'm not â I don't want to say something I can't take back. Give me a minute."
He walked a short distance away, back to you, shoulders tight, and you stood there in the sudden quiet feeling something you hadn't expected to feel at all: not triumph, but a strange, unfamiliar guilt.
When he turned back around, a minute or two later, his voice was steadier, though his eyes were still bright with the leftover heat of it.
"That hurt," he said, simply. "I'm not going to pretend it didn't. You lied to me over something small, and it stung more than something small should, because I keep hoping you'll trust me enough not to need to." He exhaled. "But I'm not giving up on you. Not over this, not over one bad night. I got frustrated, and I'm allowed to get frustrated, and I'm telling you honestly instead of swallowing it â but that's different from losing patience with you. I haven't. I'm still here."
"I thought you'd bolt," you admitted, quiet, thrown by your own honesty. "I thought that was it. I thought I'd finally found the thing that would make you stop."
"I'm not your mother," Fred said, gently, echoing Hermione's words from weeks before without knowing it. "Getting annoyed isn't the same as leaving. I'm allowed to be human about this without it meaning I'm done with you."
You reached for his hand, and this time it was you who didn't let go first. "I'm sorry, i-i get scaredâŠagain.That wasn't fair, what I did,"
"No," he agreed. "It wasn't. But I forgive you, and I'd still rather have dinner with you tomorrow than not have you at all." He squeezed your hand once. "Next time, just tell me the truth. Even if the truth is you'd rather have a night alone. I can handle that far better than I can handle being lied to."
The habit didn't stay confined to Fred, and it hadn't started with him, either â which was, in its own strange way, some comfort a few days later, when Hermione was the one who felt the edge of it.
You picked the fight with her over something so small you could barely remember it afterward â a comment about a shared essay, a joke that landed wrong â and escalated it far past where it needed to go, voice sharp, words chosen precisely because you knew they'd sting.
Hermione didn't yell back. She just went quiet, hurt clear on her face, and said, "Why are you doing this? I didn't do anything to deserve that."
The question landed like a slap, mostly because you didn't have a good answer. You apologized within the hour, mortified, but the pattern was old enough that Hermione recognized it before you did.
"You do this when you're scared," she said later, gently, no accusation in it. "You did it to Fred a lot of times. You're doing it to me now. It's like you need to test whether people will still want you around after you've been at your worst â and it's exhausting for the people on the other end, even when they understand why."
"I'm not trying to hurt you."
"I know. But you are, a little, and I'd rather you just told me you were scared instead."
It happened again later, worse, with Fred himself, though this time you knew exactly what you were doing even as you did it.
You told him, unprompted, that you thought the entire relationship had been a mistake, that you'd been counting down the days until you could stop pretending.
It wasn't true. You knew it wasn't true the second it left your mouth. But some old, frightened part of you needed to see what his face did when you said it â needed, badly, to catch him in the act of finally, finally giving up on you, so you could point at it and say see, âI told you soâ and never have to risk this again.
Fred went very still. Then, quietly: "That's not what you actually think."
"How would you know?"
"Because you've been leaving me notes in my Charms book and you cried actual tears telling me about your mom and your dad and you fell asleep against my shoulder in the common room like it was the safest place you'd been in years. People who think something's a mistake don't do any of that." He wasn't angry, just steady, watching you with something that looked uncomfortably like understanding. "You're trying to make me leave first so it doesn't feel like your fault when it happens. I'm not going to do that for you."
You didn't have an answer. You went to bed that night furious at yourself, and it was Hermione, again, who found you crying about it afterward, who said nothing except I know and let you sit with the shame of it until it passed.
The letter had been sitting under your pillow for eleven days.
It was from your half-brother â a name you'd known about only distantly, a fact more than a person, the son your mother had gone on to have after she left, at a school in the north with a name that sounded cold even to say. He'd written to you out of nowhere, careful, hesitant handwriting, saying he'd like to meet you, if you'd be willing. He didn't mention your mother beyond a single line: âshe's not really part of my life either, not the way you'd thinkâ.
You hadn't answered. You weren't sure you could.
Hermione was the one who finally asked about it directly, catching sight of the parchment corner poking from your bag. "Are you going to write back?"
"I don't know what I'd even say."
"You don't have to know everything before you start. You could just say hello."
"He's got the same mother who thought staying with us would kill her. What if he's â what if there's something about the way she raised him that means he'll leave too, eventually, the second I'm inconvenient?"
"Or," Hermione said, carefully, "he's a kid who never got a sister and is trying, awkwardly, to have one. That doesn't mean he inherited anything except her handwriting."
You looked at the letter a long time that night before you finally wrote back â three sentences, tentative, an agreement to meet during the Tournament, when the delegations were all at the castle together. It felt like the bravest thing you'd done in years, and also the smallest.
By the last days of the bet, something had settled between you that no longer felt like performance at all.
You'd started sitting together at breakfast without any prompting, your hand finding his under the table as easily as breathing. He walked you to class even when it took him wildly out of his way. You'd started leaving your own notes back, tucked into his books â nothing profound, sometimes just âgood luck in practiceâ or a badly drawn picture of George's face â and he kept every single one.
"Twenty-eight days," Fred said one evening, lying beside you in the grass by the lake, fingers laced loosely through yours. "Two to go."
"Feels strange, doesn't it. Counting down to the end of something."
"Doesn't have to be the end of anything." He turned his head to look at you, something hopeful and a little nervous in his face, the look you'd catalogued weeks ago. "I know how this started. But it doesn't have to stop just because the thirty days run out. I'd rather this kept going. Properly. No bet attached to it at all."
"I know," you said, and found, to your own quiet astonishment, that you meant it entirely. "I'd like that too."
He kissed you then, slow and unhurried, nothing like the first kiss weeks before that you'd tried so hard to undercut with a cruel joke. This one you didn't pull away from. This one you leaned into, both hands fisted gently in his shirt, and when you finally broke apart he rested his forehead against yours, breathing uneven, smiling in the dark.
"Two more days," he murmured.
"Two more days," you agreed, and let yourself, for the first time in five years, imagine what came after without flinching from it.
Your brother's name was Kirill, and he was younger than you by two years, gangly and awkward in his Durmstrang uniform, with your mother's eyes and none of her coldness that you could find, not yet, not in the hour you spent with him in a quiet alcove near the courtyard.
He talked too fast, nervous, told you about his father â not yours, a stepfather who'd never quite warmed to him â about a mother who was, in his words, âaround, but not really there, not for either of us, I thinkâ. Somewhere in the middle of him showing you a battered photograph of a ship he wanted to sail someday, something in your chest cracked open with a feeling that wasn't grief exactly, more like relief: 'it wasn't just me. It was never just me.â
When he finally, awkwardly, hugged you goodbye â stiff-armed, unpracticed, clearly unused to affection â you were laughing, eyes bright with tears you hadn't let fall, cheeks flushed from the cold courtyard air and the strange, enormous feeling of maybe, possibly, gaining something instead of losing it.
Fred saw you like that. From across the courtyard, half-turned toward the castle doors, he saw you wrapped around a Durmstrang boy, laughing, glowing, happier than he'd seen you in the entire month he'd been trying to earn exactly that look.
He didn't wait to find out who it was. He turned around and walked back inside, something cold and quiet settling into his chest, and told himself, with the particular, practiced ease of someone protecting a heart he'd handed over freely: 'of course. Of course it was never really meâ. She was always going to find someone easier to be happy with.
Fred didn't confront you. That was almost worse.
For the last day he was polite â cordial, even, still technically your boyfriend, still technically inside the bounds of the bet â but the warmth had gone out of it, replaced by a careful, controlled distance that felt like watching a fire go out one ember at a time. He didn't seek you out at meals. He didn't find you in corridors. When you spoke, his answers were short, correct, and utterly without the teasing warmth you'd only just let yourself start expecting.
"What's going on with you?" you finally asked, cornering him outside the library.
"Nothing. Everything's fine."
"You're lying."
"I saw you," he said, finally, voice tight, "with him. In the courtyard. Looking happier than you've looked with me all month." He wasn't looking at you, jaw set hard. "I'm not angry. You're allowed to want someone else. I just â I'd rather know now than keep pretending for the sake of a bet you never wanted to lose anyway."
You stared at him, and for a second you almost laughed, except it wasn't funny, it was awful, this entire month reduced to a single misread hug.
"Fred. That was my brother."
He blinked. "Your â what?"
"My half-brother. From Durmstrang. My mother's son." Your voice was shaking now, some mixture of fury and relief and old grief all tangled together. "The letter I've been avoiding â I finally answered it. I met him for the first time today. He hugged me because neither of us have ever had a sibling, and I was crying because for once in my life something about my mother didn't feel like it was going to hurt, and you thought â you actually thought â "
"I didn't know." His voice cracked, just slightly, guilt flooding in fast behind it. "I'm sorry. I should have asked. I should have come and asked instead of just â deciding."
"Yeah," you said, some of the fight going out of you, replaced by something rawer. "You should have."
"I was scared," he admitted, quiet now, all the careful distance gone. "The whole month I've been terrified you'd wake up one day and realize you didn't actually want any of this, that I'd just worn you down instead of actually winning you over, and then I saw you look at someone like that, and every fear I've had for two years just â came true, all at once, before I could stop it."
You let the silence sit a moment, let both of you breathe through it.
"I'm not in love with my brother, Fred."
"I know that now."
"Are you still in love with me?"
"I have been for two years," he said, simply, no performance left in it at all. "That's never been the question. The question's always been whether you'd let yourself believe it."
Day thirty one arrived on a grey, ordinary Tuesday, and you stood at the doors of the Great Hall with your heart going faster than it had any right to, watching four long tables full of people who had, whether you liked it or not, spent a month watching this exact thing unfold.
Fred was at the Gryffindor table, not looking at you, giving you the space to do this on your own terms, which was, you thought, exactly like him.
You didn't need to stand on a table or make a speech dramatic enough for the whole month to deserve. You simply walked to the middle of the hall, waited for enough eyes to land on you that the room quieted on its own, and said, plainly, "I lost the bet."
A ripple went through the hall. Somewhere near the Gryffindor table, George was already grinning like Christmas had come early.
"Fred Weasley did not lose his patience with me once in thirty days, which is either the greatest feat of patience in Hogwarts history or proof I'm not nearly as difficult to love as I've spent the last five years convincing everyone, including myself." Your voice wavered, just slightly, and you let it. "So. I fell for him. Completely, embarrassingly, against every plan I had. I'm in love with Fred Weasley."
The hall erupted â laughter, a few cheers, someone, definitely George, actually applauding â and Fred was already crossing the hall toward you, disbelief and hope and something helplessly fond all fighting for space on his face.
"You didn't have to do the whole hall," he said, when he reached you, voice low, just for you now. "A quiet word would've done."
"You didn't win a quiet bet. You won loudly, in front of everyone. Seemed fair you got your answer the same way."
"I love you," he said, like it was easy, like it had always been easy, like the only hard part had ever been getting you to a place where you could hear it without flinching.
"I know," you said. "I love you too. Try not to let it go to your head."
"Too late," Fred said, and kissed you in the middle of the Great Hall, in front of all of Hogwarts, like he'd been waiting two years for exactly this moment and finally, finally, wasn't waiting anymore.
Later, much later, curled together by the lake with his jacket around your shoulders and his fingers laced loosely through yours, you asked him the question you'd been sitting with since the courtyard.
"What would you have done? If it really had been someone else. If I really had wanted out."
Fred was quiet a moment, thoughtful in a way that had nothing to do with the easy performance he gave the rest of the world. "Let you go," he said, finally. "Badly. Probably pathetically. But I wouldn't have made you stay somewhere you didn't want to be, no matter how much it would've wrecked me." He looked at you, steady. "Wanting you was never about winning, love. It was always just wanting you happy, even in the version where that didn't include me."
You thought of your mother, then, the version of leaving that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with limits she wasn't equipped to hold. And you thought of Fred â thirty days of staying, of noticing, of giving you room instead of pressure, of a hand held out with a towel instead of taken advantage of, of a moment of real frustration met with honesty instead of an exit.
Not everyone who could leave, would. Not everyone who loved you was destined to find you too difficult to keep.
"Good," you said, finally, resting your head against his shoulder. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
"Neither am I," Fred said. "Never was." He reached into his pocket, a little sheepishly, and produced â of all things â a slightly crumpled lily, clearly transfigured rather than grown, given the season. "Hermione told me what these mean. In the old language. Apparently I've been daring you to love me since October without even knowing the word for it."
You laughed, and took the flower, and didn't let go of his hand for the rest of the afternoon.
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
âž PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
âž WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
âžÂ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
âž A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
†main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father canât find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. Heâs done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
âTurn this plane around right now,â you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesnât even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. Heâs treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, youâre fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented â and look where you are today.
However, he knows what heâs doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private planeâs cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest⊠incident.
Your lips twist. Itâs not fair; this one wasnât even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order â after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because sheâs good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
Youâre not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Youâd be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But thatâs never been you â thereâs a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. Whatâs the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny â combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick â is not one for the weak of heart. You think youâve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now heâs committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after youâre in the air that youâre on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
âI paid for this private charter,â you growl, âI can turn it back around if I want to.â
âBookingâs under my name, darling.â
âPaid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You canât just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that wonât come twice. What kind of manager are you?â
âThe kind that is your dad first,â he gives you a pointed look.Â
âIs this because of what happened? You know that one isnât my fault!â
He doesnât say anything.Â
âYou know it isnât.âÂ
âRegardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh airââ
You deadpan, âIt smells like literal horse shit everyday.â
âLetâs not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.â
âYou donât get to decide that for me.â
âIâm your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.â
âYou would know,â you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. Itâs not hurt, itâs not disappointment. Itâs sympathy. Youâve just insulted your own father and heâs pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isnât a long way down after all.
âIâm sorry,â you quickly sigh, âI didnât mean that.â
âI know you didnât.â He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. âBut this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.â
You jerk back. âWeeks?!â
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that youâve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper thatâs peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you havenât heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. Itâs one of your grandmaâs favorites, and sheâs no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldnât breathe a word to the press.
The only thing thatâs drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
âYou better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I donât care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.â
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. âThatâs not going to happen. You know my dad; when heâs got his mind made up like this, nothingâs going to change it. He thinks I need a break.â
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that youâve learned over time translates to something along the lines of Iâll break something else of theirs. âDo you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you Iâll make it happen.â
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your fatherâs look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.Â
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You havenât seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.Â
âNo, Iâll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe heâll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a longââ
âTwo weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolanâs calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.â
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. âI know. Iâm trying to get out of here earlier, but weâll see how it goes.â
âI can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.â
Itâs tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. Youâll spare your dad from that today. Sheâs loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
âNo, donât worry about me. Iâll be fine.â
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelenaâs voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. âWill you?â
You canât say for certain. You havenât been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but itâs no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; itâs like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if youâre back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you havenât touched in years, because that isnât what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dadâs old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music youâve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. Itâs the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when youâre at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that youâre at the top, you donât want to find out if youâve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you donât like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
âI will be,â you murmur.
âMaybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.â
âAlert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.â
âDarn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.â
A giggle slips past your lips. âAlright, diva.â
âLet me get your schedule sorted and Iâll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?â
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
âYouâre cute when youâre being funny,â you drawl.
âLove you.â
âLove you more.â
Then youâre left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
Youâve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you canât taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
Itâs fazing you.
Youâre not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girlâs mental health, placing it above her career thatâs paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, youâre talking about these damn chickens.
You really shouldâve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that youâre sane enough to survive that, heâll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasnât touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
Theyâve squawked. Theyâve pecked. Theyâve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
Thereâs about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits donât let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you â your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and youâre flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isnât the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
Itâs only when youâre this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
âNeed some help?â
A snarky âyou think?â sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, youâve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. Itâs the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men youâve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders andâ
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, heâs hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. Heâs got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.Â
But then you remember the âincidentâ and you remember how many times youâve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesnât look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that heâs put that look on your face.
âIf you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.â
âWe try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.â
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you havenât learned your lesson with sex and men.
âAlright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.â
âFour.â
You cock an eyebrow.
âIâm joininâ for breakfast so itâll be breakfast for four. Why donât you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.â
Iâd like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(Youâre lying to yourself because you know that wouldnât be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
âAnd who are you again?â
The corners of his lips tip up higher. âDonât remember me?â
âIâve met a lot of people. I donât remember everyone.â
âIâd think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.â
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. âWho?â
âYou pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?â
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. âOnly the ones that clearly deserve it.â
âI canât say Iâm not disappointed that Iâm not the only one then.â
If thereâs anything worse than a man, itâs a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
âWell, he-who-must-not-be-named, I donât really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?â
The man smiles. Itâs not a smile you trust. âAnyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?â
âPlease,â you grit out, caving far too quickly â but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like heâs about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way theyâve been coming at you.Â
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.Â
âThanks,â you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. Itâs unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours â thereâs something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you donât.Â
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.Â
He makes a gesture towards the door. âShall we?â
The man doesnât try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house â no, your grandmaâs house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. Heâs even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.Â
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. âFarm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like âem? Scrambled? Sunny side up?â
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.Â
âOh, I see youâve met Bucky!â
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
âMaâam. Sir. Morning.â
âWhat a lovely day of reunions,â she chirps.
Reunions? You donât get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. âYou didnât have any trouble with the chickens, darlinâ? They can be nasty. Been a while since youâve done it.â
You can hear Buckyâs cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. âOf course not. Who do you think youâre talking to?â
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.Â
âThey teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?â Buckyâs voice is close â too close. Heâs ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.Â
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. âYeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.â
His lips twitch. âAttractive, huh?â
âDonât act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.â
âYou donât know me, princess.â
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. âIâm not a princess.â
âFive-time Grammy winner, Americaâs pop princess,â he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows itâ you didnât trust him before, you trust him even less now.
âStalker much?â
âYour grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.â
You didnât even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You havenât had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when youâre prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much sheâs aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. Youâve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you havenât had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else whoâs supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.Â
After all, sheâs constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).Â
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, âSheâs doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything youâre doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.â
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. Sheâs always been a firecracker, itâs where you inherited your temper and energy from.Â
âItâs been a busy few months,â is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girlsâ tears.Â
âI didnât say anything.â
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. âYou didnât have to.â
âThis is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.â He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days donât get any better. Your grandmaâs been so busy with an issue in town that youâre been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean youâve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand whoâs been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you havenât seen in some time. Sheâs one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.Â
âShe doesnât do well with strangers.â
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. âI know that. Sheâs mine.â
âI know,â Bucky echoes with a small smile. âWanna ride her?â
For a second, youâre embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. Itâs been a while since youâve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower thatâs much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky â your new arch nemesis â to see you fail.Â
âMaybe later.â
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but youâve met enough people that you canât seem to remember the children you spent time with â no matter how many times they try to slide into your DMâs with âOh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?âÂ
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyoneâs messages. He probably doesnât even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldnât be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.Â
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think thereâs a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you canât seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
âReally? Youâre going to town in that?â
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. âWhatâs wrong with this?â
Buckyâs gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like youâre a piece of meat â and you apparently seem to like it.
âI packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.â
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. Youâre too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.Â
âIâm not wearing this,â you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
âIt looks nice.â
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent â masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky â seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever heâs lifting bales of hay.Â
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. âWhatever.â
âI think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.â
âI have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. Iâm this generationâs Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.â
Bucky blinks at you. âYou always look good.â
And youâre not sure what to say to that.Â
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you canât help but shoot him a smug smile.Â
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but thatâs not news.Â
She worries about the two of you being at each otherâs throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner â which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.Â
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking youâve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesnât. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever heâs doing work and he doesnât break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.Â
It sours your mood â partly because your ruse didnât work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You donât need another reason to find him attractive when youâve already got a list longer than the Nile.Â
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, youâre extra prickly becauseâ âWhy do I have to be nicer to him when heâs the one being annoying with me? Arenât I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.â
âYou did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. Itâs like riding a bike.â
âRiding a bike didnât have me breaking my fresh manicure,â you say pointedly. âAnd I didnât have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.â
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. âHeâs just a kid pulling on his crushâs pigtails.â
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you werenât so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesnât have a crush on you. In fact, youâre convinced that he hates you. In his mind, youâre probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life â which isnât incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesnât even know you. He doesnât know the shit youâve been through to make it in the industry, how many times youâve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
âWell, weâre not kids anymore,â you huff, âand I donât like bullies.â
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where youâre sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why youâre so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
âYou do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.â
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldnât stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
âMaybe he shouldnât have been such a crybaby then,â you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandmaâs grin stretches a little wider. âI think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.â
Oh god. Youâll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandmaâs shared, it sounds like youâve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown â and heâs grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horseâs mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunkâ
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You donât need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly donât know Bucky well enough to trust him â no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
âHeâs a good one, you know,â your grandma smiles softly. âBeen with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.â
You hate to point out the obvious butâ âThatâs his job, grandma.â
âHeâs also one of your biggest supporters,â she says with a look. âHas all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever youâre on it.â
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. âThatâs ridiculous,â you sputter, âthereâs no way.âÂ
âYes, you should ask to see his place sometime. Heâs quite proud of the collection, even said that heâs going to ask you to sign them one day.âÂ
You have a feeling heâs burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Buckyâs place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.Â
âAll Iâm saying is, give him a chance. Heâs not a bad fella.â
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Salâs Diner. Itâs the best diner here â arguably the only diner here.Â
âNo, Iâve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,â you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.Â
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. Youâll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and youâve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.Â
âYouâre out of your mind,â Bucky chuckles. âEveryone knows that Salâs crown jewel is his waffles.â
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You canât tell what you want to eat more â your toast, his waffles, or him.Â
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.Â
âAlright, try yours then try mine. Weâll decide here and now.â
Youâve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.Â
Based on your grandmotherâs stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesnât seem like a troublemaker but you wouldnât be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. Thatâs what heâs been doing with you all this time.Â
âNow mine,â he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, andâ fuck.
Itâs perfect. Itâs absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that youâve had a taste of this.Â
The waffles are Salâs masterpiece.Â
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.Â
Youâd never admit this. Youâd never admit that Buckyâs right. Over your dead body.
âItâs fine,â you shrug nonchalantly.
âBullshit,â he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. âYou like it better.â
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. âIf you donât mind, Iâd like to finish my lunch now.â
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you canât stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Buckyâs mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.Â
âYou donât have to pretend with me, princess,â he grins, âI can see right through you. If you ask nicely, Iâll take your toast and you can have my waffles.â
âIâm fine,â you grit out again.Â
âYou sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?âÂ
âThis is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up yourââ the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.Â
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You donât like where this is going. âI think I know what the problem is.â You cock an eyebrow. âMaybe you just donât know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.â
A scoff falls from your lips. âThey have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. Itâs definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.â
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. âYeah, well then maybe youâve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think youâre too good for everyone else here, including your family.â
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isnât enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter youâve been isnât exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound youâve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.Â
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that youâve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you donât even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when youâve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because thatâs the thing they donât tell you about making it to the top â to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until youâre looking down at what youâve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.Â
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where youâre forced to reckon with everything youâve lost and everything you have to lose.Â
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Buckyâs no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. âHey, sorry. I didnât mean that.â
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. Youâve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.Â
âIâm sorry,â he repeats.
âItâs whatever,â you mutter.
âNo, itâs not whatever. I crossed a line.â
You donât appreciate the look on his face. Itâs an expression akin to pity. Youâve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you donât need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. Youâre a strong, successful woman whoâs achieved everything youâve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.Â
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. âIâm full. Iâm going to head out first.âÂ
Ignoring Buckyâs shit, wait, hold on, youâre slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.Â
Deep down, you know that it isnât Bucky youâre upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.Â
You start walking â somewhere, anywhere â just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. Itâs one thing to think about how much youâve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, itâs another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.Â
âWait,â Buckyâs voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. âDonât go.â
âLet me go, Bucky.â
âHow are you going to head home?â
âIâll hitchhike if I have to,â you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. âDonât do that, thatâs not safe,â he murmurs, âplease. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. Iâll drive you home.â
âI donât need your help.â
He licks his lips. âI know you donât need it. Youâre perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.â
You yank your wrist away from him. âIâm good. Seriously. You donât need to worry about me.â
âI donât need to do anything. I canât do anything but worry when it comes to you,â he practically spits out, âI wish I could stop worrying, but I canât. Not when you look like youâve lost everything good in your life. Not when you donât smile the way you used to.â
That stops you, your movements halting.Â
âItâs not just your grandma whoâs concerned about you. Do you think I donât notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?â
âGo fuck off your high horse, Barnes.â
âIâm not on my goddamn high horse,â he defends, âIâm just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.â
âOh, so you think you know me now?â
âI know you. Iâve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.â
Your breath hitches in your throat. Thereâs a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. âIâm not a kid anymore. Iâm not the person you knew.âÂ
âJesus, you think I donât know that?â He whispers, âI know youâre perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. Iâm saying that you donât have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you â your grandmother, your dad, mââ He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. âAll Iâm saying is that youâre not alone. You donât have to be.â
âIââ you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.Â
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
âIs this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!â More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You shouldâve known that trouble would follow you here. Youâre quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. âOh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.â
Donât give in. Donât respond to this fucking moron.Â
âAw, youâre always so sweet in front of the press. Now that itâs just me, you wonât even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think youâre a fucking bitch?â
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. Heâs still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and donât be a stuckup bitch.Â
You donât respond. Youâve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, theyâll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and theyâll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.Â
However, itâs only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. âThis your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. Howâs she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and Iâll even put your face on the paper.â
âWill you piss the fuck off?â You snap.Â
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. âPop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.â
âI am here on vacation. Leave us alone.â
âIt comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why donât you tell me about this stud, huh? Whatâs your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and Iâll pay you. Triple if youâve got a video like the last one.â
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you donât want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesnât need his face splashed on the front page just because heâs doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.Â
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesnât seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.Â
âJust ignore him. Heâs not worth it.â
âWhatever sheâs offering you, Iâll give you more! Name your price.â
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage youâve never seen with him. âLeave it alone, Buck.â
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.Â
You donât try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. âYou leave me alone or Iâll sick the cops on your ass.â
âPublic space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.â
âAnd when I get you barred from every press event I attend? Iâm about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this â with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what youâre doing before you keep running your mouth like that.â
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.Â
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like itâs about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until youâre frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.Â
âShit, sorry,â you wince.Â
âHey, youâre good. Youâre safe,â Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.Â
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. Youâre momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.Â
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandmaâs house.Â
His hand is still on yours.Â
You pull it away quickly. Habit. Youâre always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.Â
âYouâre fine. He didnât follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,â he murmurs.Â
âThank you,â you exhale slowly. âIâm sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.â
Bucky tilts his head. âWhy are you sorry?âÂ
You open your mouth, only to realize that you donât have an easy answer. âUm, well, he wouldnât be here if it werenât for me.â
âHis own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.âÂ
Heâs not wrong. Itâs annoying. All this guilt that you shouldnât even be feeling.Â
âI guess,â you mutter.
âAre you okay?â Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. âI hope you know that none of this is your fault â him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.â
With a grunt, you press your lips together. âI know that. Itâs just⊠unfortunate circumstances.â
âThatâs one way to put it,â he smiles, âthough, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it wonât happen again.â
You canât even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. âIâm not a fan of the word princess.â
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. âThat so? You used to make me call you that all the time.âÂ
âWhat were you then? The prince?â You drawl sarcastically.
âActually, you designated me court jester.â
A laugh bubbles up your throat â probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.Â
âFind it funny, do you?â
âA little bit.â
âI should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.â
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. âYou could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.âÂ
âI think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.â A gasp falls from your lips. âI was helping her clean the attic. Sheâs got quite the collection.â
Your cheeks warm. âHavenât you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.â
Youâre not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where heâs pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.Â
âIâd prefer to experience the real thing for myself.âÂ
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Buckyâs looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.Â
This canât be happening. Not right now. Not when youâre supposed to have a clean slate.Â
Not with Bucky of all people.Â
However, your grandmaâs in your ears, whispering, Heâs not a bad fella, is he? Heâs not. Heâs a good one â perhaps the only one left â but heâs still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?Â
âToo much too soon?â He asks gently.Â
âNo,â you choke out. âNot at all.â
Buckyâs tongue darts out to wet his lips and youâre momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitchâ âDonât tempt me, princess.â
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and youâre forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.Â
âIâll check in on you later, yeah?â Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.Â
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.Â
Something shifts between the two of you after that. Itâs nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when youâre not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.Â
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how youâve lost your skills. However, youâre pleasantly surprised when all he says is âeasy thereâ before heâs encouraging you back on the saddle.Â
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you canât help but feel like youâre finally home.Â
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and heâs tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesnât do anything more or less.Â
He keeps a comfortable distance â close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.Â
As someone whoâs always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.Â
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. Youâve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. Youâve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. Youâve even given him enough sultry looks that youâre starting to get a twitch in your eye.Â
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didnât have until today.Â
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmerâs market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. Youâre cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
âIf business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,â she beams.Â
âGood to know that Iâm only useful for marketing,â you drawl with a teasing lilt.
âOh, honey, what can I say? Youâre not much help around the farm.â
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky whoâs chuckling to himself on the sidelines. âYouâre not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?â
âWas that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?â Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. âTwo traitors, thatâs what the two of you are.â
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. Heâs tall. Heâs blonde. Heâs rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. Heâs got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. âThat looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?â
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. ââCourse. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.â
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. âYou drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.â
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and youâve got a hook, line, and sinker. As youâre pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. âJohn.â
âBucky,â the man â John â smiles easily in response to Buckyâs tight lip curl. âItâs been a while, man. Howâs the farm?â
âGood.â
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who youâve grown to understand is very talkative. âGood to hear,â John responds, voice light, âI see youâve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet youâre the reason the stallâs doing extra well today, sweetheart.â
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. âSheâs great. Why donât you run along now? Iâm sure there are other people you can pester today.â
âPester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?â
Yes, but youâre not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. âNo, definitely not. Heâs a customer, Bucky. Play nice. Heâs buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.â
âAm I?â A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
âYou are, sir.â
âWell, if the lady says so, then it must be true.â
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Buckyâs nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You donât like his look, but you do like the color on Buckyâs face right now. The perfect shade of green that youâve been waiting for.
