Ya Girl

I might be in love with Aaron Hotchner

[thykingdoncome]

his best girl

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | masterlist | ao3

rabbot x reader, park x reader, shen x reader, ellis x reader, langdon x reader

summary: You're Robby's favorite reward. When his staff earns it, he doesn't hesitate to offer you up. A month is a long time for you and for those around you to go without.

|| smut MDNI 18+, free use kink, cuckholding, a lot goin on in this chapter, overwhelmed!reader, fingering, mentions of spanking, flirting, groping (consensual), the men of the ED are handsssyyy!, lil moment where we might run into some dub con (reader wants but knows she cant have), praise kink, cuck!robby, dom!robby, jack watches, cockwarming, kissing, riding, orgasm denial (yeah, still), m!masturbation, lil glimpse of posessive!jack abbot, non canonical timeline || a/n: lots of different things going on in this chapter. If you start to feel overwhelmed, thats the point :) also, like... im sorry if its terribly edited. plz lmk of any mistakes! wc: 15k sorry I never stfu

A month was a long time.

For the first few weeks you mostly stayed home for your own sanity.

Robby left you to your own devices rather than dragging you through the halls and chaos of the emergency department. And you knew it was for the better this