Because of that, you canât help yourself. You up the ante a little bit â giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Buckyâs blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesnât say a thing â at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didnât know how much longer you couldâve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
âHeâs bad news, you know,â Bucky utters next to you.
Youâre busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, âSometimes I like bad news.â
He frowns. âYou canât be serious. Him of all people?â
âIf not him, then who?â You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Buckyâs mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but heâs holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
âHey, kids, Iâm just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. Heâs been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.â Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. âJames?â
âMy first name,â Bucky shrugs.
âJames,â you repeat â then it clicks, âJames the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.â
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. âI was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.â
You bark out a laugh. âYeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me youâd let me do whatever I wanted.â
âYou were a spoiled princess after all.â
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, âWhatâs going on with Mr. Oliver?â
âDevelopers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. Theyâve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.â
âWho in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?â You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. âWho knows? Guess they found a market for it.â
âThat kind of sucks.â
âYeah, the townâs been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, theyâll get priced out and before you know it, everyoneâs going to be gone.â
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
âHow much have yâall raised so far?â
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. âNot a lot. Itâs tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but itâs not easy, not many care about a small place like this.â
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times youâve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
âWhy donât we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I donât need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.â
âYouâd do that?â His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. âYou think that lowly of me?â
âNo, not that I donât think youâd do it,â Bucky quickly clarifies, âItâs justâ itâs obviously a lot to ask when youâre trying to stay incognito here.â
âI just have to convince my dad.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âDad!â You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
âI didnât come here so you could be the center of attention,â he brushes off, âagain.â
âThis is different.â
âThis is going to attract unwanted press.â
âThis is the kind of press we want.â
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
âIn all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,â your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your fatherâs wrath.
âSounds to me like sheâs trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?â
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. âHonestly, they can say what they want. At this point, theyâll pick on anything I do. It doesnât matter if I have good intentions â or even if I donât do anything at all, theyâre going to find something to be upset about. Theyâll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because thatâs what they do. It shouldnât stop me from living my life â or supporting things that I care about.â
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first â his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what itâs like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while thereâs nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. Heâs silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. Heâs searching your eyes â for any doubt or uncertainty â but he finds none of it. Because you havenât been this sure of anything in a long time.
âAlright, fine. Weâll make it a community event. We wonât use your name because we donât need a frenzy; this may be a small town but youâre not a small name, darling. I donât need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.â
Youâre throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. âThank you! Thank you!â
He chuckles, âYouâve got a lot of work ahead of you. Iâm expecting you to do a lot of the planning.â
âWait, what?â You balk, jerking back.
âYou proposed this so you need to see it through.â
A pout forms on your lips. âButââ
âIâll help,â Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. âYouâre doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.â
âYou can set up a livestream?â You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, âSuch little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.â
Youâre not one to argue with him so you can only nod. âOkay then, letâs do this.â
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
âSmile.â
You force out a grin before itâs quickly wiped away from your face. âAre we good?â
âYouâve got something on your face. I think itâs the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.â
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesnât work because then Buckyâs coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes donât leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You donât get a chance to question him before heâs clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet âgot it.â
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, youâre in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. Itâs beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Buckyâs flannel layered over you; the latter isnât by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
âReady?â Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
âYeah. Of course. I do this all the time.â
The corner of his lips quirk up. âItâs alright to be nervous, you know.â
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. âIâve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?â
âBecause it matters this time, because you care, and thatâs a good thing,â he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. âIâll be right there with you.â
âWhat if nobody else wants to perform? Iâm only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?â
âDarling, you know your grandmother. Sheâd get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.â A giggle rises from your chest. âYouâve got good people here and everyoneâs here for a good cause.â
âIf itâs dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,â you snort softly, âhe apparently had been my court jester in the past.â
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. Itâs one that most people wonât blink twice at, but you know him better than that.Â
âWhatâs with that sound?â
âNothing.â
âItâs not nothing. Thatâs the sound you make when the spare ribs donât fall off the bone. So what gives?â
âI donât like that boy.â
You shoot him a look. âYou donât like any boy.â
âThatâs also true.â
âGrandma says heâs one of the good ones.â
Itâs your dadâs turn to give you a look. âHeâs a boy. There are no good ones.â
Your lips curl into a smirk. âI havenât seen you go all protective in a while.â
âWell, none of them were serious before. This one â this one looks like the type who can break your heart.â
Both your glances wander over to Bucky whoâs helping your grandma set up the food table. Itâs still early enough that nobodyâs filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. Youâve raised a good amount of money already and that doesnât even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky â heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether itâs fame or fortune â or both, youâre merely a gateway to it. Youâve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you thatâs how you know youâve made it.
However, youâre not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe youâre allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
âI know,â you murmur. âLetâs hope he doesnât.â
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âIâm going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. Iâm proud of you.â
âThanks, Dad,â you smile softly up at him. âFor trusting me this and⊠for bringing me back here.â
âAnytime, darling.â
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. Thereâs no shortage of people wanting to perform â anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that heâs already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesnât do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
âNow, whatâs a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?â The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. Heâs got that boyish smile on his face again. âWould you care to join me for a dance?â
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if heâs not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over Johnâs outstretched one, you nod. âIâd be delighted.â
Johnâs a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how youâre working on your next album.
âI sure hope youâd save me a backstage pass for your next tour.â
âIâll see what I can do,â you force out a smile.
On top of that, heâs too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like heâs trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
âAnything going on between you and Barnes?â John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably Johnâs. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, itâs near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
âNo, nothing,â you answer honestly.
âHe looks like he wants to cut off my head,â he chuckles.
âThatâs just his normal face,â you brush off brusquely.
âIf you say so.â
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky whoâs now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
âYou donât like to share your toys, do you?â You smirk.
âI donât share, period,â he mutters.
âThen you shouldâve claimed your prize from the start.â
Buckyâs brows meet in the middle. âYouâre not⊠a prize,â he begins, âyouâre more than that. I didnâtâ I didnât know how to even begin to approach you.â
âYou had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.â
His shoulders shake with laughter. âThatâs different. Thatâs my area of expertise.â
âAnd this isnât?â
His lips thin. âIâm not⊠experienced with all this.â He clears his throat, âRomance. Women.â
âYouâre kidding,â you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. âYou look like this and youâre telling me you donât have experience with people?â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âI mean youâre hot, Barnes.â Bucky jolts back in surprise. âCome on, that is not news to you. Iâve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.â
His fingers tighten on your waist. âThey wanted me to introduce them to you.â
âThatâs an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.â
âThatâs not true.â
âYeah, it is.â
Bucky huffs, âHow would you know?â
âBecause thatâs what I would do. Youâre a catch, Bucky.â
âHigh compliment coming from you.â
You swat his chest playfully. âPlaying humility when you are anything but isnât a good look, Mr. Barnes.â
âIâve only got eyes for one. Always have,â Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
âYeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?â You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. âGo get âem, princess.â
Itâs a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. Itâs one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, itâs another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
âHi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyoneâs havinâ a good time!â The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. âWeâre all here because we love this town and Iâm happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. Thereâs no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldnât have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.â
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangersâ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma whoâs waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky â Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, youâre greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasnât cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
Iâve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
âSometimes I forget how good you are live,â Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
âPlease, when was the last time you heard me live?â
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. âYour Nashville show last year.â
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. âYou went?â He shrugs. âWhy didnât you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldnât make it out.â
Well, heâs not entirely strong. But still. âGrandma couldâve told me. You shouldnât have to pay.â
âWhy not? Iâm supporting a good cause, arenât I?â
You exhale a laugh. âSo Iâm a charity case now?â
âI can neither confirm nor denyââ Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. âI didnât want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We havenât spoken in years and I wouldâve gone anyway even without the free ticket.â
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You havenât been in love in a very long time, and youâre not sure youâre ready for it yet â especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
âPlus, I was talking Madeline. Her momâs our foreman.â
âPlaying chaperone, cute,â you murmur. âNext time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.â
âNoted, appreciated.â
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. âSo, I sound good? Iâm not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting hereââ
âIt was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.â
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play â coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
âYeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,â you smile.
âWell, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.â
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. âCome on, letâs go help my grandma clean up.â
âHey,â Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost⊠nervous? âAre you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.â
âWeâve done that before,â you say slowly, puzzled, âbut Iâm down.â
âOkay, yeah, sounds good.â
Thatâs when it hits you. âBucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?â The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think youâre poking fun at him. âWait, no, donât do that. I wasnâtâ I wasnât teasing you, promise. I think itâs cute.â
Buckyâs mouth twists a little. If you didnât know him so well, you wouldnât have known that he was sulking. Itâs such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
âBucky, come on. I didnât mean it that way.â
âYeah, I know.â Does he? âI know Iâm probably not as⊠I donât know, cool as all the guys youâve dated before butââ
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. âNo, thatâs not it at all. Iâve justâ Iâve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, youâre still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.â
He chuckles, ears still red. âAlright, will you go on a date with me?â
âYes, yes, I will,â you grin, ânow, was that so hard?â
âMight be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.â
You gasp, âThatâs uncalled for.â He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that heâs holding yours now. Itâs your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. âOkay, letâs go help grandma, casanova.â
The ride shouldnât be any different. Youâve done this route a million times before. Youâve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldnât feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe itâs time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure itâs not a seizure.
âYouâre fine, youâre just nervous,â Yelena says from your laptop. âI think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.â
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. âIâm not nervous. I donât get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.â
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, âNobody knows that Iâm getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.â
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. âIâm serious, Yelena. This isnât cool. Iâm not being cool.â
âNo, youâre being a girl with a crush.â
âIâm this nationâs favorite pop performer. I donât get crushes.â
âSweetheart, youâve been there a little over a week and Iâve never seen you smile this much.â That explains why your cheeks are aching. âFace it, youâre head over heels for this man.â
You rub your face furiously. âGod, this is so uncool. What if heâs making me uncool?â
âThen you guys can be uncool together.â
âThatâs not an option,â you grumble, âwhat do you think?â You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
âPerfect. They grow up so fast,â Yelena mocks a tear.
âYouâre a terrible friend.â
âIâm the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think heâs good for you.â
âYouâve never met him.â
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. âBut I know you and you havenât been like this in a long time.â
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. âSince when are you such a lovergirl?â
âSince I realized it makes you less of an asshole.â
âRude.â
âYou love me.â
âI do,â you grin.
âHave fun, kiddo.â
Youâve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. Youâve tested a few perfumes and thereâs one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
âMorning, sunshine,â your grandma smiles, âdonât you look lovely today?â
âYouâre saying I donât look lovely everyday?â
âYou have your days,â she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. âMorning,â he murmurs, âyou look beautiful.â
âI know,â you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. âYou ready?â
âPacked and ready to roll.â
You roll your eyes but canât bite down on your smile in time. âYouâre so lame.â
He only chuckles.
âI donât need to give you the talk, do I?â Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. âNo funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is atââ
âOh my god, Dad!â You snap with your own scowl at him. âWeâre not kids. Weâll be back whenever weâre back.â
âStill living under my roof, darling.â
âTechnically my roof,â your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. âTake your time. Have fun. Be safe.â
âButââ
Your dadâs full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. Youâre pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
âIâm so sorry,â you grouse, âheâs so overprotective sometimes.â
âHe means well. I can see why he would be,â Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
âHeâs overbearing is what he is,â you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that youâre settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in â the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. Itâs hard to imagine that youâve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. Itâs even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesnât feel natural. It feels necessary.Â
Out here, it just⊠exists.
Sometimes, you miss that â simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma â and now, Bucky.
âYou seem deep in thought.â Speak of the devil, heâs unpacking the lunch heâs tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep â crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you canât bring yourself to care.
âThinking about how nice it is out here,â you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river â all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. âItâs always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.â
âMy schedule is crazy enough as is,â you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, âIâd love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.â
âHave faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.â
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. âMaybe,â you sigh, âIâm just tired.â
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
âMaybe, what you need is to cool off.â You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. âThereâs an old rope some kids put up a while back.â He points in the direction of the trees. âThe waterâs deep enough to break the fall.â
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. âYou want me to jump in there? Wearing this?â
âUnless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.â
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. âPerv,â you mutter.
âLive a little,â he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then heâs launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
âThe waterâs fantastic.â
âYouâre insane,â you deadpan. âIâm absolutely not doing that.â
âMan, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your assââ you gasp, he laughs, ââbut I guess I was wrong.â
âI do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.â
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. Itâs then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms â like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. âYou can always buy more Prada. You canât buy another day like today.â
âThink Iâll take my chances.â
âAlright, princess. I didnât know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.â
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking youâd ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before youâre tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
âWait, youâre reallyââ
âWhat? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?â You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. Youâve done this before. You can do this. Itâs just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, youâre already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
âShit, itâs freezing. You didnât warn me.â
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. âDoesnât it feel nice?â
âFeels like Iâm about to catch a cold.â
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like itâs been set on fire.
Youâre well aware of how little youâre wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Buckyâs watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. Thereâs a depth to his gaze that you canât read, but youâre almost too scared to ask.
âWhat?â You try to play off.
âYouâre beautiful,â he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
âYouâre just saying that because Iâm practically naked,â you taunt, fully aware of how much youâre showing now that youâre out of the water.
âIâm saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think Iâll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.â
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. âWhat makes you think you have to?â
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. âDo you know what youâre saying right now, princess?â
âI am,â you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly youâre backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Buckyâs blue eyes, warm where theyâre focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
âThis okay?â He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
âYouâre gorgeous, princess.â
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. Youâre too busy looking at how Buckyâs lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. âFuck, youâre so soft.â
âGenerally how tits are, Barnes,â you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. âYouâre such a brat. I should really shut you up.â
âWhy donât you try?â
Bucky doesnât hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
âI donât like how you did that so quickly,â you mumble against his lips. âHave you been practicing with other girls?â
âJust good with my fingers,â he chuckles.
âGood answer,â you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow â all the while heat accumulates between your legs and youâre reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesnât let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand â a working manâs hands â are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
âBucky, come on,â you whine.
âPatience,â he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
âMove it along, Barnes, or Iâm gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.â
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. âYouâve really got such a mouth on you,â he snarls, âbeen wantinâ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.â
Oh. Oh, you shouldnât like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. âIs that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?â Buckyâs nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. âI can do that for you â all you have to do is listen.â
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
âLanguage, princess.â
A whimper climbs out your throat. âI want you.â
âI know you do,â he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, âbut you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?â
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You donât register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. Itâs only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
âI can tell youâre so wet already,â he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, âis this all for me?â Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. âTell me itâs for me.â
ââS for you,â you choke out.
âGood girl,â he breathes out, âshit, youâre so wet. I can feel you through this lace.â
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and itâs not from the heat.
âGettinâ shy on me?â
âWhat if someone sees?â You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
âNobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.â
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that youâll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until youâre squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
âCome on, Buck.â
âWhat is it?â He feigns confusion.
âTouch me.â
âI am touching you.â
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, âProperly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.â
âI need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.â Your lips stubbornly sew shut. âCome on, you can do it,â he coos.
Itâs patronizing. Itâs demeaning. You shouldnât let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nationâs favorite pop star, you donât need a man toâ
âIâll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. Iâll make sure youâre good and ready for my cock. I promise.â
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. âPlease.â The plea escapes you. âPlease finger me, Bucky.â
âThatâs a good girl,â he beams, âthatâs my girl.â
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldnât be so easy to get to you. Youâve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldnât be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But itâs different â because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means youâre his, and thatâs that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and youâre curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
âMy pretty girl,â he murmurs sweetly, âlook at you. So easy for me when youâve got something in this pussy of yours.â
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
âSuch a good girl when youâre filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I shouldâve done this that first day. Shouldâve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.â
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
âI canât wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet youâd feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know youâve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.â
âGod, Bucky, please.â
âI know, I know,â he utters tenderly, âIâm here, princess. Iâll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.â His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. âI need you to use your words for me.â
âYou know what I want,â you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
âI know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.â
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. âBucky, please. I need you.â
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
âI want your cock. Please. Please,â you whine, âI want you to fuck me open.â
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until youâre gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. Youâre soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. Youâd be more ashamed if you werenât so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
âAttagirl,â Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast â fingers ripping off your panties so youâre exposed to him. You donât get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. Youâre suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. âDonât hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.â
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while heâs nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
âIâve got a condom,â Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. âIn the bag.â
âYou brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?â
âExpect, no. Hope? Always,â he offers a wry smile.
âFuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?â
Bucky stifles a laugh. âNo, just the one,â he smiles, âjust you.â For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. âI should go get it first,â he says, making his move to pull away.
You arenât sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. âIâm clean,â you mumble, âI donât want to wait.â
âPrincess,â Bucky says slowly.
âPlease, Buck.â
âAre you sure about this?â
âIâm clean, I promise you, I got tested afterââ
âThatâs not my concern,â he interrupts cautiously, âIâm asking if youâre sure about this. With me.â
You give a small nod. âI trust you.â
âShit,â he hisses, âcanât say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.â
âAgain, what makes you think you canât?â
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like youâve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like itâs drawn.
Heâs big. Bigger than anyone youâve had before.
âIââ you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
âDid you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.â
âNo, thatâs not itâ Iâm justââ you look at it for a heartbeat then two. âYouâre really big,â you blurt out. âI donât know if I can fit you.â
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. âIâll ease into you, princess. Promise it wonât hurt,â he says then pauses, âit might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?â
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. Itâs a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. âYou keep saying my name like that and Iâm going to cum right now,â he rasps.
And because you canât help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
Youâve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
âLook at this pretty pussy spread open for me,â Bucky groans, âyouâre fuckinâ perfect. Iâm gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure sheâs full.â His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that youâre okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Buckyâs name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. âMy perfect girl, squeezing my cock like youâre tryinâ to milk me. You feel like you havenât been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.âÂ
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyoneâs witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.Â
âShit, princess, look at you,â he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, âyouâre creaminâ all over my cock. Soakinâ my cock so easy.â
âBucky, please,â you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.Â
You can feel it. Itâs been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Buckyâs cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like youâre desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow itâs not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how thereâs no way anyone has been in here before.
âNot with how your cunt is choking me, princess,â he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. âSheâs so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I canât wait to cum inside you.â
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that â to be filled to the brim with him.Â
âIâve neverââ you gasp, âIâve never let anyone cum inside me.â
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. Itâs hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. âWonât you let me be the first?â
Your heart beats a little faster. Youâve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
âYes,â you whimper, âplease, cum inside me.â
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. âYouâre going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilinâ me rotten like this, youâre gonna get me used to cumminâ inside this gorgeous cunt. Iâm gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cockâs buried in this pussy.â
âFuck, Bucky, I canâtââ oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, âI canât hold itâ Iâm going to cum.â
âCum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,â Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Buckyâs touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.Â
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.Â
âYouâre a bad influence,â you mutter, smiling.Â
âYouâre one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,â Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. âLetâs get out of here before you catch a cold.â
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesnât help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
âFigured this would be warmer,â he clarifies.
âThanks,â you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
âAre you okay? Was I tooââ
âStop,â you wave a hand to halt him, âIâm fine. Iâm not made of glass.âÂ
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think itâs some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that itâs awe. Heâs looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.Â
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Whoâs to say this isnât the same? Itâs a quick money grab. Who doesnât want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that youâve already had one of theseâ
âHey, whatâre you thinking about?â Buckyâs hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but heâs already shaking his head. âI can tell somethingâs goinâ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.â
You canât help the laugh that escapes. Itâs a sweet thought. âItâs a personal thing, donât worry,â you insist, but heâs not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. âTrust. Itâs not an easy thing when youâre in the spotlight. Iâm tired of constantly second guessing peopleâs intentions, why they do what they do with me. Iâm scared of being the subject of another public issue â mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I justâ I hate that Iâm putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if Iâm fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? Itâs just the way the world works. Regardless of whether youâre a real villain or not, youâre put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.â
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. âYou are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. Youâre living your life, youâre defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,â he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. âNeed you to know that you got a lot of people here â and out there â who love you and will protect you. We donât give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?âÂ
âYeah,â you whisper.
âSo as long as you have us around, we wonât let anything happen to you. Itâs not because we have to, but because we want to.â Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. âWe got you, princess.â
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. Youâve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown â you canât help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when heâs irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cockâ
âAre you okay?â Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.Â
It is then you realize that youâve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isnât innocent. Itâs a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.Â
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until youâre gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how youâre so fuckinâ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see Americaâs favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.Â
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you donât quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.Â
For once, youâre not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that oneâs going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more⊠you.
He doesnât know that itâs inspired by him.Â
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. Youâre a blip, a shooting star thatâll fizzle out the moment you leave.Â
The thought hurts more than you expect.Â
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasnât completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
âWhat?â
âLovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,â Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. âHave you checked your notifications?â
Thatâs never a good sign.Â
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happenedâ
âIâm sure itâs different,â Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Buckyâs. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like theyâve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here â and yet here you are again. Fuck.
âI need toââ your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. Itâs more red on your ledger and youâre running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.Â
âListen,â she interrupts softly, âI donât want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what youâve been up to very well.â
âItâs a small town. Everyone knows what Iâve been doing,â you hiss, âbetter yet, who Iâve been doing. I just didnât think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.â
âYou donât think thereâs a chance it could beâ no, it couldnât possibly.â Sheâs quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesnât allow you to. âRight?â
âI donât know,â you whisper. âIâve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember butââ
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things youâve said to him. You acting upâÂ
Been wantinâ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. Thereâs absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.Â
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction youâve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you donât really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time youâve spent with him the last couple of weeks, youâve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even â no, especially â ones as charming as him.
âYou should talk to him first. I doubt heâs the one who spilled.â
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isnât. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like itâs been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.Â
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits â criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Buckyâs worth as your partner.Â
It doesnât sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, heâs trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory youâve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, youâre sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that youâre ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, heâs standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, âHey, Iâm making some frenchâ whatâs wrong?â The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.Â
âYouâre fucking kidding me right,â you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You donât bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You donât bother paying attention to the way Buckyâs eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
âGonna have to give me more than that, princess. Iâm not followinâ.â
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: Americaâs Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. Itâs a disgusting piece but all the details are there â censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.Â
âMaybe I shouldâve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. Iâm an idiot.â
It takes him a second before heâs whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. âWhat? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?âÂ
âI donât know what to think! It doesnât matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with andââ and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasnât him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. âAnd it doesnât matter,â you say, defeated. âIt doesnât matter. I canât do this.â
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.Â
âI shouldâve known better,â you mutter, âthis shit just isnât worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. Whatâs the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?â
âBecause itâs worth it,â he insists, hands catching your arms. âPlease. You gotta believe me, princess. I didnât do this. I would never do this to you.â
You offer him a wry smile. âThatâs what the last guy said too.â Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. âI canât do this, Buck. Iâm leaving in a couple of days anyway and I canât risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.â
âThatâs not on youââ
âI know that!â You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. âIâm well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. Iâm aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesnât change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.â
Buckyâs jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. âSo, what? Youâre just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck theyâre putting you through? Youâre going to let them win?â
âNo, Iâm playing their game. I donât have to like it but what choice do I have?â
âStand up for yourself. Donât let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you â including the very people in this house.âÂ
Itâs easier said than done. Itâs too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isnât one that permits it. Youâve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that itâs possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky â lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.Â
âAppreciate the vote of confidence, but this wonât work, Bucky.âÂ
He looks like heâs about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed â and thatâs the end of it.Â
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. Itâs just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if youâve invited Bucky, you tell that that youâd rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesnât press further.Â
As youâre doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything â the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesnât shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows thatâs the least of your problems.Â
âHe wouldnât do that,â she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.Â
âI know,â you murmur, âI know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. Itâs just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you canât, and Iâd rather⊠not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.â
She flicks your forehead gently. âThatâs not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and â yes, youâve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know whoâs in the wrong, and it is not you.â
âThanks, grandma,â you smile, âbut it wouldnât have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isnât for everyone â your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. Itâs a lot to ask of someone.â
Her laugh tinkles through the air. âYouâd be surprised.â
Then youâre heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.Â
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.Â
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that youâre working on your album full time, itâs hard to find time for anything else â which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days youâre tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how heâs doing, but you stomp down on that urge.Â
Itâs better this way.
The paparazzi hasnât let up. Theyâre at your door, theyâre outside the studio, theyâre camping out the restaurant that youâre at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.Â
âSo, thatâs it then?â She asks when you give her the full rundown of whatâs transpired. âYou have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? Youâre really living the Hollywood life.â You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. Itâs that kind of night. âYour dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesnât like anyone.â
That has you stopping. âWhat? How do you know that?â
âHe told me,â she shrugs, âwe were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isnât a bad choice. I saw the pictures, Iâm sure heâs more than enough.â Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
âI didnât know he said that,â you mumble. âBucky is a good guy. He just⊠deserves better. He doesnât want this life.â You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. âAnd I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I donât want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.â
âBetter a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.âÂ
You bark out a laugh. âJust made that up?â She states that itâs a Yelena original. âItâs a nice thought in theory. I donât know. He hasnât reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe heâs realized that Iâm also not worth all this. Itâs a fair assessment, I wouldnât wish this life on anyone.â
âOne day, youâll realize that youâre worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.â
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever theyâre absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. Itâs one weight off your chest.Â
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.Â
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.Â
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.Â
The second emotion that lands is panic. Youâre immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that heâs a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.Â
Itâs even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.Â
âNot here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.â
âMy dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?â
âI figured you wouldnât take my calls so I reached out to him,â Bucky clears his throat. âHope thatâs okay.â
âSure, thatâs what most people do anyway. It doesnât matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,â you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. âSorry, that wasnât fair. Itâs fine. Heâs met you,â you relent, âwhatâre you doing here?â
âTo set the record straight.â He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. âEveryone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.â
John⊠isnât he theâ
âYeah, that guy,â Bucky drawls out in annoyance. âApparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.â
âFucker,â you spit out venomously.Â
âTell me about it.â
âYou couldâve told me all this over the phone.â
He cocks an eyebrow, âWould you really have picked up?â
âAn email wouldâve sufficed too.â
âI wanted to make sure you couldnât avoid me.â
Blue washes over you and you canât help but give into the pull of the water. âIâm sorry for thinking it was you,â you murmur, âI knew â I knew that deep down it wasnât.â
âYou couldnât have known for certain,â he shakes his head, âyouâve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.â His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. âPlus, if Iâm being honest, Iâm out here because I missed you.â
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, âWhat?â
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you donât move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. âDidnât realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.â
âWanted?â You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
âWant,â he emphasizes, âPresent. Always.â
âYou think Iâm a bitch,â you choke out.
âNo, I think youâve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,â he smiles softly, âI think youâre smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I donât want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.âÂ
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and â for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. âBucky⊠this could never work.â
âWhy not?â
âFirst of all, we live in different places.â
âPlanes exist.â
âFor how long? Iâm neverâ Iâm never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.â
The corners of his lips quirk up. âThere are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. Iâm a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.â His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. âIâm laying it all out on the table. Iâm ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?â
A whimper crawls out your throat. âItâs going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.â
âIâm one of them. Next question.â
âPaparazzi will be hounding you.â
âI know ten different ways to say fuck off.â Youâre scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You donât want him to leave. You donât want to scare him away. This is it. âWhat do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?â
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that youâre used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. âYes,â you whisper.Â
âGood girl,â he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. âNow, let me take my time showing you what youâve been missing out on.â
âBetter make it worth my time, Barnes,â you laugh breathlessly.Â
âAlways will, princess.â
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
summary : spencer pops his cherry! (aka the first half of your long weekend with spencer.)
wc : 10k
tags/warning : enemies to enemies with benefits, pornwithplot, coworkers, virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, virginity loss, premature ejaculation several times, p in v, unsafe sex, creampie, lots of talking during sex, lots of talking about sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, sex toys but they aren't used (yet), hand jobs, edging, teasing, dom/sub undertones, dom!reader, sub!spencer, like a little bit of bratty spencer omg, praise, and also condescension cause this is still an enemies to lovers even if they're playing nice rn
a/n : this took so long and i am deeply sorry, so much happened over the course of a few weeks but i'm so fond of this chapter and i hope you are too <3
Ë . Ęđđ. Ęâ
âIs this okay?â He pulls away from you, a lock of his hair brushes against your cheek.Â
Youâre a little surprised by your own breathlessness.
âAbsolutely.âÂ
âI umm⊠I donât know what Iâm supposed to do.âÂ
âWhat weâre doing is fine,â You plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth, and another on his jaw. âdo you want me to get on top?
âYes, please.â He nods, letting you put your hands on his shoulders as you ease him down onto the bed next to you before swinging your leg over his lap.Â
His face is already red, god you love that, hair askew as he stares up at you with pupils blown, his hands awkwardly twitching at his sides.
âYou can touch me, start with my waist and see what feels right.â You take his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips. Youâve obviously seen his hands before, but now, while theyâre against your skin youâre surprised by how massive they are. Prominent veins along the back, and long, agile fingers, gripping the fleece fabric of your pants for dear life.Â
His back arches off the mattress as he lets out a breathy whine, gasping as you press him back down. A rather noticeable bulge presses against your thigh in the process.Â
Out of breath and needy beneath you, you come to a nauseating realization that you canât believe you didnât see sooner.Â
Reid is fucking hot.Â
Youâve noticed things before, he doesnât have a completely terrible face, and heâs tall. When he wears fitted shirts youâve certainly noticed an appealing figure, even if heâs annoying, you arenât blind. His hair is always a mess, and he has no idea what heâs doing with it but right now, the way it falls in a pretty halo against your pillow⊠youâre feeling a little mesmerized by the discovery that he isnât just objectively attractive.Â
Heâs hot, like really hot.Â
Maybe itâs just the atmosphere, or maybe itâs situational, but right now, youâre noticing some perplexing details about him that just donât add up with the irritating nuisance youâve always taken him for.Â
Like the curve of his lips, and the sharp angular point of his nose, youâd like to feel it pressed against your skin. His jaw is honestly a little ridiculous now that youâre really, properly, staring at him, itâs absurdly sharp, and heâs got a fucking movie star chin. And heâs clean, which is the oddest detail to notice, but his nails are recently trimmed and tidy, and he smells good. He clearly takes care of himself in a way most of the men you meet out at bars donât. Â
The way his hands twitch against the fabric of your pants, gently drawing them lower so he can run his fingertips against your bare skin is hot. The way his hips are desperately grinding up against you as you try to pin him down, is hot. And his stupid glasses are stupidly hot.Â
âIs everything okay?â His voice snaps you out of it.Â
Shit.Â
âSorry, yes, everythingâs fine.â
âCan- can we keep kissing please?â His grip on you tightens as you let out an airy laugh.
Leaning down you cup his face with both hands, pressing your lips to his again, heâs hungry. His teeth graze your bottom lip as his tongue pokes at your teeth until you open your mouth.Â
He doesnât kiss the way youâd think a virgin would. He isnât timid as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, desperate and ravenous. All teeth and tongue, and in a rush. One of his hands rests on the side of your face, his ridiculously large hands that practically engulf half of your head.Â
 Eventually his hands wander, clearly nervous as he lets one slide down your thigh, the other slips under your shirt but he doesn't seem to have the confidence to drift any higher than your stomach. He whines when you break away from the kiss, taking his wrist you guide his hand up until your tank tops riding up and his hand is placed over your chest. Youâd think you were granting him the greatest pleasure imaginable based on the way he moans, his head falling back in the process.
âDo you own any sex toys?â His voice is high pitched and strained. He squirms, breathing heavy as he cautiously squeezes, whimpering as his fingers dig into your soft flesh.Â
The question makes your brows furrow. Itâs not exactly the dirty talk youâre used to.Â
âYes, obviously, but I donât see how thatâs relevant.âÂ
âIâm just trying to plan ahead, while thereâs no specific statistic, almost all men experience premature ejaculation when having intercourse for the first time. Iâd like to have options to assist me afterwards since I doubt youâre going to achieve climax from ten seconds of penetrative intercourse.â He rambles, in that way youâre used to, except now his eyes are tightly shut, his fingertips glide over your nipple making your breath hitch.Â
You stare down at him, eyebrows drawn together as you try and make sense of what he just said. Both of his hands return to their place on your waist, his fingers dig in just a little too hard, not that you mind Â
âThatâsâŠâ Kind of sweet, in an insane, âonly Spencer would think of thatâ kind of way. ânot something Iâm really worried about right now. Letâs just focus on you right now.â
He nods and you take the opportunity to tilt his head up so you can nip at his neck, grazing your teeth along the edge of his jaw before you bite his ear.Â
âFuck-â He whines as you run your tongue over his ear lobe. You hardly have to grind your hips against his, heâs busying himself with doing it himself. His hands hold you in place as he thrusts up against you. You brace your hands on his shoulders, sitting up so you can look at him.Â
His eyes are still squeezed shut tightly as he whimpers. His teeth dig into his bottom lip so hard youâre worried heâs going to break the skin.Â
So fucking pretty.Â
Unfairly so.Â
The flush on his face and neck, the hair falling into his face, the noises heâs making. Heâs so fucking loud. Youâre sure youâll be getting some dirty looks from your neighbors after tonight. Whining and groaning as he humps you, you havenât even taken your clothes off and heâs putty in your hands.Â
âOh my god.â He keens as his head pushes back against the pillow. You wrap your fingers around his throat gently, with the intention of getting his attention but the sound he makes when you do catches you completely off guard. A strangled cry as he goes rigid beneath you, groaning as he gasps. âFuck, shit⊠fuck.â He spits out a slew of curses through his teeth until his head falls back, the veins in his neck prominent as he cries out.Â
No fucking way.Â
Just like that thereâs a wet warmth between your legs and a stain on his pants as he cringes.Â
âIâm sorry.â He buries his face in his hands, you take the opportunity to tangle your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp.Â
You couldnât be more thrilled, your grin spreads from ear to ear.Â
âFor what?â You try to keep the teasing tone out of your voice but it slips through.Â
He only groans in embarrassment.Â
âDonât be sorry, itâs extremely flattering.â You tug on his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. You really do mean it, when was the last time you had this effect on a guy? Let alone a guy you hardly ever see in compromising positions? The most condescending, insufferable man you know just came in his pants before you so much as took your top off. Â
This makes every correction, interruption, and outright rude comment heâs ever made, totally worth it.Â
âPlease donât patronize me.âÂ
âIâm serious, donât worry about it. How long does it normally take for you to recover? Do you need me to get you some water?â You start to lift off of him but he holds you in place, shifting his hips as he stares up at you. Face still hot with embarrassment.
âIâm all good.âÂ
âAre you sure?â His hips buck up against you, you have to brace yourself against the headboard so you donât fall off of him but he gets his point across when you feel him already hardening again after just a few moments.Â
Jesus.Â
âPretty sure.â He whimpers.Â
âWhy donât you get on top for this part, I think if you control the pace youâll last a little longer.â You climb off of him, laying back against the pillows. He watches, tongue poking out to wet his lips as you kick your pajama pants off, you wore a pair of pretty red panties for the occasion. He stares at you like itâs his first time seeing a woman, wide eyed and slack jawed. You canât help but grin. âTake your pants off, Reid.âÂ
He nods frantically, he couldnât move faster if he tried as he kicks his pants down to his ankles and off of the bed. Thereâs an obvious wet patch on his boxers and an impressive bulge youâre eager to set free.Â
âCan you take those off too? And your shirt?â You point down and up, he simply continues to nod as he tosses his shirt aside, his fingers lingering at his waistband. You could ask him to do quite literally anything and in this moment heâd do it with a smile.Â
You donât even get to enjoy that fact because you continue to be faced by the horrifying truth of his hotness.Â
Slender and scrawny Reid is hiding some fucking arms under those dress shirts and cardigans. Heâs got a little blonde patch of chesthair, and his chest is about as toned as youâd imagine for a human encyclopedia. But his arms, youâre gawking at his biceps. Itâs a subtle muscle, you get a really good look right as heâs pulling his shirt over his head as he flexes.Â
You donât get a lot of time to dwell on that as he shoves his boxers down, and thereâs no going back.Â
You watch as his cock slaps against his stomach and you canât focus on anything else in the room. An asteroid could hit your apartment building and youâd still be staring at the monster between his legs.  Â
No fucking way.
âJesus Reid, what the fuck?â You sit up straighter as he shoves his boxers down his legs until heâs kneeling in front of you completely naked.Â
âWhat?â Heâs quick to nervously cover himself with his hands but you kick his arms away as you stare, dumbfounded by the sight of him.Â
âYouâve just been walking around with this thing? Iâm surprised you donât limp everywhere, youâve got a third fucking leg.âÂ
âShut up.â You didnât think his face could get any redder but he proves you wrong, blush spreads down his neck, and across his chest.Â
âSeriously, what the fuck?âÂ
âWas I supposed to announce it to everyone? Itâs a slightly above average sized penis.â Maybe in the porn industry itâs slightly above average.Â
Boy genius has the biggest cock youâve ever seen, and youâve seen plenty.Â
âHow is this fair?â Your eye is practically twitching.
âHow is what fair?â
âYouâre the most annoying person Iâve ever met and youâve been blessed with this, and you donât even use it.â
âI canât be that annoying or we wouldnât be here right now.â He mumbles under his breath, beet red at this point.Â
You only scowl in response, laying back, you raise an eyebrow at him.Â
âWhat do you want me to do now?â His voice is still tinged with a high pitched embarrassment.Â
âWhat do you want to do?â
âI think itâs pretty obvious at this point.â It certainly is, his cock stands at attention, tip red and slick with his previous release. You canât help but eye the thick vein running along the underside, from base to tip. Just like the rest of him, his cock is aggravatingly pretty. He shifts nervously. âStop staring at it, youâre making me self conscious.â He grumbles.
âYou have no reason to be self conscious, come here.â You pat the space between your legs, bending your knees so he can slot himself between them. âTake my panties off, Reid.âÂ
You donât have to tell him twice.Â
Nimble fingers wrap themselves around the fabric at your hips, lingering there and trembling softly as he runs the pad of his thumb across the lace band.
When he doesnât make a move to pull them down you clear your throat.Â
âSo like⊠you know what to do, right?â
âOf course I know what to do.â He sounds a bit shrill.
âWould you like some guidance?â
âI just donât want to mess up.â He sits back, fingers twitching against his palms.Â
âYou wonât, youâre too much of an overachiever for that.â
âIâve seen a lot of videos, and Iâve read a lot of information, so I know thereâs a few different things I can do to start. I just donât want to do the wrong thing.â
âThere is no wrong thing, Reid. Itâs sex, itâs free flowing, itâs natural. Whatever you do is the right thing to do.âÂ
âBut itâs you. And youâre staring at me with your eyes and touching me with your hands and talking to me with your mouth.â
He has such an endearing vulnerability about him. At work all you get is an argumentative, know-it-all, itâs a little jarring to see him so unsure. It makes you wonder if you should have done this at all.Â
âReid.âÂ
âWhat.â
âWe donât have to do this.â
âI want to.â
âReally? Cause youâre looking at me like a frightened deer. Iâm not going to disappear, and Iâm not going to make fun of you. But you need to relax, if you donât want to do this thatâs fine but-â
âI do.â You believe it, he sounds almost panicked at the thought of not.Â
âThen you need to relax.â
âCan you- can you just keep telling me what to do?â His head falls forward, staring down as he mumbles.Â
âDo you like it when I do that?â
You brush his hair out of his face as he nods.Â
âYou can start by taking my panties off, youâll feel a lot better if you arenât the only one with your clothes off.âÂ
He does exactly as heâs told, this time when his fingers grip the fabric heâs quick to tug them down your thighs. You lift your hips to help him, watching as he carefully brings them to your ankles before removing them completely.Â
The look in his eyes as he stares between your legs is exactly why you decided to give him a chance in the first place.Â
Devotion.
His eyes are more pupil than iris as he stares silently, tongue poking out to wet his lips before he chews on them, a habit youâre noticing more and more from him.Â
âIâm gonna need you to warm me up before you stick that thing in me.â You take his hand, resting it on your inner thigh, his fingers fidget nervously against you. âWhy donât we start with fingers, or if you want I can do it myself.â
âI want to do it.â He answers quickly, gripping the soft flesh of your thigh.
âOkay, start with one, and Iâll tell you when to add another.â
âOkay.â His breathing is heavy as you take him by the wrist, leading him gently between your legs, your breath hitches as his fingers slide between your folds, his cock twitches against his belly the second he feels the wetness pooling there. You guide him to your entrance, letting your eyes flutter shut as he finally presses a finger into you.Â
Itâs definitely been a while.Â
You donât want to make a fool of yourself but it feels so good to have another person touch you, especially considering the last couple of months have been entirely your own hand and toys.Â
âIs this okay?â His voice is hoarse as he slowly starts to withdraw.Â
âPerfect.â You squeak out, taking a deep breath. âI can probably take another.â You arenât ready for it yet but the burn is so good you canât help yourself.Â
Heâs happy to oblige, two fingers slide through the slick of your folds before delving into your cunt. Heâs slow and precise as he moves in and out, hesitating when you groan, before repeating the motion that pulled that reaction from you in an attempt to hear it again.Â
âCurl your fingers.â You dig your nails into the sheets around you, struggling to keep your voice even as he does so, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that makes your back arch off the mattress. âJust like that.â You hiss through your teeth. Â
Oh heâs good.Â
Your expectations were low, even if you didnât want to tell him that, but heâs good. He doesnât just do whatâs hard or fast, when you open your eyes heâs studying you. Any noise you make, you make twice, because he tests everything. Curling his fingers, scissoring them, angling them up against you. His free hand eventually comes to rest on your pelvis, applying pressure as he simultaneously crooks his fingers, grinning when you cover your mouth with your hand in a failed attempt to stifle a groan. So rarely do you see such an earnest smile from him directed at you. Your reaction leaves him smiling like an idiot as he does it again, and again, and again, until you sit up and gently push on his shoulders until he withdraws his fingers.
âWhereâd you learn that one?â You try to keep your voice steady, your core is buzzing from the sudden withdrawal.
âThe internet.â
âFor someone who claims to hate all technology you seem to spend a lot of time on the internet.â
âSure do.â He shrugs, thankfully much less nervous.Â
You canât take your eyes off of him as you lean back, resting your head against the pillows as he brings his fingers to his lips with zero hesitation, as if itâs second nature to him. Moaning against them as he sucks them clean.Â
Jesus.Â
âAre you ready?â His fingers are still in his mouth when you ask, he hums as he nods. His dick literally couldnât be harder, it looks almost painful, the weeping red tip, begging for a release youâre happy to give him. âGo slow.â Mostly for your benefit, youâre certain itâs going to hurt at least a little trying to cram his absurd dick into you.Â
He continues to nod, as he moves closer to you, bracing himself with his hands on either side of your head as his cock pokes at your thigh.Â
âAre you ready?â He mumbles as you give him a half smile.
âAre you?â
âYeah, I think so.â You let your hand drift to the space between you, when you take his cock in your hand he whimpers, his entire body goes still as you help to line him up at your entrance. You donât dare close your eyes now, you donât want to miss the look on his face.Â
The sound he makes when he slides through your folds is pornagraphic. Actually, itâs better than pornographic, in porn the sounds are always exaggerated and fake. The sounds heâs making are raw and real. You stare wide eyed as the space between his eyebrows creases, his lips parting slightly as his face scrunches up, if you didnât know any better youâd say he was in pain, but you know better.Â
âOh my god-â His head falls back, you watch as his adams apple bobs, and best of all, you feel the stretch of his cock as he pushes into you. âOh my god, oh my god, oh my god.â He whispers over and over again in an increasingly high pitched tone. Your headboard shifts as one of his hands moves to grip the wood.
He pushes inch by inch into you, the squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it might pop as he lets out a pitiful whine. You let out your own contented sigh as you bask in the feeling of being split open. Itâs hard to believe youâve been willingly denying yourself this feeling for so long. Itâs even harder to believe you let Reid be the one to make you feel it.Â
You thread your fingers through his hair as he bottoms out, his pelvis hitting yours.Â
If you had known how good his cock would feel buried inside you, you would have unbuttoned his pants on your first day in the BAU and gotten on top of him right there at his desk. It feels like his dick was sculpted for you, thick and pretty, perfectly hitting every spot buried inside of you.Â
âOh my fucking god, oh my god-â Heâs panting like a dog above you as he babbles on endlessly. âHoly fu- oh my god, fuck-â With a rather loud whine you can feel his hips twitching against yours, he continues to whimper, making little noises as his entire body tenses and your headboard creaks as he leans against it.Â
Then there is a stillness.Â
And a silence, in the dim light of your bedroom as he struggles to catch his breath. Thereâs a wet warmth between your legs as his cock slips out of you.
âIâm sorry.â He says sheepishly, when his head falls forward you can see that his smile is too genuine to convey any actual apologetic feelings.Â
âThereâs nothing to be sorry about.â You run your hand from his wrist to his shoulder, simply touching him for the sake of touching him. âDo you feel okay?â
âI feel fucking fantastic.â What a shock it is to hear curses fall from his lips. âHow do you feel?â
âSplendid.â You mean it, even if you arenât necessarily satisfied, there is a pleasure in knowing that youâre the first person to see him like this. This version of Reid is so much more agreeable compared to what youâre used to.Â
âNext time Iâll do better, I promise.â God, youâll have to find a way to thank Emily without letting her know that this happened, heâs perfect. Thereâs nothing you love more than a man whoâs eager to please. âCan I try to make you come?â The words sound foreign in his voice, like heâs unsure heâs using the right terminology.Â
âYeah of course, do you know what to do?â
âI think I can figure it out.â You canât help but laugh at his confidence, he isnât the first guy whoâs told you heâll âfigure it out.â
âHave you watched a lot of videos?â
âVideos, forum posts, as many books as I could find on the subject, I read the book Sex for Dummies.â Heâs lighter, and so much more at ease now when he speaks.Â
âIs that a real thing?â
âIt is, and itâs surprisingly helpful and informative.âÂ
âYouâre unbelievable.â You sit up on your elbows as he sits back on his knees. âIâm sure youâre very well informed but Iâm not the easiest girl to finish, I can do it myself first if youâd like.â
âIâd like to try and figure it out on my own first, if thatâs alright with you. I would of course appreciate verbal cues from you if something feels good, or if it doesnâtâÂ
âI can certainly do that.âÂ
He bends your knees, reaching for a pillow he gently lifts your hips to slide it under you to give him a better view. Heâs studying your cunt, eyes moving up and down as he sits back.
âDo you masturbate?â His eyes flit to your face as he asks, you canât help but laugh.
âEveryone jerks off, Reid.âÂ
âWell I donât know, I thought it might be different when youâre sexually active.â
âIt is, sometimes I go a few weeks without doing it, sometimes I do it everyday, it depends more on my mood than my current partner.âÂ
âHmm.â He nods, seemingly truly invested in the information youâre sharing with him. âHow do you normally do it?â If you didnât know any better youâd say his limp dick was starting to swell again.Â
âI use toys, unfortunately these-â You hold your hand out in front of him, wiggling your fingers to show off your manicure. âprevent me from using my fingers most of the time. So I have tools to help.â While your arm is outstretched you take the opportunity to grab his hand, pulling him closer so his hand hovers just over your cunt.Â
âCan I see them?â
âMy toys?â You arenât sure if you want him to, even if heâs been inside of you, itâs an oddly intimate thing to share. He nods, eyes so wide you canât say no. âIf you can make me come.â
He nods again, a determined look flickering in his eyes.Â
With a surgical precision he separates your folds, examining your entrance with intense focus, with his other hand he pushes the come leaking out of you back in. Fingers scooping and pressing into you before pushing fully in, two digits sink into you, just as youâd instructed him to do previously, this time he curls them almost immediately. With a small gasp your eyes flutter shut.Â
âWhat feels better, this-â He curls his fingers again, harshly. âor this?â He presses deeper before withdrawing swiftly and pressing deep again, holding his hand there the heel of his palm grinds against your clit, your head spins as you groan.Â
âThat, definitely that.â You grit your teeth as he repeats the motion, much slower this time as he finds his rhythm. Moving in and out ever so slowly as your fingers grip the sheets, an obscene wet sound accompanies his efforts. The hand that was parting your folds moves to your thigh to push your legs further apart as he crouches down, squinting as he looks you over, as if he can discern the secrets of the female orgasm by taking a closer look.Â
The pad of his thumb swipes across your clit making you squeak as your hips buck involuntarily.Â
Your eyes fly open when you hear the hiss of air and a sharp, wet sound, feeling a wetness dripping between your legs.
âDid you just spit on me?âÂ
âProper lubrication can help to reduce friction, itâs for your comfort and pleasure.â He explains it like heâs presenting evidence, but you can see his cock swelling against his stomach again.
âReally?â You cock an eyebrow at him, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
âReallyâŠâ He rubs an experimental circle against your clit, spreading his spit across the bundle of nerves as your breath catches in your throat. âI also saw it in a video once and thought it would feel good to do, and I was right, it felt amazing.â He mumbles that last bit as his concentration drifts back between your legs, all of his focus on you as he finds a solid pace between both of his hands.Â
You alternate between arching backwards, with your head leaning back, and shifting forward when you can, watching him closely.Â
His tongue pokes out between his teeth, his focus is almost comedically intense, but thereâs nothing funny about the way heâs working his fingers. He continues to try different things, moving his thumb a certain way, applying different amounts of pressure. Shifting his fingers to be angled a certain way until he finds the perfect position to brush up against all your most sensitive nerves.Â
Heâs relentless once he finds a way to make your eyes roll back and your legs shake, robotic in nature as he repeats the motion perfectly, again and again.
âFuck, Reid-â You mumble, trying to stop yourself as the words tumble out. The last thing you need is for him to get an ego about this after you just told him it wouldnât be an easy task.Â
âDoes it feel good?â His voice is hoarse, coming out as a strained whisper.
âMhmm.â You hum as your hips lift off the mattress an inch as he crooks his fingers a bit. Your head is spinning as you suck in another breath. He carries on like it comes naturally to him, as the knot forms low in your stomach. âLike that-âÂ
The instinct of most men when something feels good is to do that thing harder and faster, which never really works out for them. Reid seems to have better intuition than most men though, instead he maintains that delicious pace. Fingers buried deep within you as you cover your mouth with your hand to stifle the cry threatening to burst from your throat.Â
Until the knot in your stomach tightens, until it pulls taut, and threatens to snap.Â
Your toes curl, digging your heels down into the mattress as you lift your hips. Despite the way your hips twist around wildly he manages to keep it up, burying his fingers deeper until the knot snaps and you come, hard.Â
Clamping down on his fingers as you let out a series of moans. You open your eyes just long enough to see the satisfied smirk on his face. His own eyes are hungry, never leaving your cunt.
The pressure in your head releases as you let go of the breath you didnât realize you were holding in, your body going limp as you reach down and shove his hand away, the overstimulation buzzing through your body as he continues to try and play with your clit. You donât get a lot of time to recover because heâs back between your legs, hard cock in hand as he guides himself back against your entrance.
âAgain already?â You raise an eyebrow but heâs too hyper focused on what heâs doing to answer. Youâre wet enough that thereâs no resistance as he slams back into you. The stretching feeling returns full force as he forces himself into your already overstimulated cunt. âJesus, Reid!âÂ
The feeling of fullness is overwhelming. You manage to yelp as he thrusts into you a few times, the head of his cock hitting your cervix with every sloppy thrust until his head falls back and you see the now familiar sight of his eyes fluttering shut as he comes, immediately melting into a whimpering mess. His face and neck are bright red as he falls over beside you.Â
As he sucks in a harsh breath his hand wanders back between your legs. You instinctively swat his hand away, too sore for whatever heâs trying to do.
âAre you done already?â Thereâs a tinge of disappointment in his voice that makes you laugh.
âFor now, thereâs no reason to wear yourself out on night one, Reid.â Youâre still fighting to catch your breath.
âItâs gonna take a lot more than that to wear me out.âÂ
âOh, I intend to find out exactly what it takes.â You sit up on your elbows, eying him.Â
âYeah?â You watch as he licks his fingers clean again. You could watch him do that for hours.
âThis is just training for what I have planned for you, think of this as the academy, pretty boy. I plan on having you ready for field work in record time.â The nickname isnât one youâve used before, typically only Derek calls him that but it feels appropriate considering just how pretty he looks right now.Â
He moves to lay beside you, a sheen of sweat coats his skin, he smells musky in a good way, a mix of earthy and sweet. The heat of his body has made the ends of his hair curl.
âI graduated top of my class, and I completed all of the courses in a tenth of the time it took the rest of my class. It would have been less time but they didnât believe me when I told them Iâd finished all of the course content.â He traces his fingers up and down your arm as he beams at you like the sun. It genuinely looks like heâs lost ten years worth of stress in the last hour, the constant tension he carries in his shoulders has melted away, and his eye bags almost seem less dark. You canât help but put a hand on his shoulder, lightly scratching your nails against his pale skin.
âHowâd you do on the physical assessment?"
âWorst in the group.â He grins, flashing his teeth at you.
âPoor thing.â
âI got over it, being the youngest person ever recruited for the BAU was a nice consolation prize.â
âI hope your stamina has gotten better since then, I intend to put you through some endurance training.â You dig your nails into his shoulder.Â
He frowns as he theatrically groans.Â
âOh youâll be fine. Itâs clear to me based on how you act that youâve never once denied yourself anything. You need to be told no every once in a while or youâll get spoiled.â
âCan I see your toys now?â
You pull the blankets up and over yourself, an exhaustion muddling your thoughts as you yawn.
âIn the morning, get some sleep, we can talk about it in the morning.â You roll over onto your side, facing him. He shifts awkwardly as he pulls his boxers back on.
âShould I⊠go sleep on the couch? Or I could go home and come back tomorrow.â He starts to get up but you gently grab his arm.Â
You should send him home. Thatâs what youâd typically do after a night like this, but this isnât a typical night. If this is going to be an ongoing thing between the two of you then it doesnât hurt to let him spend the night.Â
âLay down, Reid.â He does as heâs told, shuffling underneath the sheets with you, laying on his side so youâre face to face.Â
You try to ignore him and close your eyes but he makes it hard with the intensity of his stare.Â
âGoodnight, Reid.â You mumble, eventually rolling over to escape his severe gaze.Â
âGoodnight.â He whispers back.Â
Ë . Ęđđ. Ęâ
He might be in love with you.Â
His feelings towards you have been confusing and complicated for quite some time. Heâs never been able to properly put it into words before. There was resentment there, but now he knows that was likely because he couldnât have you. And now he does, and heâs pretty sure this whole time those confusing emotions might have just been love all twisted up.Â
He hasnât ever been in love but this has to be the closest thing heâs ever felt to it. He has no interest in so much as looking at another woman ever again, why would he? He doesnât need anyone else, not with you laying next to him.Â
Youâre so sweet, even when youâre being mean. It confuses him and it confuses his penis even more.Â
He didnât know you could be so sweet, that must be why everyone at work loves you. He can certainly see the appeal. You didnât tease him, at least not while he was vulnerable, and you didnât pull the rug out from under him at the last minute. Instead you made pretty noises, smiled, and touched his hair.Â
He didnât want to sleep, he would have much preferred to stare at you as you snored softly beside him but the exhaustion of the evening caught up with him quickly and before he knew it he was out.Â
He woke up first in the morning, light filtering in through the blinds against his face. He didnât open his eyes at first, there was a very real possibility that he had dreamed everything and you would be gone when he opened his eyes. He wanted to live in that fantasy for a little while longer.Â
Yet when he opened his eyes there you were.Â
Drool on your pillow, lips parted with each quiet snore, your tanktop straps slid down your shoulders. You look like an angel.Â
Heâs tempted to get out of bed and raid your bookshelf, you have so many titles he hasnât ever heard of, he doesnât care about the contents so much as he wants to feel closer to you. But heâs worried heâll wake you if he moves so he doesnât. He just enjoys the steady rise and fall of your chest with each breath.
When you do finally wake, a wave of unease crashes over him as he waits for you to furrow your brow and glare at him before kicking him out. Instead you smile, and his heart feels like itâs beating so fast it may burst.Â
âMorning.â You rubbed your eyes and reached for him, heâs more than happy to wrap himself around you.Â
âGood morning.â He murmurs, burying himself in your arms as he twists his arms around you, resting his head on your chest.Â
âWhat do you want to do today?âÂ
âThis.â
âThereâs too much time in the day to only do this.â
âWell, what do you want to do?âÂ
âYou mentioned a chess tournament at some point, itâs today right?â
âYou actually want to watch that?â
âYeah, why not?â
âIt might be boring for you.âÂ
âI know how to play chess, Reid.â
âYou know all sorts of things.â
âI do, in some cases Iâd say I probably know more than you.â Your nails scrape against his scalp as you comb through his hair. Heâd always thought your long nails were impractical, another way for you to draw attention to yourself. He wonât be raising any more complaints about them going forward, not when they feel so good against his skin.Â
âWhat else will we do today?â He tries not to sound too hopeful when he asks.Â
âWe can do whatever youâd like.âÂ
He would like to touch you more, he feels like heâs only scratched the surface of your body. Heâd like you to give him permission first and foremost, or preferably, youâd ask him for it. Heâd like this version of you, the one that lets him into your bed and says sweet, mean, things to him, to be the only version of you.Â
âCan I see your sex toys now?â You roll over, hiding your face in the pillow and groaning as he sits up. âYou promised.â
Turning your head you peek up at him.Â
âI suppose I did.â You just lay there for a moment until you sigh and lean off the bed, reaching underneath before throwing a shoe box down onto the bed in front of him. âIf you tell anybody about this Iâll-â
âKill me, deny it, never let me touch you again. I think we can just assume at this point that I donât intend on telling anyone about any of this.â You roll your eyes at him as he reaches for the box.Â
You lay back down beside him as he flips the lid up, eyes widening as he stares down at the contents. Immediately with a grin he picks up the silicone cock, holding it out towards you.Â
âReally?â He canât help the sarcastic tone that seeps into his voice.
âWhat? Most women have one, if youâre gonna be a dick about it Iâm gonna put them away.â
âDo most women have one so pink and sparkly?â You yank it out of his hands, throwing it back into the box.Â
âIt doesnât matter what color it is if it gets the job done.â When you cross your arms in front of your chest he picks it up again.
âAnd this little toy gets the job done?â He thinks about how your jaw dropped when you saw his dick for the first time. You stared with wide eyes and told him he was big, just thinking about it makes his face feel hot. Heâs certainly bigger than this tiny thing.
âBig talk from someone who came immediately." Low blow, you always resort to those when you donât have a better response.
âYou promised not to tease me about that.â
âAnd I didnât, Iâm just stating a fact.â
He sets the dildo back in the box, lifting the next thing to demand his attention, a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs up.Â
âTheres a lot to address in this box but these are certainly eye catching.â
âDonât get too excited. I got those as a gag gift, Emily gave them to me for my birthday.â
âHave you ever used them?â
âNo, I prefer real cuffs.â
His mind races at the thought, any witty retort he might have formed fizzles out. You, handcuffed to the headboard, with your arms behind your back, to an interrogation table. All the blood in his head rushes out of his brain straight down to his dick as he flits through the possibilities, you, on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head, doing whatever you want to him.Â
âEarth to Spencer.â You're snapping your pretty manicured fingers at him as he blinks at you.Â
âSorry, I must have zoned out.â He drops the cuffs, pulling one of your throw pillows into his lap. âWhatâs this?â He holds up a silver pill shaped thing with a wire attached to it, leading to a small plastic remote with a wheel.
âThat would be my vibrator.â Heâs never seen a vibrator that looks like this and the confusion must be apparent on his face. You take it from him, when you spin the wheel and the silver pill buzzes to life on the bed. âMost women donât own the big hitachi wands you see in porn. Those things are expensive.â You seemingly read his mind, he had in fact been picturing the larger wands heâs seen in countless videos. He does recognize the last thing in the box, another flash of silver. A very small silver plug with a pink gem at the base, in the videos heâs watched they were usually a lot bigger. He can tell by the way youâre raising your eyebrows at him that youâre waiting for him to ask about it, he decides against it.Â
âI thought there would be more.â He tucks everything back into the box, sliding it back over to you.
âI think thatâs a perfectly normal amount for a person to have.â
âYou always make it sound like youâre hiding chains and whips in your closet.â
âDo you want me to invest in chains and whips?â
âYou lie a lot at work.â
âYou listen in on too many of my conversations.â
âYou talk loudly, why make things up? Iâm sure you have plenty of stories that are true.â
âBecause I like to tell a good story, besides, most guys arenât into that kind of thing.â
âAre you into that kind of thing?â
âIâm into everything.â
His dick is so hard it hurts.Â
âAnd you would like a guy who is also into everything.â
âThereâs that big brain of yours putting in the work.â
âSo you would want a long term thing with that kind of guy?â
âDonât be weird about it, Reid. I have no desire to put a label on this.â Of course you donât, you have an avoidant personality and youâre terrified of the thought of someone getting close enough to see behind the strict facade you put on. âBut yes, I think weâre in agreement to enjoy each other's company outside of work. Itâll help me relieve stress and hopefully you wonât be so uptight if youâre regularly getting laid.âÂ
He wants more than getting laid regularly. He wants you, now more than ever. But until he figures out how to get that this will have to do.
âSo we agree that this is a long term thing?â He does his best to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.
âItâs a long-ish term thing. If you must have something akin to a label you could call this a friends with benefits situation.â
âSo weâre friends now?â
You frown at him.
âCoworkers with benefits, BAU with benefits, enemies with benefits, whatever you want to call it.â He has lots of things he wants to call it, but he knows that if he does that youâll run far away from whatever this is.Â
Long-ish term thing.
He hates that.Â
Now that he knows what it feels like to have you moaning underneath him heâs not sure he can handle life without it.Â
Itâs fine.Â
Itâs going to be fine.
Heâs solved harder cases than this.Â
When he gets a chance to focus on something other than how beautiful you look right now glaring at him heâs going to figure out exactly what itâs gonna take to get rid of the ish in long-ish term thing.Â
Â Â Ë . Ęđđ. Ęâ
You spend most of the day on your back.Â
On the couch, on the bed, on your bedroom rug at one point.Â
Spencer acts like heâs found some kind of groundbreaking discovery in your vagina. And if he doesnât check on it often enough it might disappear or change.Â
You get up to make breakfast and he offers to make coffee. When he hands you a cup youâre almost irritated at how good it is, he knows exactly how much creamer you like and heâs seemingly brewed better coffee than youâve ever made with your shitty french press.Â
When you moan at the taste and set the mug down he seemingly canât help himself. That sound is like a dog whistle to him. He leans against the fridge, staring at you with a tent in his pants until you roll your eyes and smile at him.
âDo you want to do it?â
He doesnât even answer you, you're simply dragged to the couch and heâs on top of you.Â
The eggs end up burning but youâre happy to make more.Â
When you tell him youâre going to try and finish the book youâre reading he follows behind you like a dog on a leash. He doesnât bother you, letting you sit against the headboard he finds his own book from your shelf. Itâs one you have read, Bride.Â
The sight of him with a romance novel in his hands with his brows furrowed makes you burst into a fit of laughter.Â
âWhat?â He already sounds offended.
âNothing, I just donât think thatâs the type of book you usually read.â
âI read all types of books.â He seems insistent so you let him flip his way through it. You donât get through more than a page of your own book because youâre too focused on him. The way his eyes get wide when he clearly gets to a sex scene, or how his eyes flit up towards you when he gets to a page you dogeared on your own read through. It only takes him a few minutes before heâs closing it and staring at you with a mix of horror and awe. âYou read that kind of thing at your desk at work?â
âWhy wouldnât I?â
âItâs porn! Itâs extremely inappropriate! Can you imagine if I started reading a dirty magazine at my desk?â His face is red as he throws the book down onto your end table.Â
âIt isnât all porn, thereâs plenty of plot and story.â
âIâve seen you reading this exact book at work before, I canât believe youâve been reading this type of thing on the clock.â He seems genuinely frazzled by the thought. You canât stop laughing as his voice gets higher and higher. âI canât believe you read this around other people!â
âRelax, Reid, all the women in the office read books like that at work. We actually have a little book club.â He puts his head in his hands as he groans. Youâre sure heâs mentally recalling every book heâs ever seen J.J, Penelope, and Emily reading at work, trying to piece together the contents based on the titles he can remember. You put your hand on his leg as he runs his fingers through his hair nervously. âIsnât it kinda hot though? To read something like that in public?â
Thatâs all you have to say to get him back on top of you, itâs almost too easy.Â
After that sort of thing happens about five more times you tell him you have to shower. He stays in your bed, reading more of your books with a horrified look on his face. When you return in a towel heâs on his feet immediately, hands on your waist as he tries to guide you to the bed.
âI donât want to get the sheets wet, let me dry off first.â You laugh but heâs quick to get you on the floor instead. Even if you know itâs only going to be a few seconds it feels too good to pass up on any opportunity to get his dick inside of you.Â
Around 6:00 p.m. he orders dinner for you both, picking through the takeout menus on your fridge you donât have to so much as lift a finger. One of the perks of his stalker tendencies is that he knows exactly what you want from the chinese place down the street.Â
You set up the chess tournament stream on your television while he does that. Waiting on the couch until he joins you, even after heâs been inside of you he still sits on the other side of the couch, legs pressed together with his hands on his lap like heâs afraid of taking up too much space.Â
âHow long is the average chess game?â You slide closer to him, until your legs are touching.Â
âYou canât really put a number on it, thereâs blitz games, rapid games, standard games, tournaments are normally the longest.â He always relaxes when heâs explaining something he knows a lot about.Â
Which is most things.
âHow long is this tournament?â
âItâs a longer one, but the time will depend on how the match goes, it could be as quick as a few minutes, though I seriously doubt it, itâs much more likely to be between three to six hours.â
âThat long?âÂ
âWe donât have to watch the whole thing if you donât want to.â
âNo, I want to.âÂ
Thankfully itâs only the first match heâs interested in watching. Over the course of the next three hours youâre surprisingly entertained. He explains everything to you in a way that is shockingly not condescending.Â
After half an hour the food arrives, and of course heâs ordered you your favorite dinner combo, you swallow a comment about how heâs a creep.
Itâs kind of nice to have someone care so much about things like that.
He spends the rest of the match explaining the players origins and significance to the chess community.Â
When he isnât correcting you about something you said, his ramblings are surprisingly interesting. You donât play a lot of chess but he explains every move made in great detail to you, it almost makes you feel smarter. An hour and a half into the match he tells you who the winner is going to be, and after another hour and a half, heâs proven right.Â
He reaches for the remote when the match is over but you grab his wrist to stop him.
âLetâs watch one more.â You give him a reassuring smile, who knew the know-it-all was going to need so much encouragement after the day heâs had.Â
âAre you sure? It could be another long match, we can watch something else if youâd like.â Youâre sure, youâve got plans to keep yourself entertained during this next game.Â
âNo, I want to watch this.â You move close to him, resting your head on his shoulder. He balls his hands up into fists in his lap when you do.
For someone who's come inside you multiple times today he sure is nervous. He isnât typically. Awkward, sure, but nervous? Youâve found him to be overconfidant most of the time at work.Â
You start with a hand on his thigh, ignoring whatever might be happening on the T.V. as you scratch your nails against the cotton of his sweatpants.Â
âTake your pants off.â Thatâs all you have to say to have him lifting his hips up off the couch, he unceremoniously shoves his pants and boxers down to his ankles before he starts to get on top of you. âSit down, Reid.â You keep your voice even as you click your tongue.Â
Itâs so refreshing to have him comply without argument. Anytime youâve ever told him what to do at work youâve always been met with a whine or a âyouâre not my superior agent.â He has no problems with compliance now, as he sits back, staring at you with those doe eyes of his as his cock strains against his stomach.Â
âYou like when I tell you what to do, right Reid?â Youâre pleased as punch when he nods hastily. Good, you like telling him what to do. âThen watch the game.âÂ
âWhat?â He squeaks.Â
âWatch the chess match.â You say it a bit sterner this time, frowning at him until he does. His eyes dart back and forth from the screen to you until they settle on the screen. His teeth are digging into his bottom lip as he stares, unfocused at the game.Â
When youâre certain heâs watching you reach forward, he hisses through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft. When he starts to look towards you you grab his chin with your free hand, gently guiding his attention back to the screen as you move at a snail's pace with your first stroke up and down his length.Â
âWatch the game Reid. And tell me when youâre about to come, if you donât Iâm not going to be happy.â You whisper as you let go of his face. Watching the way his throat bobs as he nods. âIâd like you to tell me what youâre going to do.â You settle your hand back at the base of his cock, unmoving as he lets out a whine.Â
âIâm going to watch the game and tell you before I come.â
You make a tsking sound at him, tightening your grip just enough to be noticeable.Â
âNot before you come, when youâre about to.â
âWhatâs the difference?â His voice edges towards a whine as you slide your hand up his length, letting your thumb brush up against the pretty pink tip of his cock.Â
âYou tell me when itâs about to happen, that doesnât mean itâs going to. Before implies an after, there isnât going to be an after because you arenât going to come until I give you permission.â He gives you a skeptical look the entire time you speak, thereâs a moment of silence before he opens his mouth.Â
âBut what if I-â You swipe your thumb over his tip, and then trace a little circle over it as his words turn into a whimper.Â
âYou arenât going to come until I give you permission.â You repeat yourself, still in a whisper.Â
And he fucking pouts.Â
Bottom lip jutting forward, brows furrowed and wide eyes filled with a dramatic sadness.Â
Poor Spencer.
Youâre a little embarrassed at how wet you are. Thank god you donât have a penis that would give you away every time he does something stupid that arouses you.Â
âDonât you want to make me feel good?â You match his pout, batting your eyelashes at him theatrically, his frown deepens as he nods. âThen youâre going to need to build up your stamina. Weâll both be happier that way.âÂ
âBut-â
âNo, but.â You shake your head, at him, faux pity coating your words. âYouâre going to tell me, or Iâm going to be very cross with you.âÂ
He nods as he continues to pout.Â
You continue to move slowly, up and down the length of him, keeping your grip tight and controlled. It doesnât take much to get him there, almost immediately his legs tremble, his fingers dig into your throw pillows. His cheeks are bright red as he takes a shaky breath. You drag the pad of your thumb in lazy circles against his leaking tip until he gasps.Â
âIâm gonna-â
âNo, youâre not.â You slide your hand down his shaft, tightly squeezing him around the base of his cock, still and firm.
His head falls back as he lets out a pathetic whine. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he makes a pained sound.Â
âOh come on, Reid.â You canât help it as you smirk at him as he continues staring at the ceiling. âYou canât already be whining, thatâs only the first one.âÂ
âFirst?â He groans as he sits up straighter. âHow many times do we have to do this?â You almost laugh at how frantic he sounds, instead you give him a knowing smile.Â
âUntil the game is done, silly.â He practically jumps out of his seat when you squeeze his cock again.Â
âI canât do that!â His voice hitches up, itâs the argumentative tone youâre used to from him. But instead of irritating you, it only serves to egg you on.
âYou can, and you will.â
âWe donât even know how long this match will be, it could be hours!â His voice just gets higher and higher.Â
You only shrug in response.Â
He starts to sputter but stops, instead he scowls.Â
âI could just do it myself if you wonât let me.â Thereâs that attitude you know all too well.Â
âYou wonât.â
âWhy not?â He raises his eyebrows at you, pretty bold for someone whose cock is still in your hand.Â
âBecause you want to make me happy.â He opens his mouth but any response dies in his throat as he starts to chew on his lip, clearly thinking. âYou want to make me happy, and you want to make me feel good. And you know that if you can control your dick for more than twenty seconds you might be able to feel really good. And you want me to feel really good, donât you Reid?â With another gentle squeeze of his dick heâs putty in your hands.
âYes-â He hisses as you trail a finger along the vein on the underside of his cock. âYes, I- I want to make you feel really good.â He manages to stutter the words out as his dick twitches against your hand.  Â
âI thought so.â You nod, your expression is one of mock sympathy as you start to stroke him again, you donât bother trying to get him to pay attention to the match. He can hardly keep his eyes open.
Luckily for him it doesnât actually end up being that long of a game compared to the last one.
Over the course of an hour you bring him to that edge probably a dozen times, until his forehead is slick with sweat and he can barely longer speak. He simply whimpers and chews on his lip with his head thrown back, and like the good boy you knew he could be, he tells you each time heâs about to come.Â
Not once does he beg you to let him finish.Â
He really does want to please you. Youâre reminded again and again that heâs perfect.Â
You know itâs going to end in a forfeit when he manages to pay attention long enough to look over the board and sigh in relief. Not even ten minutes later one of the men knocks his king over and Spencerâs practically in tears at the sight.Â
âYou did so good.â You canât help but smile, even if he canât seem to stop his eyes from squeezing shut.Â
âMhmm.â He hums, quietly as you pick up the pace, the tip of his cock weeps, red and desperate for the release heâs earned.
âYou know the best part about having to wait for it?â You rest your head on his shoulder once more, heâs sweating profusely but it doesnât bother you one bit.Â
âI- umm- no I donât think- I-â His words come out half formed and slurred.Â
âIt feels so good when it finally happens.â Heâs making a conscious effort not to finish in your hand as you continue to jerk him off, youâre actually impressed. Heâs certainly earned his release. âI want you to come, Reid.â Halfway through your sentence his hand grips your wrist as his cock spasm against your palm, you continue to stroke him through his orgasm.Â
His mouth falls open, lips wet and swollen from where heâs been chewing on them. Youâre never going to be able to face your neighbors after thing, heâs so loud. Crying out as he repeats your name over and over again.Â
You figured with how many times heâs come today he wouldnât make too much of a mess. You thought wrong, his stomach is covered in his release as you rest your hand on his thigh. You give him a coy smile as he struggles to catch his breath. While heâs still out of it you hop up off the couch, quickly making your way to the kitchen to get him some paper towels and a glass of water. When you return his cheeks are flushed, and heâs staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
Thereâs too much behind those eyes. Too much beyond lust, an appreciation, a devotion.Â
Thatâs what you wanted? Isnât it? You wanted someone devoted to you without any string attached. You wanted someone who liked to have fun, someone who would enjoy it as much as you do. And thatâs all this is.
You shake off the thought, focusing on the mess heâs made instead. Â
He protests when you start to clean him up but you just shush him. Wiping up the mess and handing him the glass. He eagerly gulps it down in between hitched breaths. He pulls his pants up as you turn the television off.Â
âReady for bed?â Youâre still smiling broadly as you say it.
And he returns your smile tenfold. Youâve never seen someone so happy because of an orgasm.Â
He follows you to the bedroom, you flick the lights off in the apartment. When he joins you in your bed he lays beside you, resting his head on your chest.Â
Itâs the kind of thing thatâs too intimate for what this is. Too personal. But you donât have the heart to tell him that, not when he wraps his arms around you so tightly. Not when he did such a good job.
You feel⊠weird.Â
Obviously you feel good, that was unbelievably hot. And he feels good, you nearly put him to sleep. His chest rises and falls slowly beside you, if he isnât already asleep heâs about to be. You just feel weird. Thereâs an unfamiliar fluttering in your chest. Â
âYouâre right.â He mumbles against you.Â
âAbout?â You whisper back to him, you canât stop yourself from tangling your fingers in his hair, without thinking about it you lightly scratch his scalp. Â
âAbout having to wait for it.â His voice sounds a thousand miles away when he says it, itâs the same tone he uses when youâve been at a case for days and he finally finds some missing piece. He sounds so far away, it makes whatever is happening in your chest stir. Like youâve got a bunch of butterflies loose in your ribcage. âIt really does feel so good when it finally happens.â
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chapter four : and you look half dead half the time
masterlist my ao3!
pairing : spencer reid x fem!reader
summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.
wc : 15k
tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism, electric shock, switch!spencer, switch!reader, blood, gore, lots and lots of spit, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, squirting, multiple orgasms, choking, forced orgasms, face-sitting, angst, talks of pregnancy, broken bones, unhealthy conversations about SA, two extremely traumatized people trying to survive, bittersweet ending.
authors note : here she is!!!! at long last, the final chapter of headlock <3 the amount of support for this fic has me so incredibly grateful, i hope the ending lives up to expectations <3 please let me know if there's any spelling or grammar problems, this chapter kind of got away from me and my brain has been fried by the editing process lol
â
The BAU had a pretty serious reputation.
Highly skilled, highly specialized, and highly exclusive.Â
You had a plan. Once you graduated from the academy you would get yourself assigned to a nearby field office, something in Virginia. After a few years in the field, once you prove yourself, you will go directly to Quantico and meet with the unit chief, in person, to show how serious you are about being a profiler.Â
Half of your class had similar ambitions but you were serious. You already had your degree in psychology and with your abilities you could be a useful asset to their team.
You have the drive and the ambition to make it happen, youâre certain.
So imagine the look on your face when SSA Aaron Hotchner approached you one day after class.Â
Your hands trembled when you shook his.Â
Your head was spinning, you caught bits and pieces of what he was saying.Â
âHighly recommended by your professors⊠Jason Gideonâs retirement⊠fresh new faces⊠good influence on the rest of the team⊠specialty in forensics.âÂ
You nodded along, and thanked him profusely when he handed you a business card and told you to call him when you graduated.Â
And suddenly, a quick six months later, you were stepping out of the elevator and into the busy bull pen. Straightening the blouse youâd spent the last two weeks agonizing over.
You had a duffle bag full of clothes and toiletries, just as youâd been instructed to bring. And youâre large over the shoulder purse, filled with anything and everything, prepared for anything your first day could possibly throw at you.Â
You were going to be a profiler, the best profiler the BAU has ever seen, and youâll be damned if you let anything get in your way.
People shuffled around you, heads down in their files and phones as you weaved through them until you reached Agent Hotchner's office. He hung up the phone when you opened the door and stood to greet you. Telling you how happy he was that you accepted his offer. (As if you could ever say no.)
âLetâs introduce you to the team, and then Iâll show you to your desk. Everyone's been briefed on your arrival and Iâm sure theyâre all eagerly awaiting an introduction.â He gave you a practiced, professional smile as he led you out of his office and back into the bullpen.Â
You followed closely behind him as he took you down a hallway, stepping into a side room you were met with a wall of screens and two people crowded around them.
âAllow me to introduce you to Agent Garcia and SSA Morgan.â He had urged you inside as you stared in awe. Youâre familiar with both of them.Â
Penelope Garcia, originally on the FBIâs watchlist, was arrested and offered a deal to avoid prosecution by joining the team instead. Sheâs a prolific hacker, sheâs practically famous online.Â
And of course youâre familiar with the shockingly handsome man beside her.Â
Derek Morgan, seasoned member of the team with a focus on obsessional crimes and explosives.Â
You know the whole team like the back of your hand and right now you feel like a fangirl at a meetup event. Â Â
âWow, it is- itâs so nice to meet you.â You held your hand out, relieved to be met with a handshake from both of them.Â
Reserved but optimistic.Â
Theyâre open to the idea of you, they just arenât sure yet.Â
Youâve been practicing your profiling.Â
You exchanged pleasantries, nodded and laughed when it was appropriate. All of the things you promised yourself you would do to keep your cool.Â
After a few minutes of small talk you followed Hotch out of the room, to a different office where you meet Agent Jareau.
Jennifer Jareau, media relations and police liaison.Â
Also notably, drop dead gorgeous.Â
And she couldnât have been sweeter. Complimenting your outfit as your face burned hot as the sun.Â
You run into your next introduction in the hall on the way to the bull pen.Â
âThis is SSA Prentiss.â
Oh, you know who she is.Â
Emily Prentiss. Linguistics expert, with a specialty in terrorism and counter-intelligence. Her mother was a relatively notable U.S. diplomat.Â
You must be smiling like an idiot when you shake her hand.Â
You continue following behind Agent Hotchner, feeling like a kid in a candy store as you return to the bullpen.Â
âAnd of course, saving the best for last, your deskmate, Dr. Reid.â Agent Hotchner leads you to an empty desk, directly adjacent to the young man who has his head in a book.
Youâre more than familiar with him.
Dr. Spencer Reid, the youngest person ever recruited for the BAU. Youâve heard that he can read 10,000 words a minute. He has an eidetic memory, and an IQ of 187. You had a friend who met him once at a lecture, she told you that heâs a staunch germaphobe.
When he looks up you know youâre done for.Â
Sharp angled features, accentuated as he tucks his hair behind his ears.Â
His wide hazel eyes size you up as he closes his book.Â
âI figured as the youngest members of our team you would get along well enough to share a desk. Iâll leave you to set up your space, weâll meet in the conference room in an hour.â You watch as Agent Hotchner returns to his office, leaving you alone with Dr. Reid.  Â
âItâs so nice to meet you.â For the first time you donât offer up your hand, you just smile at him. âLet me know if you like the desks a certain way or if I set anything up in a way that bothers you at all.â You take a few things out of your purse and place them carefully on the large wooden desk. A framed picture of you with some friends from the Academy, a few trinkets from home to fill the space, and several notebooks and pens. Â
âYou look a bit young for the BAU.â Spencer leans towards the little glass partition between you.Â
âNot as young as you were when you started, what was it, twenty three?â Youâre thrilled that heâs even talking to you, even if youâre being a bit overeager. Your friend had told you he was a little awkward if not outright abrasive.Â
She hadnât told you he was so pretty.Â
âTwenty two actually, what else have you heard about me?â He fully stands and moves to lean on your desk as you rock back in your chair, his eyes wander across your desk, you canât help but wonder if heâs trying to profile you.Â
âI heard that you have three PHDâs, you got your first when you were only sixteen, and youâre working on a fourth. You have an eidetic memory, and an IQ of a hundred and eighty seven, and you can read ten thousand words a minute.â You ramble without thinking about it, hoping in the back of your mind that you arenât scaring him off.
âItâs actually twenty thousand.â His eyes lock onto your face now, clearly gauging your reaction.
âReally? Do you really actually retain the information?â You give him a smile and are remarkably pleased when he returns it.Â
âAs far as I can tell.âÂ
âHow was your last deskmate?âÂ
âI didnât have one, Hotch says I have a personal space problem.â He looks a bit abashed at that, youâre surprised he even admits it so plainly.Â
âWas there no other spot available?â You look around the room, sure every desk is full but there are several clumps of three and four, you could have joined a different group.
âThere definitely were, but he seems convinced that I can be more sociable.âÂ
âIf you want me to, I can probably move my desk to a different clump.â The last thing you want to do is upset one of your team members on your first day.Â
âI wasnât trying to imply-â His cheeks and ears burn red. âHotch is right, itâll probably be good for me to make a few friends.â Hesitantly he held his hand out to you.Â
Your smile practically doubles in size as you shake it.Â
âItâs nice to make your acquaintance then, Dr. Ried.âÂ
âLikewise.âÂ
â
You decide not to tell Spencer what you talked about with Peter.
It would only serve to stress him out. Thatâs what you tell yourself at least.
When you wake the red door is shut and locked once more, which puts you both on edge. What could possibly be waiting for you once itâs opened? Instead of stewing on it too much you spend the morning wrapped in Spencer's arms, enjoying a moment of normalcy before whatever the day brings crashes down upon you.Â
Normalcy.
Is this what normalcy looks like now? Is this what your life will be like outside of here? You arenât sure you could live without him after all this, and you have to imagine he feels the same way.Â
Heâs certainly gone to extremes to show you that.Â
âWhatâs the first thing youâre gonna do after the team finds us?â You take his hand in yours, examining the burnt stumps of his fingers as you break the silence.
âProbably go to a hospital, and then a dentist.â He doesnât pull away, letting you trace shapes mindlessly against his palm.Â
âWell yeah, obviously. Aside from the obvious things, what will you do first?â You turn to look at him, despite everything he still smiles at you. Â
âI havenât given it much thought, Iâm more focused on getting out of here first.â
âJust play along, please?â You groan.Â
âWhy donât you tell me what youâll do first?â He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours.Â
You have to think about it for a moment.
âI want to get my nails done. I was putting it off before all of this and now I definitely need it. Just the longest, most extravagant mani-pedi they offer.â Looking down at your hands now thereâs blood under your nails, and your wrists are raw and bruised.Â
âThen I imagine the first thing I would do would be sit in a salon waiting room until youâre done.â You arenât sure if heâs joking or not and thinking too hard about it makes your head hurt so you change the subject.Â
âWhat was the first thing you did after you were kidnapped by Tobias Hankel?â Itâs probably too personal of a question but at this point are there really boundaries between the two of you?Â
You know you havenât crossed a line because he answers without hesitation.Â
âI took a long shower, like two hours long. I just stood under the water, they had sent me home alone and I just wasnât sure what else to do.â He pauses, chewing his lip as he thinks. âI felt alone for a long time after that.âÂ
You wonder if thatâs how youâll feel. Thatâs probably how youâre supposed to feel.
Except you arenât alone.
You have him.Â
Itâs funny, youâve known him less than a year but right now it feels like youâve always been together. You hardly remember life without Spencer.Â
âWhat happens when we leave here?â The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them.Â
What happens to us?
Thatâs the real question on your mind.
âI guess we go back to work, thatâs sort of what everyone does when something like this happens. Everyone pretends it didnât happen.â He sounds⊠hurt.
You have a hard time swallowing his words.Â
Something like this.Â
Like this is something youâre expected to go through. Â
âAre we going to be okay?â Your brain feels like itâs becoming more and more scrambled, the line between performance and reality is starting to blur and you canât help but wonder if heâs been acting this whole time.Â
He really seems to stop and think about his answer.Â
âI think so, I think you and I will be more than okay.âÂ
Whatever that means.Â
Youâre starting to get a headache so you decide to focus on his wounds to distract yourself, taking your time to examine his hand properly and then his mouth. The bleeding from his gums seems to have stopped completely which is great news. The corners of his mouth are stained red from residual bleeding overnight but he seems to be doing as good as you can hope for.Â
âHow does everything feel?â You ask as you release your grip on his jaw.
âI⊠donât really know, physically I feel a little off, nothing I wouldnât expect to feel all things considered. Mentally, Iâm mostly worried, yesterday was out of place for the usual content heâs had us make. So I have no idea what to expect today, he could regress if he didnât like it, if he did like it we might see some escalation.âÂ
Hands-on.
Thatâs the term he used.
âWell-â You start but close your mouth the second you hear the crackle of the intercom.
âHello, my stars, I am thrilled to see you are more talkative today.â Thereâs an excited edge to his voice that makes you immediately uneasy. âI continue to be amazed by your performances. Yesterday did not go exactly as I had imagined yet I was still awestruck by some of your choices.â
âWe werenât exactly given much of a choice, were we Peter?â When Spencer speaks up youâre a little surprised by his continued attitude with your captor, especially considering the soft spoken conversation youâve been having.
âDr. Reid, you may think me a villain but I have given you everything you have ever wanted. You should be thanking me.âÂ
Even Spencer, who has a response to everything, doesnât have a response to that.Â
âRegardless of your rudeness, I have a present for the two of you. Behind the door you will find a delightful surprise, and with it a promise that you wonât have to hear my voice again for quite some time, maybe ever. I have decided our communication may be better across different mediums. And of course you know that if you do not comply you-â
âWill be separated, or shot, or whatever it is you feel like today, got it.â Spencer is quick to find his voice again, what has gotten into him?Â
Heâs a lot of things but he isnât this. Interrogative, sure. Analytical, always. Brazenly aggressive? Never.Â
âOh doctor, you really are in some kind of mood today. That is fine, you are entitled to that mood after the performance you gave us yesterday. What a twist.â The door creaks open and neither of you moves, you arenât in any rush to see what gift is waiting for you. âI have been thinking, yesterday your performance was⊠enchanting. I keep asking myself what made it so special and I think I found my answer.â He says every word as though he is the most important person in the world, saying the most important sentence anyone has ever heard. âYou two hardly need directing, you just need a motive to perform, and you do positively captivating work. So, for the foreseeable future I will cease all specific requests, let us see what you can do. I think your motivation will become abundantly clear rather fast.â He makes a horrific swallowing sound, as if heâs salivating at just the thought of whatâs about to happen. âI want to be dazzled, and I think this is how I get the best show possible from you both.â
âSo you arenât going to be giving us any instruction at all? Weâre just supposed to do whatever we want?â Itâs your turn to speak, voice cracking as you do because thatâs almost worse, at least with specific directions you had plausible deniability for all of this. That all changes if youâre calling the shots.Â
âNo my sweet flower, I still have my expectations. You both have your⊠habits. Things that I enjoy, and things that I do not. I would like to put an end to some of your less desirable habits, and pave the way for more preferable ones. So no, you will not have free reign, but I also know that with a little slack on the leash you might do some of your best work. Now go, enjoy your gift. You may not hear from me again, but know that I am always watching you, angel.â Â
For what might be the last time, you hear the click of the intercom. Thereâs a twisted finality to the sound, followed by the creak of the door opening.
âSo weâre supposed to just make up a scene?â You turn to Spencer as he gets to his feet. Watching as he makes his way across the room, when he pulls the door open you see a little pink gift bag on the floor, complete with glittery tissue paper sticking out of the top.Â
He picks it up apprehensively before bringing it back to you. When he hands it to you itâs heavier than you expected for such a small bag.Â
âI assume itâs for you.â The bravado he had when speaking with the unsub has fizzled out now that youâre alone again.Â
You move slowly as you pluck the tissue paper out of the bag. You canât make out the contents so you flip the bag and dump them out onto the blanket.Â
And you immediately recognize what it is.Â
Two collars fall out of the bag, both with a thick chunk of black plastic attached to them with two silver prongs poking out. Accompanied by two little padlocks.Â
You look up at each other in sync, with the same wide eyes, a silent understanding happens in your shared look.Â
Hereâs the motive to perform.Â
Neither one of you wants to do this, obviously, but you both take one in your hands regardless. What choice do you have? For seemingly the first time since you arrived in this terrible place, you donât even bother to think of a way to get out of this. There is a complete acceptance within you that this is simply another thing that you must do.Â
It isnât a great feeling, but thereâs an odd comfort to it.Â
You donât need to think of a way out of this because there isnât one, thereâs nothing you can do about it so why upset yourself over nothing.Â
Spencer must have come to the same conclusion as you because he picks up one of the collars with a resolute look, wrapping the thick nylon band around his neck. You watch as he carefully positions the prongs against his throat and closes the latch, scooping the lock up and with his fingers he snaps it shut before he loses his nerve. Sealing his fate.Â
Taking a deep breath he looks at you, almost expectantly.Â
Okay.
Your turn.Â
Your hands are trembling as you lay the length of the collar out flat. After a few deep breaths, you wrap it around your throat, feeling the cold, sharp metal of the prongs. Your hands are still shaking like a leaf in the wind as you close the latch, dropping the padlock in the process. Â
âHere, let me help.â He takes the prongs, adjusting them to a different part of your neck. âWe want to avoid the carotid artery.â He murmurs before picking up the lock and clicking it shut, sealing your fate as well.Â
You stare at each other once more, now with matching accessories.Â
âSo I guess we should justâŠâ God, you donât want to say it out loud, even if it isnât something youâre necessarily dreading. But now, with the threat around your throat you donât have much of a choice.Â
âProbably, I imagine he isnât exactly feeling patient now that we have them on.â His eyes roam over your body like he isnât sure of what to do, as if you havenât already done this. Finally he leans in, one hand cupping your cheek as he kisses you. Heâs so gentle with you, slow and intentional. It feels so natural to be touched by him, like you were meant for this. Maybe this wonât be so bad, if itâs just having sex until the unsub is satisfied you can handle that. When his fingers comb through your hair your entire body seizes.Â
The two of you both go rigid against each other, it feels like your body is being stabbed with a million frozen needles, an endless icy pain that seeps into your bones. Your spine straightens and you feel like youâre being puppeted as you twitch. After a few agonizing moments you collapse against each other.Â
âThat canât possibly be a standard shock for a dog collar.â You gasp the words out as he nods.
âWe need to try something else.â You look him over as he speaks, the flesh under the prongs is red, youâre sure you have a mark to match. At least it wasnât enough to leave you with a burn, yet.Â
âClearly.â Your head is spinning, you canât actually be expected to think clearly right now? All you can think about is the possibility of another shock happening at any moment.Â
âSo we try a different approach, do you think heâs just generally looking for rough intercourse or does he want something more blatantly violent? I just donât think this is actually that efficient of a communication method. We have no-â Spencerâs ramblings are cut off as you both seize up again.
The shock lasts much longer than this time, your jaw clenches tight as you try to breathe. You can feel the electricity running through every inch of you, for a moment you swear your heart skips a beat. That canât be good.Â
You donât know much about the dangers of electric shock. But Spencer does, and he looks terrified. Â
His expression is enough to make you throw yourself at him the second you have control of your body again. Knocking him backwards onto the floor.Â
âNo more talking.â You mumble against his mouth as you bite his bottom lip. You donât know what you need to do to make the shocks stop but talking about it certainly isnât going to help.Â
Thereâs a moment of hesitation from him and you just know heâs fighting the urge to ask if this is okay. Thatâs the last thing you need right now, stopping to ask if you're alright with this will undoubtedly end with another shock.
âCome on.â You murmur, taking his hand and guiding it between your legs. Â
Thank god that seems to be permission enough for him as he slips his hands past your waist band, any shame you felt a few short days ago has long since gone out the window. Based on the way he whimpers when his fingers press against your folds youâre certain heâs in the same boat.Â
Gone is a sense of shame between the two of you, if this is your normal you might as well enjoy it.Â
âJust do what you want to do, itâll be better for both of us.â You press your forehead to his, gently rocking yourself against his hand. After everything youâve been through at this point itâs hard to believe his fingers are still hesitantly hovering above your entrance.Â
You can practically hear his internal monologue in your own head.
Prior consent doesnât count as consent in future situations. Especially when youâre being coerced by electric shock, Weâll do whatever youâre most comfortable with, even if it means getting shocked until our hearts simultaneously explode.Â
His erection is actively poking your hip right now and heâs still looking at you like heâs waiting for the okay.Â
The collar might not not be motivating enough for him but it certainly is for you, you know exactly what the unsub wants to see.
He wants to see all the things you want to do to the man staring up at you slackjawed right now. Â
You bring your hand up to his face, squeezing his jaw, you force his mouth open wider, staring in his eyes as you spit into his mouth. You raise your eyebrows at him, daring him to react as his eyes manage to go even wider.Â
Self proclaimed germaphobe Dr. Reid looks at you, and swallows.Â
You really are the exception to his rules.
Finally he swipes two fingers against your clit, being electrocuted might have left you feeling tense and paranoid but his touch has all of that melting away.Â
Thank fucking god.Â
His fingers slide across the length of your cunt, he hums when he feels the wetness pooling at your entrance. He never pushes into you, only teases your hole until youâre keening against him.Â
Hovering on all fours above him youâre sure youâre a sight, panting like a dog for more.Â
Your noises only serve to egg him on. Using your wetness as a lubricant he focuses on your clit. You squeeze your eyes shut, almost instinctually rocking back and forth against the heel of his palm. He doesnât seem to be in any rush, rubbing lazy circles against you until your legs shake so bad youâre worried youâll crumble and fall down on top of him.Â
âCan I get on top now?â The sound of his voice makes your eyes snap open as you nod eagerly. Holding onto your hips he flips you over so your positions are reversed. You lean back, waiting patiently for his hand to return to your cunt. When he doesnât you whine.Â
Youâre rewarded with his fingers looping around the sides of your panties, yanking them down until you're bare before him.Â
âOpen your mouth.â His tone isnât demanding, more like a plea.Â
So you do just that, and when you meet his eyes you hardly even see Spencer anymore.
Gone is the sweet boy you share a desk with, he has been replaced by something hungry and tragic.Â
Heâs just like you now.
Sick.Â
He leans down until your lips are almost touching, he isnât as confident as you were but he still spits into your mouth without hesitation. Pulling back to watch. When swallowing his breath hitches. His fingers pull on the hem of your camisole, pulling it up until itâs over your arms and your head.Â
He takes a moment to just stare at your chest in a way that would usually make you cover yourself up. Instead you just let him. Squeaking in surprise when he leans down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, making obscene sounds in the process. His tongue swirls around it for a moment before he starts dragging his tongue back and forth, letting his teeth lightly graze against the sensitive bud, never actually biting down. Alternating between sucking and lapping at your nipple until it stiffens into a peak. When heâs satisfied he switches to your other breast, repeating the process. When he pulls away to admire his work your nipples are swollen and both of your tits are slick with spit.Â
The sight is enough to make him bite his lip in a weak attempt to stifle a whine.
Youâve all but forgotten about the collar around your neck as he starts to bend your knees up towards your stomach. You're caught off guard when he keeps pushing until your legs are pointed straight up with your feet over his shoulders. Turning his head he kisses your ankle before gently biting the skin there. Youâre positioned in a way that his clothed cock rubs against your core, your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. Just when you think heâs about to pull his boxers down he stops.
He opens his mouth and you just know his dumb ass is about to ask if youâre okay with this, so you kick the side of his head and glare at him as his mouth snaps closed. He nods, at least the part of his brain that uses his critical thinking skills still works.Â
You both know the unsub doesnât like when he asks you for consent, you donât know or honestly care why. He can ask you if youâre okay a hundred times a day when you get out of here.
Thereâs another moment's pause from him, and if looks could kill your glare would put him six feet under.Â
âFor gods sake, Spence, just fuck me.â You hope you donât sound too mean but he doesn't seem bothered, quite the opposite.Â
He doesnât need to be told twice.Â
You feel a rush of relief when he kicks his boxers off, his cock stands at attention, the poor neglected thing is already leaking, leaving his tip shiny and slick.
He wraps his arms around your legs, holding you like a vice as he lines himself up and slides into the heat of your cunt.Â
It stings just as much as it did the first time but you revel in it this time. Who cares about a little pain anymore? You just squeeze your eyes shut and groan. He likely doesnât even hear the edge to your groans over his own breathy moans.Â
He doesnât give you as much of an adjustment period this time either, his hips are already rocking back and forth. Whether itâs for fear of being shocked or simply because he canât help himself is unclear.
He holds your legs firmly in place, ankles thrown over his shoulders as he pistons in and out of you. Both of you are reduced to whimpering messes in a matter of minutes as you feel the all too familiar tightening of the knot in your stomach.
Boy genius canât be far behind you based on the sporadic nature of his thrusts. Youâd say that happened fast but youâre in no position to judge, not when your breath is catching in your throat with every thrust. He knows your body surprisingly well because you can tell heâs holding out for your orgasm before his. His quick, sloppy thrusts become focused. Shallow, just the right way to slide against that sweet spot before slamming into your cervix until the knot snaps.
You clamp down on him, the force of which draws a string of whimpers past his lips as he scrambles to pull out, coming on your stomach. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and his cock twitches, admiring the sight before you lean back. Taking a few deep breaths as you try and collect yourself. He slumps over next to you, in a similar state.Â
He plants a kiss on your shoulder before pressing his forehead against yours.Â
Your eyes are starting to flutter shut when your back arches. A strangled cry leaving your throat as you feel a quick shock is delivered to your body. Spencer spasms onto you, his fingers twist around his collar, pulling uselessly.Â
Itâs a mercifully short burst of electricity this time but still enough to make you sit up straight.Â
âWhat did we do wrong?â Your voice is hoarse.Â
He looks troubled, more troubled than youâd expect, even after all that.
âI-Iâm not sure, I guess we just have to try again.â So rare is it to hear Dr. Spencer Reid sound unsure.Â
âOkay, fuck, okay.â Youâre trying to think back over everything you just did. He didnât shock you the entire scene until the end so he clearly didnât have a problem with the contents of the scene. Youâre a mess of scrambling limbs as you both smash your lips together once more in an attempt to avoid any form of reprimand. âLetâs try something else.â You grumble against his lips.
Youâre racking your brain for ideas, clearly heâs doing the same but itâs edged with a panic. If you choose the wrong thing you risk another shock. How much would it take to stop your heart?
Focus.
He didnât like what you just did, okay, do something else. Do something different.Â
Does he want more talking or less?
More participation on your part, less on Spencerâs?
Rougher?
Meaner?
Without the unsubs direct commands Spencer isnât as sexually dominant as he originally had to be, maybe the unsub wants that dynamic to be included in every scene.Â
You can do that.
Happily.
First things first, you need him to be as naked as you are.
You climb into his lap, straddling him as you push him back so that heâs laying back once more. Yanking on the hem of his shirt until youâre able to pull it off of him, tossing it aside you drag your hands up and down his torso.Â
God heâs pretty.Â
Somehow even prettier with a collar around his neck.Â
Donât think like that. Â
Grinding down against him you can feel his cock already swelling again.Â
âYou get hard so easily.â You grab his jaw, noticing his stubble for the first time. How long have you been here?Â
âI thought you said no talking.âÂ
âWell that didnât work out so well, Iâm trying something different. Do you not like it?â Â
The dumb look on his face makes you forget about the collar for a moment, it makes you forget about the room you're in, and it makes you forget all about Peter Hill. All you can think about are ways to make him keep making that face.Â
âThis is fine.â He mumbles.
âYou do all the work every time Spencer, you must be tired by now.âÂ
âI donât mind.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â He really does sound tired. Maybe not from this exactly, but in general.Â
âMaybe you could let me take care of you this time?â You tuck a strand of hair away from his face as he continues to nod.Â
Assuming that the unsub might see Spencer as a surrogate for himself this would be a wise course of action. Seeing you as the dominant, more active, participant might be exactly what he wants. Maybe the reason you were shocked was because he could see how hesitant Spencer was, maybe he just needs to see one of you taking the lead.Â
Thatâs the only reason youâre doing this.Â
Certainly not seizing an opportunity.
Your panties have long since been discarded so itâs relatively easy to reach back and grab his cock, lining him up with your entrance as you sink down onto him. Youâre typically concentrating and rolling your eyes into the back of your head when he first enters you, but right now you get a perfect view of his face.Â
Mouth open in an âOâ as his eyes flutter shut, a pornagraphic moan slipping past his lips. This is already so much better.Â
Once youâre fully seated on his cock you fight the urge to grind against him, instead you just watch his face, the way his features twist and contort in pleasure.
âDo you like it when I spit in your mouth?â You do your best to keep your tone sultry, more condescending than actually caring about the response.Â
Youâre met with a frantic nod and you nearly lose your resolve when he opens his mouth.Â
This is better than any romance book, sexy movie, or porno youâve ever seen.Â
You want to take a picture, since that isnât an option right now you settle for burning the mental image into your brain before you give him exactly what he wants. You hover over him, letting a line of spit fall from your mouth to his. His cock twitches inside of you simultaneously. You donât dare take your eyes off of him as he swallows again.
So fucking good.Â
Heâs too good. Maybe this is what you should have been doing all along. He never needed to be in charge, this is a million times better than any show youâve put on. If Peter wanted a star heâs got one right here. Licking his perfect pretty lips.Â
Batting his eyelashes at you like his cock isnât lodged in your stomach.Â
âI wonder what else you like?â You donât even say it for the camera, that was forgotten the second he opened his mouth and presented his tongue to you.      Â
He doesnât have a response, just that pretty, dumb look. Is this what itâs like for him? Watching you come apart so easily, you completely understand his ridiculous torture metaphors now, this is fucking torture in the sweetest way humanely possible.Â
You donât know what possesses you to do it but you tentatively at first, you wrap your fingers around his throat, careful to avoid the bulky part of the collar. Itâs a move made mostly for show. But when youâre met with a frantic, impatient, nod, you squeeze.Â
His hips rock upwards immediately, fucking into you, instinctively your grip tightens around his throat as if you can steady yourself. It only makes him buck into you harder. He splays his hands out across the tops of your thighs, nails digging into your flesh, leaving a trail of crescent marks in his wake.Â
The room fills with the sounds of curses as you let your head fall backwards, so much for doing the work, Spencerâs doing most of the work as he continues to fuck up into you. You briefly let your hand slip off his neck, his hand catches your wrist, holding you against his throat as you wrap your fingers back around it.Â
âFucking- shit, oh my god.â His brows furrow together as he whines, youâve never heard him curse so much before.Â
He angles his hips off the floor, grinding the base of his pelvis against your clit until youâre seeing stars. Youâre definitely squeezing too hard but he wonât let your wrist go and your body is too tense from the pressure building in your stomach. Based on the sounds heâs making youâre sure he doesnât care, his eyes are basically rolled into the back of his head at this point anyway.Â
âSo fucking good, Spence, oh my fucking-â Your voice trails off into a moan as rolls his hips up against you just so. The goal was to focus on him but he seems hell bent on making you come, so much so that he doesnât even bother thrusting into you. He just keeps angling his hips against yours in any way he can to put pressure on your clit. And you reward his efforts every time by tightening your grip.
Once again your orgasm hits first, before youâre ready for it and before youâve recovered from your first orgasm. He forces it out of you. And in return you brand your handprint across the front of his throat. Your vision is blurring white as you cry out. Your chest heaves as you gasp, fighting, keeping your eyes open as you stare down at your pretty boy.Â
His cheeks are bright red as he sucks in a breath, youâre about to start riding him in earnest, itâs the least you can do. But before you can he grabs the back of your head, forcing your lips onto his as his tongue presses against yours. You start to groan his name but he swallows the sound when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. Just like that with a stutter of his hips you feel his cock jerk inside of you as he comes, spilling out around the base of his shaft as he makes a mess out of both of you.Â
The corners of his eyes are damp when you look at him, you canât help but kiss him there, moving to his cheek, and then his forehead. You both stay silent, a palpable tension replaces the lust in your cloudy mess of a brain as you wait to see if it was enough. The energy in the room shifted completely.Â
You canât imagine a world in which that wasnât adequate.Â
Yet somehow, it wasnât.
You fall forward, letting your forehead rest on the cold cement as you feel the burning against your neck. From your throat down to your fingertips, you can feel the white hot fire burning you from the inside out. It lasts long, too long. It feels like the prongs are boring holes straight through your throat and out the other side. Â
When it finally relents Spencer's fingers are pulling on your collar.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â You mumble, your visions a bit blurry as you struggle to sit up.
âI need to adjust the prongs, weâve got burns now and we donât want to keep hitting the same spot or it could become necrotic.â You donât really comprehend what heâs saying but you sit still so he can do whatever it is heâs insisting on. âOkay, now can you do mine?â He tilts his chin up as he nods and you adjust his collar as well.Â
The sight of his burn snaps you out of your stupor.
A gnarly red and white blister has formed under the prongs, it hurts just to look at but the sting on your own neck reminds you that you have one to match.Â
The smell of burnt flesh floats in the air around you.
Once youâve adjusted his collar as he instructs he leans in and kisses you, pushing you back until youâre the one laying down this time. When he starts to pepper kisses down your chest and stomach until heâs between your legs you squeeze your thighs together. You cannot deal with another orgasm right now.Â
âNo.â Youâre firm as he gives you those ridiculous puppy dog eyes.Â
Good luck saying no to that look.
âIâm serious Spencer, no. Get back up here and stick your dick in me so we can give this another try.â Youâre fried. Mentally, physically, literally.
âJust you this time, sweetheart.â You groan as he kisses your inner thigh. Your hands tangle in his mess of hair, pulling too hard, even though it doesnât seem to affect him. âI canât go again, I need a minute. For someone my age the average refractory period is between thirty minutes to an hour and considering I've already gone twice in a row Iâm gonna need a moment before Iâm ready to go again. Since you are someone assigned female at birth you donât have a physiological refractory period so by process of elimination this is what we have to do.âÂ
All you can do is glare at him. Â
âI donât know exactly what counts as a scene but Iâm pretty sure itâs an orgasm. And it canât be mine.â
âSpencer.â
âLook, I think I figured out what we have to do, just let me test my theory.â
He buries his face in the crease of your thigh, dragging his tongue across your skin.Â
âWell at least tell me!â
âYou arenât going to like the answer.â He mumbles into the meat of your thigh as he sucks a mark into the skin before turning towards his main target. âIâll try to get this done as fast as possible.âÂ
Your poor overstimulated clit is where he settles his mouth. Flattening his tongue against you as tries his damndest to get you there.
And god it feels good.Â
He worships your cunt, his tongue writes prayers against you as it darts back and forth. You see god everytime he jams his tongue into you, as if he can effectively fuck you with it.Â
It feels so good.Â
But youâre too scattered. The last shock was different, demanding. And itâs left you genuinely afraid. Youâre too on edge to come right now. Your body is tense in all the wrong spaces and even with his face buried between your legs all you can think about is the burn mark on both of your necks.
âI- I canât Spence.â Itâs too much, too much of a good thing, especially when you arenât any closer to an orgasm.
âThatâs just not true, youâve done it before you can do it again.â Heâs out of breath as he rests his head on your thigh.
You whine, kicking your leg weakly in an attempt to knock him away from you.
âGet on top.â If thatâs his solution he clearly isnât listening to you.
âWhat?â
âSit on my face.â He says it like itâs the answer to all of your problems but you canât imagine more stimulation is going to be the answer when your entire body is on edge.Â
âSpencerâŠâÂ
âPlease?â He whines, sounding like he might honest to god cry if you deny him this. âItâll be better for you I promise.â He says it like his dick isnât starting to harden just at the thought. Unfortunately you need him hard for what youâre sure will be round four when this inevitably doesnât work. Until you figure out what Peter wants you need to prepare yourself for a long day.
What if this is what he wants?
What if he just wants you to fuck each other until you pass out? Until your body simply canât handle it anymore.Â
You donât get long to dwell on the thought because Spencerâs laying down beside you.Â
âSit on my face, now. Or heâs gonna shock us again.â Youâre getting tired and it honestly isnât worth the fight. Especially when heâs staring at you so eagerly.Â
âFine.â You grumble as you sit up on your knees, throwing your leg over his head so youâre kneeling above him
âJust relax, Iâll do everything, okay?â Itâs remarkable that he can sound so sure considering the circumstances.Â
You arenât sure if you can relax in this position.Â
Your knees shake, and you struggle to hold yourself up above him. You just want to lay down but he wraps his arms around the backs of your thighs. In one swift motion he yanks you down so youâre sat in earnest on his face.Â
âJesus, Spencer.â You lean forward, tangling your fingers in his hair to steady yourself. Scraping your nails against his scalp in the process.Â
Youâd feel worse about how you might be hurting him if he wasnât already moaning into your cunt, the vibrations only serve to tighten your grip on his hair.   Â
He isnât as focused, instead he alternates between your clit and your now dripping hole. When his tongue is on your clit it feels like youâre being forced to sit on a vibrator. He darts his tongue back and forth against you, occasionally twisting his head to the side so he can breathe. Whenever that happens youâre rewarded with the stubble on his cheeks and chin against your sensitive nub. You canât decide if it feels good or bad at this point. He pokes his tongue against the rim of your fluttering hole and you're in an even worse position. Youâre dealing with the sensation of that combined with the bridge of his nose knocking against your clit.
You hate that he was right, this is working.Â
You donât have any choice other than to let it work because his arms are wrapped so tightly around your thighs you couldnât lift off of him if you tried. Not that you would, youâre riding that precarious line between discomfort and pleasure now that makes this so much more bearable then youâd expected.Â
If you had the capacity for embarrassment right now youâd be horrified by the wet sucking noises heâs making, instead you let your head fall backwards as he forces you closer and closer to your breaking point. The tightening in your stomach is inherently different than it usually feels, the muscles in your face twitch as you focus and chase that sensation.
Almost uncontrollably, your cunt flutters around nothing and you feel a gush between your legs, Spencer doesnât let up for a second as you come.Â
âOh my fucking god.â You straighten your knees as you manage to pry his tongue off of your clit. Youâre gonna have a permanent crease between your eyebrows after this, your face has been scrunched up so long. âSpencer stop-â You roll off of him, laying flat on your back beside him, the blankets are soaked.Â
Youâre gasping for air as you wait for the next shock. But Spencer clearly has other plans as he sits up next to you, shoving your legs apart once more, one of his hands pushes your thigh up towards your stomach.Â
âWe can't stop, we have to go again.â The bottom half of his face is shiny and slick.
When he slides his fingers against your swollen clit you shove him away.Â
âNo- Iâm done. I need a break, just a few minutes.â You feel like you might cry.
âWe donât have a few minutes, we need to do this right now. Then you can take as long of a break as you want.â He sounds so sure.Â
âPromise?âÂ
âI promise, please, just trust me.âÂ
Frantic and jittery, he strokes himself. His free hand slotting back between your legs, much gentler this time.Â
âYou donât even need to do anything, just lay here and Iâll take care of it. Promise, I promise.â He mumbles, careful not to use too much pressure as you continue to fight the urge to shove him away.Â
Any precision he usually has is gone completely by now, replaced by sloppy circles against your clit as he jerks himself off. When you whine at the friction he spits into his hand before returning to your clit. He holds his other hand out in front of your chin, wanting the same for himself. You spit onto his palm, earning yourself an breathy groan as he uses it to properly fuck his hand.Â
It becomes abundantly clear that he isnât trying to make you come again, if anything heâs simply touching you for his own gratification. And youâre thankful for it, if only one of you needs to have an orgasm to count as a scene youâre happy to sit this one out. Your clit buzzes, hypersensitive to every uncontrolled stroke against it. He whimpers as he ruts against his hand, hips stuttering as he makes a sound between pain and ecstasy.Â
His eyes squeeze shut as a filthy whine leaves his lips, forehead slick with sweat as his head falls backwards. You can see the veins in his neck straining as he has what you're sure is a rather uncomfortable orgasm, spurts of come are added to the mess between your legs.Â
Neither one of you dares to move. Youâre waiting, convinced youâre about to be shocked at any moment.Â
But you arenât.
Spencer was right, thank god.
He collapses beside you and the room fills with the sounds of your haggard breathing.
âHow did you know that would work?â You finally break the silence, still struggling to catch your breath as he rolls over onto his side to face you.
âI didnât, it was a lucky guess.â
You sit straight up, looking offended.Â
âYou promised.â You try not to sound shrill, since he did technically fulfil his end of the deal.Â
âI know, Iâm sorry.â You canât stay mad at that sheepish half smile. How is he still managing a smile after everything youâve been through?Â
âI mean, I guess itâs fine since you didnât technically break your promise. How did you figure it out?â You lay back down on your side so youâre face to face.Â
âThe collars are meant to be used for âfixing bad habits.â I eventually realized that that meant training.â
âTraining?â
âLike training a dog.â He grimaces. âWhen we do something wrong weâre shocked, when we do something right we arenât. What heâs essentially doing is training us to do what he wants unprompted.âÂ
âSo that he doesnât even have to ask.â
âExactly, I have to assume that the goal would be that eventually we would be having sex the majority of the time. He said he isnât going to speak to us anymore so itâs safe to assume he plans on using the collars as his only communication.âÂ
âHow much would it take to kill us?â Your voice shrinks as you ask the question thatâs been picking away at the back of your mind.
âElectricity? Itâs hard to say. Itâs less about the voltage and more about the current, any amount of voltage to a human heart could be fatal. But the human body has an inherent resistance to electrical current. Itâs a really tricky concept because without sufficient voltage the current would be unable to travel through the body regardless. The closest thing to an answer that I can give you is that nine volts with enough current would typically be considered enough to deliver a lethal shock.â His hands start to move in that familiar way they do when heâs lost in an explanation.
âHow much do you think our collars emit?â
He hesitates before he speaks again.
âThe average dog collar emits three to nine volts with a low current but itâs safe to assume that based on the feeling of the shock, and how it courses through our entire bodies, that he has modified them to have a stronger current.âÂ
âSo it could kill us.â
âYes, itâs possible.â
âSo we should do everything in our power to not risk another shock.âÂ
âYes, that would be wise.â
âSo we let him⊠train us?â
âI donât think we have much of a choice in the matter.â
There isnât much more you can say about that. What other options are there? Thatâs the question youâve been asking yourself since you were taken. What else could you possibly do?
âWhat happens when weâre trained?â
âI think we just have to hope it doesnât get to that point.â
You know the answer, he does too. If it works then you both become obedient pets, fucking each others brains out non stop until your hearts stop.Â
âSo from now on when we wake up we should just have sex until weâre sure heâs satisfied?â
âI guess.â
â
The next morning when the lights come on you do just that.Â
You wake up to sloppy kisses, rolling over almost instinctually onto your belly as he tugs your panties down. You lay prone as he kisses down the length of your spine before sucking a mark into the skin. And another, and another, and another. You bury your face in your pillow, letting out a series of low moans. His knee spreads your legs as he slots himself between your thighs.Â
And youâre happy to let him.
He comes buried in your pussy, but not before his arm twisted around to the front of you and ripped an orgasm from you.
âShould we go again?â You turned to whisper, worry biting at the edges of your voice.Â
His hands on your hips guide you on top of him, once youâre straddling him he pulls you into a lazy kiss.
âI donât know if I can right now.â He murmurs, almost cracking a smile. âBesides, I donât think itâs about doing it multiple times, itâs about doing it unprompted."
âOkay, we can just do this then.â You wrap your lips around his bottom lip, lightly sucking.Â
Itâs easy to get distracted by him, everything about him is distracting. But youâve had an idea on your mind for sometime and you need to find a way to bring it up without drawing attention to it.Â
âDo you remember when Tobias Hankle saved your life?â He stiffens up a bit at the name but he nods.
âI couldnât forget it if I tried.â
âWhy do you think he did it?â
âHe wasnât a bad person, he was just a person in a bad situation, he never had a chance to be anything else. He was a victim of his circumstances.â
âI wonder if we could be saved the same way.â You murmur it against his jaw, hoping itâs loud enough to be heard and quiet enough to not be picked up by a microphone.Â
âI donât think that would save me, not this time.â He picks up on what you mean immediately, his fingers comb through your hair as you kiss his cheek. You brush your lips against his stubble.Â
âIt might save me.âÂ
He flips you both so heâs on top, where his lips canât be read by anyone looking down from above.Â
âIt hurts.â His lips connect to your throat, kissing across the line of bruises. âYou would have to stay completely silent and still.â
âI can handle it.âÂ
âAnd if it doesnât work?â
âThen we do this.â Your hand trails down his body until you can palm him through his boxers, a small part of you is pleased to find heâs already hard. âWe do this forever, until weâre old and grey.â He moves up your jaw, biting your earlobe before breathing his words out against you.
âI could seriously hurt you.â
âThen do it right, put those three PHDâs to work. Do it hard enough to prove that itâs real, and soft enough that you donât break anything.â Â
âThatâs a really dangerous line to ride.â
âWe wonât get another chance. Make it real.â Itâs the last thing you say to him before you go back to kissing him in earnest.Â
Turns out he can go again.Â
â
How many days has it been?
It canât have been more than a week since you were taken, youâre sure of it.Â
Without the daily presence of the unsubs voice everything starts to blend together. Wake up, have sex, stare longingly at each other as you talk about nothing in particular until you either have more sex or are shocked into doing so.Â
Out of habit, you start crawling on top of him before youâre even fully awake every morning.
Just like the unsub wants.Â
Just like you want.
That line starts to get blurry and the thought scares you, so you choose to ignore the nasty little voice in your head.Â
After another long day you curl up against him, grateful for the dim lighting the evenings provide for you.Â
âDo you think heâs won?â You whisper into the darkness, youâre certain the unsub must be asleep at this point, youâve been awake so long. He has to sleep eventually. Â
âWhat do you mean? Iâm sure the team is still looking for us.â He holds your face in one of his hands, an action that is starting to feel familiar to you.Â
âYeah, but look at us.â You motion at yourself dramatically. âHe did it, weâre just animals now, doing whatever he wants and now we⊠we enjoy it, all we do is have sex. He won.â You notably havenât been shocked in some time.Â
âI donât think thatâs how we should view it.â
âHow else are we supposed to look at it then?â
âWe⊠take comfort in each other, despite the things he makes us do, we still-â He stops abruptly, swallowing loudly before continuing. âWe still care for each other, that means weâre still human.âÂ
âHe doesnât even have to tell us what to do anymore, Spencer. We just do it.â Your voice cracks, this whole situation has made you insufferably emotional.Â
âI think youâre being too hard on yourself.â His thumb traces little shapes against your cheek.
âHow much of this is real?â You hate how needy you sound.
âAll of itâs real. All of this has happened and is continuing to happen.â He tilts your head up, forcing you to look at him.
âYou know what I mean, Spence.â
âI donât know what you want me to say.â He looks at you like he feels bad for you and you hate it.Â
âWhy didnât this happen organically? Why did it have to happen here, where it was forced?â The words are clunky as they force themselves out of your mouth.
âI think it would have happened organically, eventually. I canât count the amount of times I almost asked you out.â
âThen why didnât you? I would have said yes.â
âI realize that now but I just couldnât be sure.â How the fuck could he be unsure? Heâs the most intelligent man youâve ever met and you certainly werenât subtle.
âI was obsessed with you.â
âYou were nice to everyone.â
âI was extra nice to you.â
âYou never realized that I liked you either.â He scoffs.Â
âYeah, but Iâm not a genius.â You poke him gently in the chest and he cracks a small smile.Â
âWe could still do that, go out. When we get out of here.â
Could you?
Itâs hard to imagine a world where you sit across from him in a restaurant after all of this.Â
Before this? Sure, you spent plenty of nights imagining it. You would style your hair down, and wear mascara. And youâd wear one of your dresses, something heâd never seen before that showed off your shoulders and legs. He never got to see that at work, you wanted to wow him.Â
Now heâs seen it all, and he seems pretty pleased with it but you arenât exactly fantasizing about a little italian restaurant with him these days. Not when you know what awaits you after dessert.Â
Could you sit across from him, eating complimentary bread out of a basket, talking about the weather? Your relationship seems to be pretty far beyond that at this point.Â
âMaybe.â You murmur.
âMaybe?â His voice hitches up as he cocks an eyebrow at you. âIf you turn me down for a date after all of this Iâm quitting my job and moving as far away from Virginia as possible.â
âIâm not saying that- Iâm just saying⊠I donât know. Can you really see us going back to normal after this? Just acting like this never happened, we start dating and- and what? We hold hands everywhere, we go out to dinner, go to the movies, we act like a normal couple? I just donât think weâre a normal couple, Spence.âÂ
âWe donât have to be a normal couple, I donât want to be a normal couple. We can be a couple that gets takeout and only watches movies at home because weâre scared to go outside. We can be disgusting with our public displays of affection, just to show everyone that they could never understand the devotion we share. Instead of dates we can stay in bed and Iâll show you every night just how much I want to be with you, I donât care. We can do whatever you want to do, as long as itâs done together.â He sounds like heâs already made the decision for you and honestly, youâre glad. He makes it sound so easy.Â
âYeah?â
âYeah. I mean it, whatever you want.â He plants a kiss between your brows before resting his chin on the top of your head. âThat also means that if we get out of here and you want nothing to do with me Iâll respect that choice.â
âYouâre an idiot.â The absurdity of the idea makes you laugh.  Â
âYou have that effect on me.âÂ
Thereâs a beat of silence where you simply enjoy the feeling of his arms around you before you bring up the question thatâs been quietly building up in the back of your mind.
âDo you think itâs possible Iâm pregnant?â You donât feel too different but you have to ask. With the amount of unprotected intercourse youâre having itâs entirely possible. Spencer only pulls out half the time, it doesnât seem like something heâs even concerned with. Yet when you look at him now he looks pale.Â
âI- I hadnât even thought about that. I guess I just assumed weâd be out of here by now, I hadnât considered the possibility.â So rarely does he sound as unsure as he does right now.Â
âWhat do we do if I am?âÂ
âWe⊠handle it. We can handle it.â
No you canât.
Not when thereâs no end in sight. Imagining giving birth in this tiny room with only Spencer to help you makes your blood run cold.Â
âMaybe we should handle it before it becomes a problem.âÂ
By putting your plan into motion and getting the hell out of here.Â
What other choice do you have? Youâve all but given up on the team at this point, and you know he has too. Even if neither one of you wants to say it.Â
âIf youâre ready for that.â You can tell purely based on his wary tone that he knows exactly what you mean.Â
âIâm ready.â You hope he is too. Youâre only gonna get one shot at this, and if you fail there might not ever be another chance at getting out of here.Â
â
This is it.
Hopefully youâre as good of an actress as the unsub seems to think you are.Â
Okay.
Youâre dead.
Your heart stopped, probably from all the electric shocks, it makes perfect sense.
You arenât sure if Spencerâs awake yet, but you canât check. You try to recall the original videos you watched on the jet of the victims. You donât remember the quality being that good, there were multiple angles but they were all grainy. Hopefully the quality is poor enough that they canât pick up the tiny movements of your chest as you try to stay completely still.Â
After what feels like hours Spencer finally sits up beside you, mumbling a greeting to you before going quiet. He whispers your name, when you donât respond he shakes your shoulders before repeating your name louder.Â
âSweetheart, wake up.â Youâre doing everything in your power to keep your breaths shallow, keeping your chest as still as possible. âCome on, time to get up.â You arenât the only one putting on a show, the panicked lilt of his voice is exactly what you asked for. Dejected and frightened.Â
His fingers slide under your collar, pressing against your pulse point. You know he feels the beat of your heart but the hitch of his breath says otherwise.Â
âNo, no no no.â His voice is barely a whisper as he presses his ear to your chest.Â
Youâre both caught off guard when a shock is delivered to both of you. You grit your teeth immediately, it takes every ounce of strength you have left to not react. You let your body twitch, keeping your face free of any reaction to the best of your ability. Itâs a full ten seconds of electricity through your veins, when it finally stops you fight the urge to take a deep breath, instead returning to your brief little inhales and exhales. Â
You donât dare to open your eyes but you can hear Spencer struggling to get back up. Your entire body feels fried and youâre almost thankful for the excuse to stay laying down.Â
You can hear him sniffling, his hands are on you, locked together over the center of your chest.Â
Just like when Tobias Hankel saved him.Â
You brace yourself as he begins chest compressions, a steady rhythm against you. Itâs exactly as youâve been trained, hard and consistent, when performing CPR you should be pushing in at least two inches. Heâs certainly doing that, you want to wince in pain but manage to resist when he stops, carefully opening your mouth with a hand on your chin before locking his lips to yours. He pinches your nose shut, when he blows the air youâre eternally grateful when he breaks the seal between your lips and lets the air escape instead of forcing it into your lungs.Â
You make sure to let your chest rise regardless.Â
After one exaggerated breath he sits back up and returns to the compressions, his own breathing is shaky and you can hear him gasping, scared little sounds. You count each agonizing slam against your chest, a small whimper escapes your throat when you feel a sharp pain in your ribs. He doesnât relent, when he hits thirty on the dot his mouth is back on yours, your cheeks are wet this time when he pulls back, when he returns to the chest compressions each one sends a jolt of pain directly to your ribcage.Â
âCome on, please, please, just wake up.â His voice trembles and itâs clear now that heâs crying. âPlease I canât do this without you, I canât do anything without you, please, wake up for me, please sweetheart.â Heâs a rambling mess, his voice a strained whine.Â
You arenât the only one acting like your life depends on it.
Thereâs no more shocks, and no voice over the intercom. Just the two of you putting on the performance of a lifetime, praying that this works.Â
With each push you feel the pain in your ribs grow sharper and more focused on the left side of your body.Â
You donât know how many rounds of compressions you do, eventually you go numb, you briefly wonder if youâre actually dying as Spencer sobs over your body. Maybe you really did die, and these are your last moments in your body.Â
Eventually he stops. His body folds forward, his forehead resting over your heart.Â
âIâm so sorry, I should have kept you safe, I should have protected you.â His body trembles against you as he scoops you up holding your limp body in his arms.Â
When do you call it quits on this?
You donât have a plan for if this doesnât work, do you just sit up and act like everythingâs fine?
âJust wake up, please, I love you.â His voice is so soft and vulnerable.Â
That almost makes you open your eyes.Â
Instead you stiffen up at the sound of the door creaking open. You donât dare move now, not when youâve already come this far.Â
You can feel Spencer's body go rigid against yours as foot steps cross the room.
âI- I never wanted her to get hurt. I never meant for this to happen.â You recognize the voice as Peters immediately, even without the crackling robotic tone of the intercom. âOh godâŠâ You canât help but finally open your eyes to stare at him.
Heâs so⊠ordinary.Â
Mid to late thirties, white, balding, polo shirt and khakis. Heâs crying, his head is in his hands as he whimpers. You donât get a good look at his face before Spencer is on him.Â
Youâve seen Spencer in the field before, this is nothing like that.Â
Any of the calculated, deliberate restraint he usually exhibits goes out the window as his hands grip his shirt collar, his fist slams into the side of his head. Peter stumbles, falling onto his back, staring up with a look of horror as Spencer kneels over him.Â
You watch, frozen as his fist connects to your captors face.Â
Again, and again, and again, and again.Â
You watch as his face goes from a terrified expression to a smashed mess of flesh and teeth. He struggles for a little while, weakly clawing at Spencer's chest, but it does nothing to deter him.Â
At one point Peter looks at you, both eyes so swollen theyâre barely visible. You hear his garbled voice.
âPlease.âÂ
Spencer grabs him by the jaw, forcing him to look back towards him. You think back to something he said.Â
âHe doesnât get to touch you, he doesnât get to talk to you, he doesnât get to breathe your air.â
He really meant it.
All for you.
He remains deadly quiet as he slams his fist into him until he stops twitching beneath him. His knuckles are split, but itâs nothing compared to Peter's face. He doesnât even look like he used to be a person.
Just a lump of gore with teeth.Â
Because he loves you.
Thereâs a moment of silence where Spencerâs chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, your own heart racing as you stare at him, sitting up and clutching your ribs. Eventually his fingers wander down and into the pockets of what remains of Peter Hill. Tossing his wallet to the side before carefully setting a cell phone beside the corpse. Â
Finally he turns, a splatter of viscera coats his face and torso.
And you know all he can see on your face is the hunger behind your gaze.Â
He has the same look in his eyes.Â
Pupils blown, encompassing the rest of his iris.
No amount of therapy is ever going to fix you after this.Â
âYou did it.â You whisper as he sits up, crawling over to you as he holds your face in his blood smeared hands.Â
âIt was all you, you did so well.â He kisses your cheek as he tucks your hair behind your ears.
The logical thing to say right now would be âletâs get out of here.â The logical thing to do right now would be to run out the now open door and scream until someone, anyone, comes to help you. Instead you turn your head towards his hand and kiss his palm.
âTell me that you meant it.â You whisper.Â
âEvery word.âÂ
You slide your hand up and across his chest, making your intentions pretty clear as you lean forward to catch his lips in a kiss. Gentle and sweet to start, eventually becoming something with more fire behind it. Heâs the one to pull away first.
âYouâre hurt.â His hand traces over the back of yours, leaving a slick trail of red.Â
âIt isnât too bad. I promise.â
âAre you absolutely sure?â He lifts your top to examine your ribs, you doubt anything's broken.Â
Itâs probably just a fracture.Â
Probably.
It isnât important right now, nothing is as important as the look in his eyes.Â
âSay it again.â You pull your shirt down, lifting his chin so he focuses on your face instead of your potentially broken bones.
He knows what you want, he always knows what you want.Â
âI love you.âÂ
âAgain.â You mumble, unable to take your eyes off of him.Â
âI love you.âÂ
And you know it isnât for the cameras, it isnât fearing punishment, it isnât to keep you safe.Â
He says it for you, just for you.Â
You grab the collar of his now stained shirt and smash your lips against his. He devours you, all consuming and possessive with every lap of his tongue and every nip of his teeth. His hand is sliding up your leg, you donât bother being as subtle as you shove your hand down the front of his boxers, youâve never been as pleased as you are right now to find that heâs already hard. He groans into your mouth and you happily swallow every one. When his fingers graze against your inner thigh you gasp, the sharp intake of breath makes you wince as you yelp. The pain in your rips taking all of your focus as well as his. He immediately pulls away from you.Â
âHospital first, everything else later.â His tone is firm and you know itâs a command for himself as well as you.Â
You whine for a moment but when the stabbing pain in your ribs continues you give it up, letting him help you to your feet. He practically carries you as you limp beside him, but not before taking the blood stained cell phone in his hands.Â
Past your makeshift bed, past whatâs left of your captor, past the red door, and through the hallway to the door at the end thatâs now swung open.Â
Youâre both faced with a ladder.Â
As youâre forced to climb up the rungs youâre less convinced your ribs are just fractured. You whine with each step up.
When he lifts the latch climbing out into the sun, heâs quick to turn around to help you up and out. Once youâve managed to fully exit the bunker with what you hope is minimal damage youâre left standing barefoot in a suburban backyard. White picket fence and all.Â
He kicks the hatch closed and you can see that the top of it is made to look just like patchy grass, blending right in with the rest of the yard. The rest of the team never would have found you here.Â
You stay behind Spencer as he walks towards the front yard, your hand locked around his.
You arenât really sure what youâre supposed to do now, outside of the basement you suddenly feel small compared to the rest of the world. Â
Spencer's hand never leaves yours as he flips the unsubs phone open, dialing the number without looking at it as he brings it to his ear.
âGarcia, can you get a trace on this number?â He says it so casually, like itâs any other day.
Thereâs a moment of silence on the other end of the line until you hear a quiet voice.
âSpencer?â
He hesitates, almost as if he isnât sure.
âYeah.âÂ
She starts to speak again but you donât have a chance to hear what she says as he clicks the phone shut, tossing it onto the grass in front of you both.Â
In the unforgiving light of the sun you get a really good look at him.Â
He looks awful.Â
The dark circles that seem to be permanently under his eyes have practically doubled in size. His jaw is lined with a sprinkle of stubble and god he looks thin.Â
Of course he always looks thin but now heâs thin.Â
And none of that even touches the fact that heâs still actively bleeding out of the gashes that decorate his knuckles. When you look him in the eye you can see heâs sizing you up as well.
Youâre certain youâre as much of a sight as he is.
A perfect pair.
You stay standing, youâre a little worried that if you sit down you wonât get back up. You thought it was the morning but it looks more like evening, people pass in cars, slowing down at the sight of you and neighbors step out onto their porches.Â
It isnât long before you hear sirens. But it isn't the police that pull up first, itâs a black SUV, followed by an ambulance. Hotch and Morgan rush out of the car, guns drawn. You donât have to tell them heâs already dead, one look at Spencer and they both holster their weapons.Â
The way Morgan looks at you makes you nauseous.Â
Youâve seen him look at corpses in a similar manner, scowling like he arrived at the scene a few minutes too late. Hotch seems to sense his reluctance, directing him towards the house. Heâs all too happy to get away from you.Â
Youâre glad itâs just Hotch.Â
He doesnât try to embrace you, and he does his best to keep his expression neutral, even if itâs obvious heâs profiling you both right now.Â
You zone out, focusing on the dozens of cop cars that come screeching down the street. Spencer and Hotch are having a conversation but you canât focus on it when youâve got half the Seattle police force storming the little blue house. Several of them stop in their tracks, gawking at you.Â
To be fair, you are standing out on the lawn in panties and a tank top.Â
A paramedic tries to lead you away from Spencer as he continues to talk with your unit chief, he stops abruptly as you let out a sob that catches you by surprise, a little hiccuping sound as they put an arm around you and try to take you away from him.Â
Spencer reacts before you can even say his name, yanking you backwards as he shoves the paramedic to the ground. Standing in front of you defensively.
Everybody freezes. Hotch, the other medics, even the cops.
You feel everyone's eyes on the two of you as you cling to Spencer's arm. You want to say something, anything, but your tongue lay uselessly in your mouth.
Hotch is quick to help him to his feet, apologizing profusely as he puts a hand on the paramedics shoulder. You can hear him whisper under his breath.Â
âI think itâll be best if we donât try to separate them.âÂ
When he approaches you his hands are out where you can see them and he speaks softly.Â
âReid, we need to get her checked out, from the way sheâs walking I would imagine something is probably broken.â You recognize his tone of voice. Itâs how he talks to victims on a case once theyâve been rescued. Technically thatâs what you are now. âYou can go with her but you need to get checked out too, youâve lost a lot of blood.âÂ
You squeeze his arm, turning to look at him as he nods.Â
Hotch escorts you both to the ambulance, when they lay you down on the stretcher Spencer stays by your side, silently watching, with his hand always holding yours.Â
As they examine your ribs someone takes a look at Spencer's fingers, you take the opportunity to finally try and speak.
âHow long were we gone?â You donât recognize the shaky, soft voice that leaves your mouth.Â
You have seen him smile a single digit number of times since you joined the BAU, right now he gives you a sympathetic smile. Like heâs looking at a wounded animal.Â
âAbout three and a half weeks.âÂ
That catches Spencer's attention.
âHow is that possible?â He pulls his hand away from the doctor looking him over as he comes to sit beside you on the edge of the ambulance. âWe couldnât have been in there for more than a week.â
âBased on what we saw in the videos he was depriving you of sleep. He kept you awake for long periods of time and let you sleep for short bursts.â He almost looks like heâs about to put a hand on your knee but he thinks better of it when his eyes dart towards Spencer. âGarcia is in the process of recovering all of the footage, we promise we will keep it as private as possible, the rest of the team will not have access to it.âÂ
Three and a half weeks.Â
âWhereâs the rest of the team?â Itâs like Spencer can feel how stressed you are as he tries to change the subject.Â
âThey had to return to Quantico.â He looks ashamed of himself as he says it. âWe negotiated a deal to keep Morgan and myself on the case for an extended period of time but everyone else needed to return to work.â
âHow much time did you have left?â You say it before you can stop yourself.Â
How much time before you abandoned us completely?
Not that it mattered, it wasnât the team that saved you.Â
âWe had another week and a half.â You have to give it to Hotch, he doesnât try to lie to you. You only nod in response, squeezing Spencer's hand before he can say something he regrets.Â
The paramedic poking at your ribs tells Hotch that they need to get you in for an x-ray as soon as possible, there arenât any signs of internal bleeding yet but that could change at a moment's notice.Â
You wish heâd talk to you directly, it makes you feel like a child when they donât address you.Â
â
You can see them through the glass.Â
Emily, Morgan, J.J, even Penelope.Â
You can also assume what heâs telling them. Usual protocol for someone in the state youâre in is to ease them into interactions with loved ones. At the very least you donât have to worry about all of them running in here at once.
âWe could be in worse shape.â Spencer mumbles from across the room. You refused to be in separate rooms, instead you stand opposite each other in your shared room. Neither one of you is ready to lay down, not after the day youâve had, youâre too jittery.Â
Heâs right, you really could be.Â
There arenât words for the amount of relief you felt when they told you that your urine test came back negative for pregnancy. Your period was likely late because of the stress your body was under. Sure, having his baby wouldnât be the worst thing in the world, but in those circumstances? You donât know how youâd ever live with conceiving a child in those conditions.Â
Spencer narrowly avoided sepsis, his gums were in bad shape, heâs on an IV drip of a pretty strong antibiotic. They said there was nothing that could be done for his fingers other than eventual cosmetic surgery to try and reconstruct the ends into something other than a smashed, burned mess. And of course he had several fractures along his knuckles.Â
You did in fact have a broken rib, and two fractured ones. Spencer wasnât happy to hear that but he never once expressed any upset towards you. Youâre pretty sure you could kill someone in front of him and he wouldnât so much as bat an eye.Â
And now youâre here.Â
Your stomach and chest are covered in bandages, his hands are in a similar state. Both sentenced to bed rest for quite some time.
You cringe at the sound of the door opening as Emily steps into the room.
She pulls you into a hug that you struggle to return.
âIâm so glad youâre okay.â She whispers as you hear her sniffle.
You arenât, but you nod anyway.
âMe too.â
âWe have the best nursing staff assembled to do your kit, everyone is female. I can stay with you or I can wait right outside the door.â She gives your hand a squeeze and you instinctively pull away.
âWhat kit?â Youâre hyper aware of how shrill your voice sounds, it makes Spencer stand up straighter across the room.Â
âThe rape kit.â Her expression softens and she speaks like sheâs scared youâll run away like a frightened animal.Â
You scoff.
âI donât need a rape kit.â
âWe really think you should, hon.â She takes a step towards you and you lurch backwards, Spencer is quick to cross the room to stand beside you, angled imperceptibly between you and Emily.Â
âI donât need a rape kit.â You say it more firmly this time, enough to catch the attention of the rest of your team in the hall, Hotch steps into the doorway as you look back and forth between them. âI wasnât raped.âÂ
A hush falls over the room.Â
âMaybe we could talk alone, you might be more comfortable-â Emily starts to walk towards you but Spencer steps forward, stopping her in her tracks.
âIâm not going anywhere without Spencer.â You accentuate your point by grabbing his arm and pulling closer.
âNo one is saying that this is his fault.â Hotch doesnât step into the room, he speaks in that steady even tone of his. âYou are both victims in this situation, we just need to assess the extent of your wounds.âÂ
âThey already did.â You wish they would all stop looking at you like youâre made of glass.
âWith wounds of this⊠genre, itâs best that we get them checked out immediately, we have up to ninety six hours to-â Hotch starts again in that painfully gentle tone, like you might shatter into pieces if he speaks too loudly.
âThe answer is no. You canât do it without my permission, and Iâm saying no.â
âI really think we should talk about this privately.â You glare at Emily when she speaks again, youâd always considered her to be your closest friend in the BAU. Now you feel on edge around her, around everyone.Â
âI said no.â You hiss.
âYou canât legally force her into any testing without her explicit consent.â Spencer finally speaks, measured and authoritative. His tone reminds you of Hotchâs.Â
It makes Emily flex her fist, they both stare at each other until Hotch steps in between them.
âAnd we have no plans to do any tests without her permission, if she doesnât want the kit then we wonât do one.â You can tell Hotch is desperate to deescalate the situation.Â
âI wasnât raped.â You repeat yourself, watching as the entire room flinches as you say it.Â
Including Spencer.Â
No one has anything to say to that.Â
âI think Iâd like to be alone.â You manage to steady your voice as you glare at them. Hotch is the first to step out of the room, when Emily reaches the doorway she turns back.Â
âLetâs go Spencer.â The second the words leave her mouth your hand squeezes his. Her eyes dart down as she catches the movement, when her gaze returns to your eyes her expression is devastating.
You donât want their pity.Â
Yet they seem resilient in their attempts to shove it down your throat.Â
âWeâll talk to you all tomorrow. Iâd like to sleep.â Your words are the final nail in the coffin.
You are a we now.
An us.
When youâre with Spencer you are alone. Without another word he helps you into your bed before pushing his own bed against yours. Neither one of you speaks as you lay down, you simply hold hands until you feel his breathing become even and steady, the all too familiar indicator that heâs fallen asleep. You take the opportunity to slip into the bathroom. When you flip the lights on you finally know why everyone keeps staring at you. You make Spencer look good in comparison.Â
You donât recognize the terrified woman in the mirror. She looks like she survived something much worse than being trapped in a basement for a month.
So much of your skin is covered in bruises.Â
If he didnât leave a bite mark or a hickie somewhere he squeezed you so tightly he left handprints. His grip hadnât felt that tight in the moment.Â
You look straight out of a horror movie.Â
A shell of who you once were.
Your hair is still damp from when you had taken a shower earlier, pulling it away from your face while looking at your neck. Dark purple splotches cover your throat, spreading down your clavicle. A line of blisters and burns decorate your neck.Â
You feel like a monster. No wonder everyone looks at you like you survived something horrifying. Maybe you did.Â
You flick the lights off after just a few seconds, you donât want to look at the creature staring back at you anymore.Â
 When you step back into the room heâs sitting up, and he looks at you like youâre the most beautiful thing heâs ever seen.Â
âCâmere.â His voice is thick with sleep as he motions you towards him. You climb into his bed, smoothing his hair down with your hands. âYouâre so pretty.âÂ
âYouâre delusional.â Your voice sounds like your own again when itâs just the two of you. Not the trembling quiet voice that seems to come out when anyone else is around.Â
âSo, so pretty.â
âEveryone's been staring at me like Iâm a ghost.â
âTheyâre staring because theyâre jealous. They canât believe that youâre so pretty and youâre all mine.â And god, you believe him. Forgetting all about the monster in the mirror. He could tell you the sky was pink and that grass was blue and youâd believe him right now.Â
âI love you.â He wipes a tear from your lash line with his thumb.
âI love you.â You donât doubt that for a second.Â
â
Everything is different now, how could it not be?
Neither one of you could have guessed how your time in the bunker would affect you in the long term.Â
You both go back to work after a mandatory three month sabbatical. You avoid field work, opting to work from a desk most of the time, no one ever questions the choice. And Spencer always takes the stairs when you come in to work, he says the elevator makes him nauseous.
You moved out of your studio a week after you left the bunker. The single room space you once found cozy now made you feel like you were suffocating. Besides, neither of you slept well when you were apart, it just made sense to move in with him.Â
Instead of the flowy and light pajamas you used to wear you now sleep in long sleeves and layers, even if it means waking up covered in sweat.Â
Spencer never falls asleep before you, most nights you wake up to find heâs wrapped himself so tightly around you itâs impossible to get comfortable. You never complain, it doesnât bother you.Â
You donât go to girls' nights anymore and Spencer never takes up Derekâs offer to grab a drink. When thereâs the occasional team bonding trip to the bar you both go, never separating your hand from the others.Â
The picture on your desk of your friends has been replaced with a photo of you and Spencer at your cousin's wedding. The trinkets that once sat under your monitor suddenly seemed silly, eventually they ended up shoved in the back of a drawer. You donât need them anymore; your deskmate always makes sure you have fresh flowers to brighten up the space. Â
Instead of being charmingly awkward Spencerâs been described as a bit more blunt and offputting than he used to be. And fine, you arenât as bubbly as you used to be. You have every right to act the way you do. You still find him plenty charming.
Sure, you miss your friends. You miss spending your lunch breaks trying new local restaurants with Emily, and you miss long nights spent in Penelope's cave working on a case. And maybe you miss early morning trips to the gym with Morgan. But those things arenât an option for you anymore. You try to be away from him but you canât, itâs like youâre addicted. If you spend too much time apart you start to break down, hyperventilating until you find your way back to him.Â
Youâd feel worse about it if he wasnât just as bad.Â
Maybe worse.
The first time you interrogated an unsub after your sabbatical Spencer had burst into the room and Morgan had to put him in a headlock to stop him from strangling the unsub.Â
They donât look at you the same anymore.Â
Hotch looks at Spence like heâs dangerous.
Morgan doesnât joke around with you anymore.Â
Spencer made Penelope cry on your first day back.
And Emily looks at him like heâs holding you hostage. Â
You donât care what they think. They didnât save you, Spencer did. And youâd much rather have the ring thatâs around your finger than a cuff around your wrist.Â
They just donât understand your relationship, they couldnât. None of them know what itâs like to be loved like this.Â
All that matters is that youâre happy, even if they donât seem convinced.Â
You arenât a normal couple.Â
And you donât want to be.Â
â
a/n : i really hope y'all enjoyed headlock <3 <3 follow @holymolynotifications for future fic updates!!
summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, canât-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of coupleâuntil you decide to commit to a month-long âdetox.â no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)
(inspired by sabrina carpenterâs my man on willpower (2025)!)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / âspiritualâ themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctorâmedical accuracy idkher)
wc 16.5k words
âIâm sorry,â Jack says slowly, like heâs trying very hard to be reasonable, âIâm still⊠a little lost hereâwhat exactly are you doing?â
You donât turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesnât quite add up, or when heâs looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.
âIâm doing a detox,â you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. âSoâyou know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no sodaââ
ââright there,â he cuts in.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder. ââŠNo soda?â
He doesnât even blink. âNo. The no sex.â
You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. âWhat, you canât handle a month without sex?â
Jack doesnât biteâdoesnât rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.
âNot when itâs without you,â he says, simple.
You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. âThatâs flattering. That will get you very far.â
You slide his plate toward him. He doesnât take it yet.
âItâs not like I wonât miss it,â you add, softer now. âSame as alcohol. Same as everything else.â
âYeah,â he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. âDifference is alcoholâs not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.â
You shoot him a lookâsharp, immediate.Â
He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didnât just say that. âItâs a valid comparison.â
âYouâre unbelievable.â
âYou love it,â he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. âPoint is - you know, itâs a big difference.â
You try not to smile. You fail, a little.
âI justââ you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. âI want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.â
âHon,â he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, âyou work ortho and youâre an R3. Youâre up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, youâre healthyâwhat part of you needs more discipline?â
You glance at him. Heâs looking at you properly now. Not teasing.
You soften a fraction. âItâs not about that.â
âThen what is it about?â
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
ââŠItâs just a month,â you settle on. âFour weeks. Thirty days. Weâll live.â
He studies you. You can feel itâclinical, almost. Like heâs trying to diagnose something youâre not saying out loud.
Thenâ
âAnd this is just penetration?â he asks.
You freeze.
Your silence is loud.
Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. âGoddamn.â
You busy yourself with the plates again. âItâs part of the program.â
âProgram,â he repeats flatly. âWho the hell put you up to this?â
âSantos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.â
That earns you a look.
ââŠSantos,â he says, like heâs deeply reconsidering several life choices. âOf course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.â
You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. âItâs not a cult. Itâs a detox.â
âItâs a sexless cult,â he mutters, taking the bowl.
You nudge his hip with yours. âYouâve survived longer droughts.â
âYeah,â he shoots back immediately. âIn the army.â
You grin. âOh, here we go.â
âYouâre really gonna do this to me?â he says, following you toward the couch. âMake the disabled veteran relive his worst years?â
âYour worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.â
âDebatable.â
You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, closeâcloser than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like heâs testing the boundaries of this already.
You hand him a fork.
âItâll be good for us,â you say, softer now. âBuilds character.â
He looks at you sidelong. âI have enough character.â
âYou could always use more.â
âYeah?â he murmurs.
His hand comes upâabsent, habitualâresting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
ââŠFine. Iâll do whatever I can to support you in this⊠detox, thing,â he says.
You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. âI appreciate that.â
He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesnât move from your leg.
A pause.
Thenâ
âWe can still watch Housewives?â he asks, like this is the real negotiation.
You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. âHousewives stays.â
âRight,â he nods. âGood. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.â
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. âSo you think you can handle this?â
ââCourse I can handle this.â
â â â
âI canât handle this,â Jack says.
Robby doesnât even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like heâs been waiting for this. âItâs just a month, man. Cool it.â
âItâs not just a month,â Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. âItâs a month without her. Thereâs a difference.â
Robby snorts. âOh, Iâm sure there is.â
âIâm serious,â Jack says, sharper now. âYou donât get itâyou donâtââ he gestures vaguely, frustrated. âWhen you have her, sheâsâ sheâs everything. Itâs not just sex, itâsâŠ. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I meanââ
ââyou were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,â Robby cuts in, amused.
âYeah, well,â Jack mutters. âWe have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?â He throws his hands up. âNothing. She wonât even let me spoon her.â
Robby pauses.
Then looks up slowly.
ââŠSpooning.â
âDonât,â Jack warns.
Robbyâs grin breaks wide. âJack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?â
âOh, shut up.â
âThatâs⊠wow,â Robby shakes his head, impressed. âItâs a cute image.â
Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. âNot evenânothing. Itâs like Iâm in a goddamn monastery.â
âVoluntarily celibate,â Robby nods. âVery spiritual of you.â
âI did not volunteer,â Jack snaps.
âYou stayed,â Robby counters.
Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. âWhere the hell are they? They said two minutes.â
âRelax,â Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. âAlsoâ five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?â He clicks his tongue, an exhale. âImpressive. You should get that checked out.â
âForget that,â Jack mutters. âSheâll kill me if Iâm talking about this.â
âOh, so thereâs still fear. Good. Thatâs healthy.â
Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.
âHow longâs it been since you twoâŠ?â Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.
Jack hesitates.
ââŠTwo days.â
Thereâs a beat.
Robby stares at him. ââŠTwo days,â he repeats.
Jack doesnât answer.
Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. âYouâre kidding me.â
âI wish I was.â
âYouâre like this after two days?â
Jack shrugs, already keyed up. âLook, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alrightââ
âThatâs pathetic,â Robby says, still grinning.
âI know,â Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. âI know, itâsâthis is ridiculous. She wonât even kiss me, barely hugs me. Sheâs⊠walking around like nothingâs changedââ
âYeah,â Robby hums. âAlmost like sheâs not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?â
Jack shoots him a look. âYou're not helping.â
âIâm not trying to,â Robby says easily.
Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.
âWhere the hell are they?â he mutters. âThey said two minutes.â
Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. âTraffic, maybeââ
âAmbulance crashed!â
The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.
â â â
Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.
Heâd seen enoughâdone enoughâto have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasnât perfect, but he was⊠steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knewâRobby included, which wasnât exactly a high bar, but still.
He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.
But this. This thing you were doingâŠ
The thing about you was, heâd never really had to hold back before.
From the moment youâd settled into his lifeâproperly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartmentâheâd made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, itâs yours.
That includes the easy things. The soft things.
And yeahâsex too.
It wasnât the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hoursâyou loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.
But â Christ. It didnât hurt that the sex was very good.
And youâyoung, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right placesâyouâd woken something up in him he hadnât realised had gone quiet. Made him feel⊠not younger, exactly, but awake.Â
Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid waysâlike going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didnât feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.
You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.
Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didnât even realise you were doing it.
Youâd climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhereâhalf a joke, half notâjust to see the way heâd react.
It didnât go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.
Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing specialâand all Jack could do was watch you.
âThe hell did you find her?â Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.
Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.
âShe found me,â he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. âCafeteria. First week at PTMC.â
Robby hummed, unconvinced. âRight. Of course she did.â
Jack shrugged, trying for casual. âSheâs⊠enthusiastic.â
Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversationâlike something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.
Locked. And thenâthere it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.
âYeah,â Robby muttered. âThatâs one word for it.â
You were already moving.
Didnât even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.
You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.
âHi,â you said, bright, a little breathless. âMissed you.â
Jack blinked. âYouâve been gone fifteen minutes.â
âFelt longer,â you shrugged, already reaching for himâfingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. âI love this shirt.â
Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasnât a strategy. Apparently, it was working.
You didnât move away. If anything, you leaned closerâhips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldnât quite help it.
Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasnât affecting him.
âYou busy?â you asked, softer now.
You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.
Then you leaned in.
Close enough that Robby couldnât hear, but not subtle about it eitherâyour mouth brushing Jackâs ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.
Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.
Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.
âWeâre heading out,â he said.
Robby stared at him. âYou just got here.â
âYeah,â Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. âWeâre done.â
Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasnât. It just⊠evolved.
You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as heâd first describedâjust more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.
And when you were stressedâwhich was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given youâit got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.
Youâd come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speedâand instead of shutting down, youâd go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.
You didnât overthink it. You didnât ration it.
And now nothing. Heâs not sure if he recognises you.Â
Itâs not just the sex. Thatâs the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But itâs everything else thatâs starting to wear on him. Youâre thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.
â â â
Day Six.
He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.
The apartmentâs not quiet. Thatâs the first thing.
The secondâ You.
On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something youâve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldnât sit still long enough.
And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is⊠its own problem. Thereâs a lot to unpack there.
Why does Santos know where you live?
Why is Santos doing yoga?
Why are you wearing thatâsome tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?
âHi, baby!â you call, bright, easy, like nothingâs changed, as you both move into cobra.
âGross,â Santos mutters under her breath.
âHey, hon,â Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.
The coffee tableâs been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.
He walks over anywayâautomatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouthâ
âand you shift just slightly.
Itâs subtle. Anyone else wouldnât clock it. But he does.
His kiss lands on your cheek instead.
You donât even break the pose.
âNo kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,â you remind him lightly.
A beat.
âRight,â he says, quieter. âForgot about that.â
Thereâs the faintest pauseâjust enough to feel it.
âFeels like itâs all the time lately,â he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, âButâyeah. I get it.â
You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothingâs happened.
He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.
She rolls her eyes.
âNext pose,â she says flatly.
You shift without hesitation.
âYou should shower, then have some breakfast,â you tell him gently, already moving into childâs pose. âI made oats. Theyâre in the fridge.â
âOats?â he repeats. âSince when do you eat oats?â
âItâs good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,â Santos answers, not looking up. âCleansing in some cultures.â
Jack blinks at her. ââŠRight. Iâve been a doctor for twenty years. Think Iâve got gut health covered, Trinity.â
âI donât think your army rations count as a gut health plan,â she shoots back.
You let out a small laugh into the mat.
âI thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,â Jack adds to you.
âThey are,â you mumble. âBut these have honey and cinnamon.â
Santos chimes. âAnd spite.â
Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.
Looking at youâfolded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like heâs background noise.
âOkay,â he says finally, a little clipped. âYou two⊠have fun.â He drags a hand over his face. âIâm gonna sleep for about five hours.â
He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.
You glance up, watching him go.
Thereâs a beat of silence.
Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. âJesus Christ.â
You follow, steady.
âHe seems⊠stable,â she says.
âHeâs a bit grumpy,â you reply. âWe havenât touched in nearly a week.â
Santosâs head snaps toward you. âSo?â
âWeâre touchy people.â
âRight,â she nods once. âI hate happy couples.â
You huff a quiet laugh.
âThis was your idea, by the way,â you remind her.
âYeah, and itâs a good one,â she says immediately. âI needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.â
âYou could just⊠not text her.â
Santos looks at you like youâve said something deeply stupid. âOh, yeah. Genius. Why didnât I think of that?â
You smile slightly.
âShe blocked me last night,â Santos adds, flat.
âOh.â
âYeah. âFor her peace.ââ She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. âWhich is crazy, because Iâm incredibly peaceful.â
âWell, this detox thing is a great idea. Youâll cleanse yourself of her.â
âEvil lesbians are not for the weak.â
âHon, where are those scented candles?â Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.
âI threw them out,â you call back. âThey release benzene. Cleansing, remember?â
Thereâs a pause.
ââŠOf course you did,â he mutters, just loud enough.
Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.
âBit much, isnât it?â she says.
You exhale into the mat. âI am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, youâd consider me the Virgin Mary.â
â â â
Day Nine.
Virgin Mary, my ass.
Thatâs all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.
The ones from Valentineâs. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radioâsomething easy, something youâre half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just⊠normal.
Heâs been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And heâs already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.
His arms come around you slow, familiarâsettling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if youâre being⊠whatever this is.
You startle just a little, then relax.
âHey,â you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. âYouâre up.â
âMhm,â he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.
He doesnât even pretend restraint. Just goes for itâslow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like heâs been deprived, because he has.Whichâhe has.
âWhatâre you making?â he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.
âFood prep,â you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.
âShitâJack,â you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. âYou canât.â
He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.
âI canât,â he repeats, low. âOr you canât?â
His hands move without askingâsliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.
You inhale sharply. He doesnât stop. Just keeps goingâslow, deliberateâup over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.
Your hand stills completely on the counter.
âJack,â you say again, but itâs weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.
He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.
âBeen real good about this,â he murmurs. âHavenât I?â
You donât answer.
Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.
His touch shifts just slightlyânot pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.
Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.
âNo,â you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. âNope. No, canât. Iâm staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.â
He exhales slowly, like heâs dragging himself back by force.
âUnfocused.. alright,â he mutters. âWhatever you want.â
But his hands donât move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so youâre facing him. Big mistake.
Because now youâre looking at him properlyâsleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like youâre the only thing in the room. And you know that look. Youâve felt what follows it.
âYou should get a hobby,â you tell him quietly.
âYeah?â he says, not looking away.
âMaybe pottery,â you shrug. âSomething that isnât being a SWAT medic andââ you hesitate just slightly, ââfucking me or whatever.â
His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.
âBut I really like my hobbies,â he says, voice low, rough around the edges. âEspecially fucking you, or whatever.â
The way he looks at you when he says itâlike heâs imagining you in the most vulgar of situationsâmakes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.
He doesnât move.
âJack.â
âJust one kiss?â He asks.
You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.
You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.
âIâll try pottery,â he mutters.
You smileâsmall, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.
You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like heâs trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second heâs out of sightâ
You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought itâd be.
Itâs him. The way he moves around you like itâs instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.
If you touch him properlyâif you let yourself lean into it even a littleâyou know exactly how it goes. Thereâs no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.
You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each otherâshared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. Heâs steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too.Â
You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You shouldâve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you donât have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie.Â
Cleanse. Reset. Prove youâve got discipline. Prove youâre not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.
Itâs just youâve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this⊠needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.
âGod,â you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like thatâll ground you. âPathetic.â
â â â
Day Twelve.
âI cannot tell if youâre being serious right now,â Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.
Jack doesnât even look at him. âItâs psychological warfare.â
Robby scoffs. âOh my god.â
âIâm serious,â Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. âI canât think straight. Itâs like⊠cognitive impairment. I should get tested.â
âYou need to get a grip,â Robby replies.
âYou donât get it,â Jack mutters. âYou havenât had a relationship like this inâwhat, a decade? More? This isnât casual. This is⊠routine. Structure. Stability.â He gestures vaguely. âWe live together. Weâve got a system.â
âA system,â Robby repeats, flat.
âYes,â Jack says, defensive. âAnd sheâs dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Justâgone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And Iâm a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.â
Robby exhales through his nose. âItâs been two weeks.â
âTwelve days,â Jack corrects. âThatâs long enough to destabilise a man.â
The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.
Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.
âShe wonât even cuddle with me,â he mutters. âDo you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she mightââ
He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.
Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. âItâs like⊠all that energy I spent with her, is just⊠Like Iâm allââ
âDo not say pent up,â Robby murmurs.
âIâm pent up, man,â Jack says anyway, under his breath. âI donâtââ
âJesus Christ.â
âAnd she keeps wearingââ
ââand thatâs our stop,â Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.
They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.
Jack rubs his hands together, restless. âSheâs doing it on purpose.â
âNo, she isnât.â
âShe is,â Jack insists. âShe knows exactly what I like. The shirts, theâlack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking⊠tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. Itâs targeted.â
âOr,â Robby says, dry, âsheâs a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.â
Jack ignores that. âAnd thenânothing. Wonât touch me. Wonât let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna⊠ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.â
Robby snorts. âYou sound like one. She showers with the door open?â
âIâve done tours,â Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robbyâs query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. âIâve been shot at. Iâve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is whatâs got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.â
Robby stops walking.
Grabs his shoulder.
âYou hear yourself, right?â
ââŠYeah,â Jack mutters. âHearin' it.â
âGood,â Robby says. âBecause itâs insane. And Iâm tired of it, brother.â
Jack exhales, trying to resetâthen his gaze shifts past Robbyâs shoulder.
Locks. You.
At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patientâs lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee castâthumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patientâs foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence youâve grown into over the past couple years.
You look good. You always do, butâtoday is⊠worse. Yeah, heâs definitely pent up. Jackâs jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.
âYou really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.â
âDonât.â
âI mean it,â Robby says. âItâs palpable.â
Jack exhales sharply. âIâll be right back.â
âYou arenât going there.â
âIâm just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.â
âNo, youâre gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,â Robby corrects. âWhile Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.â
âRight, âcourse, youâve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,â Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. âGod, If she asked me to I probably w-â
â-We need boundaries, man,â Robby says. âI donât⊠You have fun with that.â
âRelax. Itâs fine, weâre both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, weâre outta here.â
Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patientâvoice warm, easy, reassuring.
Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.
You look up. Catch him. Smile. Itâs small, but it lands.
Jack stiffens like heâs just been called to attention, gives you a tight nodâcontrolled, restrainedâthen abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.
Robby snorts under his breath. âThat was painful to watch.â
âI told you. Psychological warfare.â
McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.
âWhatâs that about?â McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.
âOur detox program?â you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. âNot a fan.â You glance to the patient. âAny numbness or tingling, maâam?â
âNo, love. Feels fine,â she says, half-distracted by her phone.
âGood,â you nod. âLet me know if that changes.â
McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. âAh. The celibacy portion not going down well?â
You let out a quiet breath. âNot particularly. And Iâm not being super easy on him about it either.â
âYeah,â she says, dry. âCanât imagine why.â
You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. âEverything else is good, though. Iâm committed now.â
âMm,â McKay says. âSantos bullied us into it.â
âSantos encouraged it.â
âSantos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,â McKay corrects.
âThatâs notââ you start, then pause. ââŠentirely inaccurate.â
Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. âUmâcan I try wrapping the next layer?â
You brighten a little. âYeah, of course. Come here.â
You shift off the stool, making space. âAlrightâsupport here,â you guide, hands hovering near hers. âKeep your tension even, donât gap it.â
Mel nods seriously, concentrating.
McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. âAre you feeling detoxed?â
You huff a quiet breath. âA little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.â
âHolistic wellness,â McKay deadpans.
You smile despite yourself. âAnd you?â you ask.
âNope,â she sighs. âBut Harrisonâs loving the yoga mat, so at least someoneâs thriving. And I wasnât getting laid anyway, soâno real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.â
You snort softly, nudging Melâs hand. âSmoother thereâyeah, thatâs it. Keep the overlap consistent.â
Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enoughâ
âHe looks like heâs about five minutes from a breakdown.â
You donât look over. âHeâll be fine.â
âMm,â she hums. âHe keeps looking at you between charts.â
âHe always does that when Iâm down here,â you say, a little softer.
âYeah,â McKay replies. âNot like this.â
You ignore that, focusing instead on Melâs technique. âGoodânow just secure it there. Donât pull too tight.â
Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. âLike that?â
âPerfect,â you say, genuinely pleased. âNice work, Doctor King.â
Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it againâJackâs attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.
You keep your eyes on the patient. But youâre aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, tryingâand failingânot to look again.
Later, he finds you around the ED. Youâre mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.
Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You donât react. Donât even break your sentence.
ââŠso we stabilise first, then reassess once imagingâs backââ
He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.
ââŠHi, Dr Abbot,â she says, dry.
You finally look up. âOhâhey.â
He stares at you.
ââŠHey, just... checking in,â he says, somewhat shy now.
You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. âAnywayâlike I was sayingââ
He stands there for a second. Then another.
Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.
ââŠYou gonna be okay?â he calls out.
Jack doesnât look at him. âNo,â he says flatly, before walking off.
â â â
Day Eighteen.
Youâre supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.
Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.
âYou need to be doing that right now?â Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.
You donât even look at him. âI can stop if you want,â you say, adjusting your stanceâhands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.
He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. âNo, noâcarry on. This is great. Very relaxing.â
You hum like you believe him. You donât.
He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settlesâbut his eyes donât.
They stay on you.
Track every adjustment.
You shift againâone leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jackâs jaw tightens.
âParkâs been on my ass lately,â you say, like this is normal conversation.
âGlad someone has,â Jack murmurs.
You shoot him a look.Â
âIâm sorry, baby, Iâm just⊠distracted, I donât knowâ He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. âWhat is it about Shark?â
âHeâs not as bad as you guys make him seem, heâs just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. âBut he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.â
And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.
One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like itâs nothingâhips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.
Jack actually goes still. Thatâs new.Â
ââŠRight,â he says, quieter now.
You keep talking. Like you havenât just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.
âAnd I was gonna snap,â you continue, calm, measured, âbut I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didnât react. I just⊠sat in it and breathed, five to two.â
âYeah,â he says, voice a little rougher. âLooks like itâs working great.â
You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your backâknees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.
Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like heâs trying to reset.
Heâs trying to be good. You can see it.
Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.
You keep going anyway.
âSo then Isla comes into the break roomâdid you know sheâs getting divorced?â you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.
âDo you need help with that?â he asks, too quick.
âNope,â you say immediately.
You donât look at him.
Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where heâs sitting. You know exactly what heâs thinking about, because youâre thinking about it tooâthe way heâs had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.
You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.
âDo you think he cheated?â you ask.
âWho?â His voice is tighter now.
âIslaâs husband.â
âYeah,â he says after a beat. âMaybe.â
You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.
Jack looks away this time.
Briefly.
Then back.
Like he canât help it.
âI taught her the breathing thing,â you go on. âShe calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulnessââ
âYeah,â he cuts in, too fast. âYou should absolutely do that.â
You glance at him now.
âYeah, Iâll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,â You joke.
âWhatever you want to do, baby,â He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.
âYou look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?â
âIâm fine,â he insists. âRobby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.â
You donât disagree with that.
You look at him. Really look.
Heâs not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way heâs sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like itâs a losing battle.
You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so youâre facing him properly.
He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.
âThank you for putting up with this,â you murmur, softer now, even though itâs just the two of you. Then, almost casuallyââHave you touched yourself at all?â
His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.
âNo,â he says. Then, like heâs committing to honesty instead of dignity: âFigured weâre in this together. Minus⊠everything else. I canât not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.â
That earns a small smile from you.
âResponsible of you,â you say.
âHave you?â He asks.
âNope.â
âAre you struggling at all? Because itâs⊠you know, you⊠you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.â
You inhale sharply. âIâm doing great.â You lie.
âI feel like youâre forgetting how good our sex is,â He says.
You raise your brows, give it thought. âOr⊠Iâm free from such⊠baseless temptations.â
âBaseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.â He reminds.Â
Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesnât.
âI should go,â you say, too casually. âErrands.â
Jack nods once, like heâs trying to behave. âTwo more weeks.â
âTwo more weeks,â you repeat.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Itâs small. Controlled. Safe.
Except it isnât, because itâs the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like itâs been starved of oxygen. Like you didnât realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.
He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.
Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between spaceâfaces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like heâs waiting to see if youâll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.
You shouldnât.
You press your mouth to his. Itâs chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and itâs not long enough for him as you pull away, as if youâve rewarded him, but he canât help but be greedy when it comes to you.
âYou can do better than that, baby,â he says quietly.
âMm,â you reply, steadying yourself. âI canât.â
A pause.
âPromise I wonât do anything,â he adds.
You look at him for a second too long.
Then you nod.
His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your headâgentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.
You kiss him again properly.
It starts off controlledâyour mouth on his, testing, like youâre still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing inâjust straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what theyâre doing, falling into step all over again.
Your hand lifts like youâre going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.
His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like heâs done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach dropâlike your body reacts before your brain even catches up.Â
A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.
His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.
He exhales into your mouth, rough. âDamnit.â
You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like heâs checking how far youâll go if he just keeps pushing like this.
You make another soundâlow, breathyâand he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like heâs grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.
âMmâno more,â you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. âNo more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.â
âOkay,â he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesnât move his eyes off you.
Youâre both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss thatâs supposedly not doing anything.
He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fractionâexcept heâs not actually done. Heâs just shifting, exhaling through his nose like heâs trying to reset and failing.
You glance down.
Heâs already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like heâs half curious, half done pretending this isnât affecting him.
You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.
âBaseless temptation?â he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.
âYouâre ridiculous,â you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. âIâm going. Errands.â
âMm,â he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like heâs given up on dignity for the moment. âThat.â
You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. âYeah. That.â
âGreat detox, honey,â he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like heâs both impressed and completely fucked by it.
You donât look back when you walk out.
â â â
Day Twenty Two.
You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.
Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her lifeâone text, then another, then a âjust checking inâ that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.
We resist.
You werenât going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.
So you didnât argue. Didnât say that your situation was devolving.
So. Yoga, reading, no screensânone of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because youâd started treating this like something to actually get through properly.Â
So you added structure.
Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like heâs trying to decide if heâs being punished or supported.
You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.
Youâve always cooked. So has he. Itâs part of your relationshipâeasy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.
But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of âcleansingâ meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.
Youâve also tightened everything else.
Early nights. Early mornings. Youâre not avoiding him exactlyâyouâre just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch âby accident.â No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.
The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.
âHon, you sure?â Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. âItâs the mid-season finale.â
Pitch black room. Eye mask on.
âTell me about it tomorrow,â youâd said.
Heâd watched it alone. Hated it.
Even the small stuff has become intentional.
Youâve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.
Heâs started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.
And stillâyou function.
You were both high-energy peopleâincapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait.Â
The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didnât touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts âfor funâ like thatâs a normal recreational activity.Â
And, historically, youâd had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now thatâs been⊠aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between youâtight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.
The call comes down fast and uglyâtrauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.
Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.
Youâre already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of youâof course he isâalready at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.
Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robbyâs still here past his shiftâbecause of course he is.
âWalk me through it,â Park says without looking at you.
âMid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,â you reply immediately, eyes scanning. âSignificant displacement. Possible vascular compromiseâfoot looks pale, delayed cap refill.â
âGood,â Park says shortly. âCheck dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.â
You nod, moving in.
The leg is⊠bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldnât be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is tryingâearnestlyâto keep under control.
You donât flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.
âDorsalis pedis faint,â you say, fingers pressing in. âPosterior tibialâhard to appreciate.â
âMm,â Park hums. âWe reduce now.â
Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everythingâmonitor, patient, Park.
You.
He hasnât seen you all day. You left before he got homeâleft him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like youâre making it harder.Â
Three weeks of this⊠discipline.
And now youâre here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you havenât been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles arenât taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.
Jackâs jaw tightens.
âTraction,â Park says.
You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. âOn you.â
âNow.â
You pullâfirm, controlled. Thereâs a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.
Whitaker visibly winces.
âBetter,â you murmur, almost satisfied.
Jack exhales through his nose. âHold it,â he says, stepping in just slightly. âPulse?â
Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. âStronger. Still thready, butâbetter.â
âGood. Splint.â
You glance upâjust brieflyâand catch Jack already looking at you.
Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like heâs been holding onto something all shift and hasnât decided where to put it.
You hold his gaze for half a second.
âDoctor,â you say, light.
He tilts his head a fraction. âNice work,â he says, dry. Then, without missing a beatââYou leave that⊠green-orange situation in the fridge?â
You blink. âAre youâseriously?â
âI got four hours of sleep,â he shrugs. âIâm allowed one grievance.â
You briefly glance to Park who doesnât seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.
âItâs vegetable soup,â you say, adjusting your grip. âItâs good for you. Anti-inflammatory.â
Whitaker glances between you, confused. âSoup? Do you two live together?â
Jack ignores him completely. âTastes like punishment.â
âFunny,â you say. âYou seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.â
Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. âOh, Iâm awake now.â
âNot helpful,â Jack mutters, not even looking at him.
âYou started it,â you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. âAlso, Robby likes my soup. Donât you, Robinavitch?â
Robby raises both hands. âIâm not being... triangulated into whatever this is.â
âYouâre making bone broth for my best friend now?â Jack goes on, like he didnât hear that. âThatâs where weâre at?â
âItâs not bone broth,â you correct. âAnd maybe Iâd cook for you if you werenât so moodyââ
You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.
âKeep traction steady,â Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinicalâbut thereâs an edge under it now. âYouâre drifting distal.â
You correct it immediately. âBetter?â
âYeah,â he nods. âDonât let it shorten.â
Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. âIf youâre both done flirtingââ
âThis is not flirting,â Jack and you say at the same time.
A beat.
Whitaker frowns. ââŠWhat is happening?â
Robby snorts. âIâll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.â
âRobby,â Jack says, warning.
âWhat?â Robby shrugs. âIâm just saying. Thereâs context.â
âYou told Robby?â you shoot at Jack.
He opens his mouthâ
âI heard from Santos,â Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. âAnd McKay. Whole department knows youâve gone monk mode.â
You scoff. âItâs not monk mode, itâs a detox.â
âYeah,â Robby nods. âAbbotâs detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.â
Jack exhales sharply. âCan we focus?â
âYou are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guyâs gonna be fine. If he wasnât, Shark here wouldâve bit one of your heads off,â Robby shoots back.
Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.
âAngle your wrist,â you tell him, cutting through it. âYouâre losing medial pressure.â
âOhârightâsorryââ
âItâs fine. Just donât let him bleed out.â
âRight. Yeah. Prefer that.â
Jack hovers just behind your shoulder nowâclose enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.
He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.
âBreakfast tomorrow,â he murmurs. âIs it gonna be more⊠anti-inflammatory punishment?â
You donât look at him. âDepends.â
âOn?â
âHow much you told Robby.â
He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. âJust the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay youâre into,â he jokes. âAnd I am not moody.â
âDebatable.â
âReactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,â he mutters.
âYouâre ridiculous.â You remark.
Thereâs the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by itâ
âYou look lovely, by the way. And Iâd eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.â
You donât respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.
âSecure it,â Park says, already moving on mentally. âGet him upstairs.â
You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.
Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.
Still looking at you like that.
By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robbyâs watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.
âWhen do you clock off?â you ask, tossing the gloves.
âAn hour ago,â he says. âI stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.â
You huff. âHow is he doing?â
Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like heâs actually weighing it up.
âClinically?â he says. âGreat. On top of it, always is. Itâs annoying.â
âAnd not clinically?â you prompt.
He tilts his head. âMm⊠a little rougher than usual,â he admits. âBut heâs dramatic. You know âim.â
You grin. âYeah, I do. Itâs cute.â
âThatâs certainly a word for it,â he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. âBecause he looks like heâs about to file a formal complaint with God.â
You follow the glanceâJack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like heâs holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.
You look back, unfazed. âItâs temporary.â
Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. âYouâre enjoying this.â
You donât even try to hide it. âA little bit. Itâs fifty-fifty. Itâs fun seeing him worked up, itâs annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isnât TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.â You pause, then add, âDidnât realise Hastings was so freaky.â
âJesus,â Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. âYouâve been around him too long.â
âOccupational hazard,â you shrug.
He shakes his head, but thereâs a smile tugging at it now despite himself.
Thereâs a small pause, thenâmore casuallyâ
âSoup was good, by the way.â
You blink. âThe vegetable one?â
âYeah,â he nods. âDonât tell him I said that.â
âHe called it punishment.â
âHeâs wrong,â Robby shrugs. âI had two bowls.â
You brighten, just a fraction. âSee? Someone has taste.â
âLetâs not get carried away,â he says. âItâs still soup.â
You laugh under your breath.
He glances around, then back to you. âI think Sharkâs already ditched you,â he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.
You swear quietly. âFuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.â
âYou too,â he says, stepping aside.
You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothingâs off at all.
âSee you at home in a few hours.â
He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.
âLove you,â he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.
âLove you too,â you say as you hurry out, not turning back.
Youâre gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.
âIâm⊠still a bit confused aboutââ he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, ââthat.â
Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking.Â
âHey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?â Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.
Jack shakes his head immediately. âNothing much, just the leash stuff youâre into. Anyway, I think youâre sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.â
â â â
Day Twenty Nine.
âSo, howâre we doing?â you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like itâs part of your job description.
McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as everâtired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasnât informed her nervous system yet.
âGreat,â Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: âI stopped yoga.â
You glance over. âWhy?â
âPulled my calf,â she replies. âTurns out inner peace is physically unsafe.â
âUnfortunate,â you say, finding Jackâs labelled container and closing the fridge.
McKay watches you sit down. âThat his lunch?â
âYeah.â
âDoesnât he need that later?â she asks.
âHeâll order takeout,â you say easily. âIâm doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.â
Santos snorts. âHe and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.â
You glance at her. âYou miss her.â
She points at you with her fork. âDonât.â
âYou brought her up first.â
âThatâs because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,â she shoots back. âItâs a trigger.â
McKay, calmly: âYou both need to stop talking.â
You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel⊠weird. Wired. Like your bodyâs trying to replace one habit with ten others. Youâve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you donât need. You havenât, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.
âWhereâs Robby?â you ask. âI can split this with him.â
âTalking to Gloria,â Santos says. âLooks like heâs in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.â
âGreat,â you mutter. âTwo moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.â
McKay doesnât push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. âYouâve been very⊠consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.â
Santos squints at you. âAlmost spiritual, honestly. Itâs impressive.â
You blink. âItâs just discipline.â
McKay hums. âMost people donât call not having sex for a few weeks âdiscipline.â They call it âbeing busy.â Or just not having a high libido.â
You sigh, too quickly. âIâm just⊠glad itâs nearly over. I think Jackâs actually counting down the days.â
McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesnât bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..
Santos, however, immediately does.
âSo,â she says, leaning forward, âwhatâs he like?â
McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.
âWhat?â Santos says, unbothered. âIâm curious. You thought of it too.â
âLike⊠personality-wise?â you try.
Santos waves a hand. âNo. Donât be boring.â
McKay mutters, âOh God.â
Santos continues anyway, delighted now. âLike sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason heâs walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking⊠yoga and vegetables.â
You nearly choke. âSantosââ
âWhat?â she says. âIâm just saying. Thereâs clearly a secret here. Heâs what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And youâreââ she gestures vaguely at you, âyou. So either heâs got some hidden advantage or youâve all been lying to yourselves.â
McKay, dry as ever: âPlease stop talking.â
Santos ignores her. âAm I wrong?â
You stare at her.Â
âThatâs not an answer,â she says.
McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. âYou do not have to answer that.â
âIâm not going to answer that,â you say immediately.
Santos leans back, offended. âOkay, so itâs missionary.â
You blink. âAnd that's my cue to leave.â
âDoggy?â she tries. âAm I warm? Am I cold?â
You stand up. âIâm very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.â
McKay actually smiles now. âThis is why I eat alone.â
Then, casuallyâ
âDo you guys have threesomes with Robby?â Santos adds. âGot a vibe there.â
You donât even hesitate. âConstantly. Heâs actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.â
McKay exhales through her nose.
Santos tilts her head. âI donât believe you.â
âThat sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.â
Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.
âOh no,â she says, immediately clocking the energy. âWe having a party? What are youse talkinâ about in here?â
âNothing,â McKay says instantly.
Santos says at the same time, âAbbotâs sex life. Featuring Robby, too.â
Dana physically recoils. âOh Jesus Christ, why?â
You look at her like salvation. âHelp.â
Dana points at Santos without hesitation. âNo. Absolutely not. Iâm not beinâ dragged into whatever this is.â
Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if youâre well. You give a nod back, a small smile.
Dana claps once, decisive. âAlright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.â
Santos groans. âYouâre ruining my research.â
Dana points again. âMove. It. Out.â
â â â
Day Thirty Two.
Your schedules have always been a mess.
Some weeks you overlap perfectlyâsame shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like itâs easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.
Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.
You leave just as heâs getting in. He leaves while youâre dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly itâs been forty-eight hours of doubles and youâve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.
Eat something.
You too.
Left food in the fridge.
Miss you.
Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.
He shuts the door behind him, exhalesâand then pauses.
âHow are you cooking after working that long, baby?â he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. âChallenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle likeââ
âIâd cuddle with you,â Robby says from the stove, âbut Iâm busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.â
Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.
ââŠYou are not my girlfriend.â
Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. âI like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.â
Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.
ThenââWhy are you in my apartment?â
Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. âThis is not turning out well.â
He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like itâs personally offended him.
âI followed her recipe,â he adds.
Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. âWhere is she? She texted me she was home.â
âShops,â Robby says. âSaid she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didnât wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.â
A beat.
âI think Iâve screwed this up,â he admits.
Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. âHow do you fuck up spaghetti?â
Robby turns to him, dead serious. âWho puts that much sugar in a sauce?â
Jack doesnât even hesitate. âShe does. Itâs good.â
Robby squints. âIt feels offensive.â
âItâs not,â Jack mutters. âItâs⊠you know, balanced.â
Robby gestures at the pot again. âItâs dessert.â
Jack leans forward, peering into it like heâs assessing a trauma. âDid you reduce it?â
ââŠDid I what?â
Jack looks at him slowly. âOh my God.â
âI stirred the thing, I don't know,â Robby defends.
âYeah, Iâm sure that helped,â Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. âMove.â
Robby steps aside with zero resistance. âBe my guest, chef.â
Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a faceânot terrible, but not right.
âYou didnât salt it properly,â he says.
âI salted it.â
âYou absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.â
Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. âYou look like shit, by the way.â
âFeel like it,â Jack mutters.
âYou two havenât seen each other?â
âNot properly.â
Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Thenâcasual, but not reallyââOnce you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of youâd meet. Tomorrow night?â
Jack doesnât even look up. âMy girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.â
ââŠI hate knowing things about you,â Robby mutters.
Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.
The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.
âRobby, you didnât salt itâI can smell it,â you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.
âSalting it now, sweetheart,â Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.
You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bagsâVictoriaâs Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.
âWhenâd you get back?â you ask.
âFive minutes ago,â Jack says, already moving toward you. âYou walk? I wouldâve picked you up.â
âI was trying to surprise you,â you say, smiling. âRobby wasnât supposed to be part of it.â
âShocking,â Robby mutters.
You barely register himâbecause Jackâs right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quickâwarm, familiar, a little rushed like youâre making up for lost time in a single second.
You pull back just as fast.
âYou look like shit,â you tell him, joking and dry.
âYeah,â he says, softer now. âYou look⊠really good.â
His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
You clear your throat, stepping away first. âOkay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?â
âI did not fuck the sauce that bad,â Robby says.
You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.
ââŠItâs not that bad,â you admit. âMaybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.â
Robby throws his hands up. âOf course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while weâre at it?â
âDonât tempt me,â you say lightly.
Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. âAlright. Iâm off. Danaâs gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.â
âTell her I said hi,â you call.
âIâm not telling her anything,â he mutters, heading out.
He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of youâat the way youâve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.
âDonât give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,â he adds.
âOut!â Jack says.
Robby leaves.
The door shuts.
And just like thatâ
Itâs quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You donât move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. Heâs leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.
âDay Thirty Two, by the way,â he says.
âReally? Didnât notice,â You shrug.
He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.
âThis is gonna take ages. He didnât reduce anything. Useless,â You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.
âOh, you know Robby,â Jack sighs. âCanât do anything right.â
You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jackâs eyes on you.
âCâmere,â he says.
You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like heâs relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.
âThis alright?â he asks, quieter nowâthough his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.
You nod.
âSpeak,â he adds, low.
âYes.â
That does something to him. You see itâjaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.
âWhat am I gonna do with you?â he murmurs.
His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like heâs taking his time deciding something.
You canât quite read him. Itâs too much at once.
His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitateâbarelyâbut he notices.
âGo on,â he murmurs, giving a small nod.
You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changesâsubtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like heâs holding himself in check.
He exhales, eyes still locked on you.
âYeah,â he mutters under his breath.
âWant another?â he asks after a second, voice rougher now.
âMhm.â
He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like heâs considering pushing it furtherâthen drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.
âBedroom,â he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.
His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dipâbrief, restrainedâbefore he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.
âIâm running on an adrenaline high from work, Iâm gonna fuck you, then weâre gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,â he adds, voice low behind you. âThat sound good to you?â
You turn your head, looking at him behind you. âLove you too,â You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that.Â
You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking backâbut you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.
Behind you, the stove clicks off.
A second later, you hear him moveâquick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.
âYou know, I was talking to Santos about our whole⊠challenge,â you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. âTurns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.â
He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. âSo all that torture for nothing?â
âTortureâs dramatic,â you murmur, but thereâs a smile tugging at it.
âYou did it on purpose,â he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like heâs testing a theory he already knows the answer to. âWalkinâ around in those⊠stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgownâwonât even kiss me, wonât even touch me.â His thumb drags slow, deliberate. âYou know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?â
You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. âI think Iâve got an idea.â
âYeah?â His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavierâless rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way heâs already half-hard under your touch.
You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. âI lied,â you admit, pressing him down to sit. âAbout not touching myself.â
His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctivelyâreaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. âYou? Lie?â he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. âWhat happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?â
You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patientâpalming, shaping, like heâs reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.
âItâs bullshit,â you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. âI was miserable the whole time.â
âYeah?â
âMm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,â you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.
âWhat else?â
âI like sex,â you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip.Â
You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. âI really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like whenââ He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.
âYou like that?â he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. âSpeak, sweetheart.â
âYou know I like that,â you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.
He nods. âDamn right I do,â His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you.Â
The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch.Â
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrustsâshallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.
His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
âHow about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?â he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.
âMhm,â you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.
He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythmâcurling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass.Â
He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.
âThatâs right, atta girl, doinâ so well, arenât you?â he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric.Â
He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement.Â
âWhatâd you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?â
You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. âUh-huh,â you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.
He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get closeâpulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.
âCâmon, baby, let go fâme,â he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe.Â
He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.
âYou come when you touch yourself?â he asks, quieter now.
His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.
You shake your head.
âYou?â you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.
He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like heâs trying to keep himself together.
âStill got enough in you?â you murmur, a little teasing. âOr did that shift kill you?â
He huffs a breathâhalf laugh, half something tighter. âIâd find the energy,â he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. âDonât worry about that.â
You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like heâs pacing himself instead of rushing it.
âYou wanna take that off?â you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.
He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. âIn a minute,â he says, already leaning over you again. âWanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.â
He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantlyâback arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.
âStay still fâme, can you, baby?â He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.
You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patienceâsoft yet demandingâand your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.
 âAtta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?â He hums.
You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.
He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. âGod, fuck, I missed this,â you say,Â
His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.
âPlease, please, fuck,â You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man.Â
His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.
You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue.Â
âOnce I wake upâafter fucking youâobviously,â He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. âIâll do that for three hours, until you canât walk, alright?â
You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because heâs done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.
âFuck willpower,â He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. âFuck being cleansed, alright?â
âMm,â You say, watching as he swallows, youâre watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from whereâd he place them above your head.Â
You donât say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him.Â
You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.
âShit⊠fucking hellâ You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.â He tells you.
âWhatâd you mentally plan for?â You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.
âWell, six hours of foreplay,â he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. âSix hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six⊠emotionally⊠intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?â
âI donât know, have you?â You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.
âChrist,â He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. âMaybe. I donât know. We can talk about this later.âÂ
Heâs still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. âYou alright there, old man?â
âHeavenly,â he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. âMissed this. God, itâs like youâre made for me. So goddamn perfect.â
You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.
âPlease move, baby,â You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.
ââCourse, whatever you want, sweetheart,â He kisses your lips softly, before moving.
Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect.Â
His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back.Â
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good."Â
You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.Â
His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch.Â
He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.Â
He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?"Â
âYes, yes, mhm,â you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.
He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.Â
His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stoppingâheâd push through it if you let himâbut compensating. You feel it.
Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring âTake it off, baby,â you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. âYouâve had it on too long.â
He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink itâthis part practiced, familiar.Â
He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chestâgrounding, not rushing him.Â
He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. Thereâs no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousnessâjust a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.
âBetter?â you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.
He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. âYeah. Câmere.â
You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.
âGod, youâreââ He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. âGonna be the death of me.â
You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them.Â
You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch.Â
âGreat way to go,â he murmurs as he watches you.
You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp.Â
You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense.Â
You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch.Â
âOh, fuck, fuck, fuck,â you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.
He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm.Â
His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.
His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, arenât you, sweetheart?"Â
His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat.Â
âYeah? Yeah, thatâs right, thatâs right," he mutters. âCâmon, baby, right there fâme, youâre doing so good.â
âPlease,â you moan, hips grinding down against him.
âYou need help, honey? Just ask,â He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.Â
You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.
âCâmon, words for me,â he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.
âWanna cum,â you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.
âAgain? So greedy,â he mocks. âGo âhead, you can do itâ
His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.
"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely.Â
You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.
You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around youâloose now, heavy with exhaustionâbut his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he canât quite stop touching you yet.
Like he doesnât want to.
You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like itâs something youâve done a hundred timesâbecause you have.
âI love baseless temptations,â you murmur.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. âYeah,â he says, voice rough but easy. âMe too.â
Thereâs something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just⊠him.
You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattressâfinally. Like heâs been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.
âFourteen hours,â you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. âAnd you still managed toââ
âDonât finish that sentence,â he cuts in, dry.
You grin against his skin. âI was gonna say âimpress me.ââ
âSure you were.â
âI was,â you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. âHonestly, I thought youâd pass out.â
He cracks one eye open at that. âHave a little faith.â
âI do,â you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. âI also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.â
âFeel like it,â he mutters.
âMm.â You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chestânothing urgent, just there. âStill did good.â
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. âChrist. Itâs alright, Iâll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.
You watch him for a secondâreally watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks⊠settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.
It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motionâpulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at onceâand how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.
You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.
âYou gonna keep up the meditation thing?â he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.
You huff quietly. âProbably not.â A beat. âUnless youâre suddenly interested.â
âMm. I think Iâll stick to therapy,â he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awakeââYou still think I need other hobbies?â
You glance at him, mouth curving. âNo. Iâm actually very supportive of your current hobby.â You lean in, kiss him soft. âBig fan. Please continue exclusively.â
He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.
âIâll be right back,â you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. âGonna clean up, check the spaghetti. Youâll eat something, then weâll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?â
âI can help, Iâllââ
ââStay,â you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. âIâve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.â You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.
You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiarâtidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. Itâs almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.
When you come back, he hasnât moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like heâs finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.
âEat, quick, before it gets cold,â you say.
He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.
You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.
Thereâs a pause.
âSo,â you begin. âWhat was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?â
He chuckles. âI was just kidding, hon,â he says, a little rough, like heâs not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. âWhy?â
You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. âI donât know.â Your head ring vaguely with Santosâ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.
âHypothetically. If you had to pick someone.â You ask.
He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like heâs trying to read the angle. Like thereâs definitely a wrong answer here and heâd quite like to avoid it.
You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.
A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between youâquick, familiar.
Who would you pick?
Who do you think Iâd pick?
Are we about to say the same name?
ââŠRobby,â you both say at the same time.
Thereâs a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. âJesus Christ.â
You grin a little, unable to help it. âI meanâobjectivelyââ
âHeâd be⊠fucking insufferable about it,â Jack cuts in immediately. âYou know he would.â
You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. âHeâd give me notes or something.â
Youâve got Housewives on your computer. Itâs obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.
âSo what happened in the mid-season finale again?â You ask as you settle against him.
âI barely remember, honestly,â He sighs. âRamonaâs being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, itâs a mess. Cindy is great, though.â
His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.
The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequentâdry, half-interested, pretending heâs above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.
You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.
Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just thisâhim, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where youâre meant to be.
a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god heâd never do that. heâs fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beatâŠ. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!
summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward⊠only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like heâs in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.
warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.
a/n: hey guys, Iâm back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss â I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo
part one.
'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello"
And your eyes look like comin' home
All I know is a simple name
And everything has changed
(Guys, you lost me.)
I donât know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I donât know where to put it now.
The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.
Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesnât disappear just because you want it to. It doesnât work like that. Thereâs no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.
When was the last time I actually slept?
I couldnât remember.
I wasnât trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.
I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldnât look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.
The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didnât mind walking, but now I couldnât stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, Iâd spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Loganâs messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasnât.
Iâd been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like heâd been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.
And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.
âI fucked everything up.â
âI need you to leave.â
I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.
âThe only thing I learned that night,â I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, âwas that I shouldâve stayed home.â
We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.
Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.
âWhat if heâs gay and just hasnât realized it yet?â she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.
Alison let out a short, dry laugh.
âMen,â she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. âTell them you love them and youâll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.â
âGod, my life sucks,â I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.
The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.
âFor Godâs sake! Youâre twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?â she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. âYouâre beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?â
I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a manâs ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.
âBesides,â Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, âif John âEat Meâ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.â
I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.
âWho needs therapy when I have you guys? HoorayâŠâ I said in a tired but sincere voice.
But then I saw him.
Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heartânot too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.
And then he looked up.
I donât know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.
His brown eyes locked onto mine.
And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadnât seen before, or maybe I had and just didnât know what it meant at the time.
Now I did.
He stopped dead.
Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situationâhis eyes going from Logan to me and back to Loganâand something in his face closed off with an expression that wasnât exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didnât dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.
Logan didnât even look at him.
His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.
He didnât even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?
His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.
Give me something. Anything.
I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that Iâm sure showed on my face.
No. Iâm not going to be the one who does it this time.
I canât be the one again.
I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.
âIâm not taking the first step,â I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.
âBravo girl, Bravoâ Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. âLet him crawl this time.â
----
J.L
I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.
Like I was something she could no longer stand.
The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean wouldâve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didnât dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me⊠with a lot of pity.
How fucked up was I?
ââŠI ruined everything,â I muttered, my voice hoarse.
Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.
âYeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?â
I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.
âIâm in love with her,â I admitted almost angrily. âI love her eyes⊠fuck, I love the way she looks at me like Iâm someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when sheâs focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth⊠like Iâm the best thing thatâs ever happened to her.â My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. âShe confessed everything to me⊠and I told her I couldnât. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?â
Dean, for the first time in a long time, didnât make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.
âBro⊠youâre really fucked.â
Garrett moved.
Heâd been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.
He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.
âSo what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isnât working.â He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. âListen to me, Logan. Youâre a mess, I know. But you canât go dump all of this on her at once.â He paused, choosing his words. âSheâs hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything youâre feeling, sheâs going to think itâs pity or that youâre confused. You have to take it slow⊠but donât drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.â
Garrett continued:
âYou know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down⊠and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.â
Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.
âFast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasnât a mistake.â His voice was calmer than Garrettâs, quieter, but just as firm. âThat she wasnât a mistake.â
I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There werenât many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God⊠she looked beautiful.
I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.
Ouch. I deserve that.
âA black coffee, please,â I said, my voice rougher than I intended.Â
She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.
Say something, John. Now.
ââŠI need to talk to you,â I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. âAlone. Please.â
She didnât respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadnât said a word.
âThatâll be four fifty,â she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.
âHey⊠please,â I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. âJust five minutes. I know I donât deserve even that, butâŠâ
She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didnât meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.
Sheâs hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.
âI understand that you donât want to see me,â I continued, almost in a whisper. âBut I canât keep going like this. What I did⊠was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explainâŠâ
âHereâs your change,â she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.
The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldnât. Not after what Iâd done to her.
I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasnât moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.
Iâm not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. Iâm going to prove to you that you werenât a mistake. That you never were. That youâre the only thing I want in this fucking life.
In front of me was her mom. And fuck⊠she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.
âWhat, you think this is a hotel?â she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. âYouâve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.â
I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.
âDid she⊠already leave?â I asked, my voice thick.
She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.
âMy daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.â She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth sheâd always had toward me. âYou okay? You look⊠tired.â
Maâam, Iâm trying to prove to your daughter that Iâm not a complete son of a bitch.
âYeah, Iâm⊠Iâm fine,â I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. âI just wanted⊠to talk to her for a bit.â
She pointed at the door with the mop. âCome on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and Iâm not leaving you here as decoration.â
I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.
She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didnât want to leave.
âMaâam, I justââ
âOut, out,â she cut me off playfully, opening the door. âI open early tomorrow and Iâm not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I donât know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.â
The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.
I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.
How pathetic. Ugh.
---
âHiâŠâ The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.
Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.
âFuck⊠you scared me,â he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. âGot a minute?â
I didnât answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. âIâm sorry,â he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. âIâm sorry about what happened.â
I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.
âItâs not your fault, Tucker,â I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. âReally. You didnât do anything. You donât have to apologize for something that wasnât your responsibility.â
He frowned slightly, like he didnât fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:
âItâs okay,â I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. âIâm fine. I donât need anyone carrying this. Not you⊠not anyone.â
What a huge lie. Iâm not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?
Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:
âHow are you feeling?â he asked quietly. âDonât lie to me.â
Crack.
I couldnât hold it anymore.
The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.
âI really⊠I really didnât want to like him,â I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. âI didnât want to, Tucker. I tried not to⊠but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me⊠I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldnât and⊠and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I donât know how to keep pretending Iâm okay when everything reminds me of him. Heâs been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I havenât even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus⊠Iâm drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only⊠if only Iâd held back a little.â
The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldnât stop.
Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.
âShh⊠itâs okay,â he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. âCry as much as you need. You donât have to be strong all the time.â
I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldnât hold it back anymore.
When will this suffering end?
I had to rip it out by the roots.
Maybe not right now. When Iâm ready.
âEight days!?â
They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.
âShh, lower your voices.â I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. âEight days in a row,â I confirmed, lowering my voice.
âAnd what does he do?â Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Loganâs table with her straw.
âHe writes.â
âHe writes?â Alison repeated, like the word didnât quite fit, looking at me with a âSeriously?â face.
âHe sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.â I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarahâs straw had left. âBut then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.â
Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.
âIn the tip jar?â Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.
âIn the tip jar.â
âWhy there?â
âBecause I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.â I folded the rag. Unfolded it. âSo he stopped trying and found another way.â
Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.
âAnd what do the letters say?â Sarah asked.
âI donât know.â
Silence.
âWhat do you mean you donât know?â Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didnât add up.
âThat I havenât opened them.â
âNone of them?â
âNone.â
Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.
âHow many letters total?â she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.
I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.
âTwenty-two.â
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
âTwenty-two,â Alison repeated, toneless.
âSometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.â
âBut why?â Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. âI mean, whatâs the point of him writing you letters if heâs the one who told you no?â
âExactly what I keep asking myself.â
âAnd you have no idea what they might say?â
âNone.â I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. âMaybe itâs an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesnât know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how heâs dealing with it. I donât know.â
âOr maybe,â Alison said finally, measuring her words, âthey say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?â
âAlison.â
âIâm just saying.â
âWell, donât say it.â I grabbed the rag again. âHe made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I donât need to read, and when I get the courage Iâll open them and thatâs it.â
Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.
âDo you have them on you?â she asked.
Of course I had them on me. Iâd been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.
Alison and Sarah looked at them.
âCan we take a look?â Alison asked.
I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins theyâd ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.
I shrugged.
âWhatever you want,â I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. âTheyâre probably just apologies or something. I donât think theyâre a big deal.â
I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.
Silence. More silence.
The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isnât. There shouldâve been an âaw how sweetâ or âlook at his handwritingâ or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.
I turned around.
Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression Iâd never seen on her. It wasnât exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadnât moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.
âOh,â she said.
Just that.
Oh.
Oh?
She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to âoh, sweetie.â
âThisâŠâ she started.
âWhat?â I said.
âThis is prettyâŠâ
I leaned over the counter without realizing it.
âPretty what?â
The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.
âGive it to me,â I said.
Alison picked up the letter from Sarahâs hands.
âNo.â
âAlison.â
âNope.â
âCome on, itâs probably just a long apologyââ
âItâs not an apology.â She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like sheâd said too much. Sarah pinched her.
I stayed still for a moment.
âWhat do you mean itâs not an apology?â
âNothing, forget it.â
âAlison, if itâs not an apology then whatââ
âWhen youâre ready youâll read it and thatâs it.â She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. âAnd donât look at me like that, Iâm serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.â
âBut I didnât even want to knowââ
âAnd now you do, right?â
I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didnât need to read them to know theyâd hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said âitâs not an apologyâ in that voice andâ
A shadow fell over the counter.
The three of us looked up at the same time.
Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didnât say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.
I looked at him.
He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like heâd just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.
And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.
And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadnât just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.
The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.
Sarah and I looked at each other.
Alisonâs cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years Iâd known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.
She had flushed cheeks.
She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.
âDonât even think about it,â she muttered.
Sarah opened her mouth.
âDonât. You. Dare,â Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didnât match someone with cheeks that color.
Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.
I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: itâs not an apology.
If it wasnât an apology, then what was it?
I didnât want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.
It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didnât count.
Iâd taken them out of the drawer where Iâd been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didnât make much sense if you analyzed it. Iâd organized them. Iâd been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them Iâd find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.
He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.
No reason.
I unfolded it.
Loganâs handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.
I read the first line.
I froze completely. This canât be real.
âOh, shit,â I said out loud.
Hockey.
I wasnât really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didnât get the appeal.
Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lotâand nothing goodâabout what John Fucking Logan does to a personâs critical judgment.
I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.
The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldnât lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, I just couldnât stop looking at player number twenty-two.
Youâre an idiot.
My conscience scolded me. Weâve hurt each other and Iâm still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why canât feelings have an off button? Whatâs the point of loving him if he doesnât feel the same about me?
âYou okay?â Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years Iâve known her, had never once fooled me.
âPerfect.â
âSure,â Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. âThatâs why you have that face.â
I didnât answer because I didnât have a response that didnât incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though âunfinished businessâ was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldnât, he had told me he simply couldnât (or didnât want to) be with me, and since then Iâd been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.
I shouldnât have come.
I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found âBriar Game â 8pmâ marked in red. Iâd written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.
Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.
And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.
The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.
I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.
Instead here I was, in the stands at Briarâs stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretendingânot very effectivelyânot to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldnât keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.
Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches Iâd given myself and the times Iâd repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.
Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problemâthat he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.
I looked away.
The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.
And then it happened.
Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.
Score.
The stadium exploded.
I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldnât hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.
Then Logan raised his hockey stick.
He turned toward the stands with a smileâthat smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no nameâand I saw it before I could prepare myself.
He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.
Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there werenât three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.
The stands made that collective sound. That âooohâ people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didnât miss the moment:
âLooks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Donât cry all at once, girlsâthere are still more players on the iceââ
Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.
Alison let go of my arm.
Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.
They both looked at me. They didnât say anything. They didnât need to. And thank God they didnât.
âNo,â I said.
I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.
âIâm going to the bathroom,â I lied.
âSure,â Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.
Neither of them made a move to follow me.
I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.
He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.
Iâm overthinking this.
I shouldnât let it affect me. I shouldnât let it break my decision to stay away from him.
I closed my eyes for a second and the commentatorâs voice came back like a horrible echo: âLooks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, donât cry ladiesââ
I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.
I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.
Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.
Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasnât humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.
I kept walking.
I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me noâwhen he simply told me he couldnât give me what I wantedâit was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.
And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.
âWait!â
I stopped.
I didnât want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.
I turned slowly.
Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyesâGod, his eyesâsearching for me with an urgency I didnât understand, didnât want to understand. Didnât want to understand.
Wait.
Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?
âStop,â he said when he reached me, breathing hard. âPlease, stop.â
I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.
âLogan.â My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. âSeriously, you donât have to do this. You donât have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, andââ I swallowed. âAnd when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside andââ
âFor Godâs sake, shut up.â
I blinked.
âExcuse me?â
âShut up.â He didnât say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didnât exist. âDonât regret anything. Please. Donât.â
âLogan, I justââ
âI realized too late that she wasnât you.â His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:
âI ruined everything.â He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didnât know what to do with his own body. âI didnât want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didnât realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.â
âLogan, stopââ
âItâs you.â
Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.
âStopââ
âAnd if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right nowââ his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rainââright now Iâm telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.â
The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didnât know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didnât matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.
âDonât pity me,â I said, and my voice was no longer calm. âDonât. You donât have toââ I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.
âEvery single one,â he continued, like he hadnât heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. âNo exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that youâre the only thing that has made constant sense, Iâm going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.â
âStop, Logan, seriously, stopââ
âAnd Iâm not going to let you give this story that ending.â
He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.
âNor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.â His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didnât understand how those two things could coexist. âA story that hasnât even begun and that Iâm already anxious to know the next chapter of. Iâd rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it wouldâve been like to be with you.â
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
âEven it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in piecesââ he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these monthsââmy heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.â
My hands were shaking.
âIâve always been a better person when Iâm near you.â He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. âAnd thatâs something I havenât told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.â
He closed the last few feet between us.
âForgive me. Iâm asking you please.â
I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.
âDonât⊠donât do this to me.â It came out broken, fuck. âDonât do this to me now that I had already⊠that I had alreadyâŠâ
âWhat do you want me to do?â he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. âDo you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? Iâll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and Iâll do it. Iâll do anything.â
The rain pounded my shoulders.
âBut I love you,â he said. âAnd thatâs not going to change.â
I donât know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.
It was still there.
Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesnât listen. Damn it.
I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didnât.
Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.
But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.
John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kissâwild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.
John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didnât come back to reality.
âHuh?â
I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.
Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.
They were. God, how much they were worth.
âYour name,â he said, his voice still hoarse. âI was calling you by your name.â
âYeah.â I blinked. âI know. Itâs justâŠâ
âWhat?â
I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldnât stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesnât distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
âLook,â I said, âIâm not⊠I mean, Iâm not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that reallyâŠâ I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. âYou just told me a bunch of really big things and Iâve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didnât⊠that there was nothing andâŠâ I breathed. âAnd right now my brain is completely fried and the words arenât coming out in the right order.â
Logan didnât say anything. He just looked at me.
âBut I love you,â I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. âI mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out Iâm pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being andââ
âHey,â Logan said.
âWhat?
âShut up.â
And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.
Where we watch and review seven yandere movies! What can you expect? Popcorn (obviously) but also in-depth reviews, breakdowns of yandere tropes in cinema, and short fics inspired by the movies. Are you ready for plenty of psycho men, shirtless shower scenes, and constant torment? If so, get your snacks ready, bring out your favourite dubiously legal pirating website and let Yandere Movie Week begin!
Here's the line up!
Day 1 - Fear (1996)
Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)
Day 3 - Hush (2016)
Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)
Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)
Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)
Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)
Fear (1996)
Review 8/10
Story 1.7k words
Nicole Walker, a 16-year-old girl, meets the charming David McCall at a nightclub, following which the two fall in love with each other. However, things take a turn when David reveals his darker side.
Secret Obsession (2019)
Review 6/10
Story 5k words
Jennifer wakes up after a traumatic attack with amnesia and a doting husband caring for her, but she soon realises that the real danger is far from over.
Hush (2016)
Review
Story 5.2k words
Living peacefully in the woods, an author, who is hard of hearing and without speech, finds herself a target of a masked killer.
The Perfect Guy (2015)
Review
Story
Leah Vaughn, a successful lobbyist, breaks up with her long-term boyfriend, Dave, and enters into a relationship with a stranger. She finds herself caught in a dilemma when Dave re-enters her life.
The Boy Next Door (2015)
Review
Story
When Claire Peterson engages in a steamy affair with Noah Sandborn, a man much younger than herself, little does she realise the consequences of her actions will have a perilous outcome.
The Invisible Man (2020)
Review
Story
Cecilia's abusive ex-boyfriend fakes his death and becomes invisible to stalk and torment her. She begins experiencing strange events and decides to hunt down the truth on her own.
Til Death Do Us Part (2017)
Review
Story
Michael and Madison had planned to spend the rest of their lives together, until one day Michael's controlling ways ruined their perfect marriage. Madison meets Alex Stone and learns to love again, until Michael re-appears in her life.
u cannottttt tell me this isnât u suckinâ him off whilst he speaks to javi & kateâŠtotally oblivious youâre pawing his thighs & kitten licking his fat tip <33333333
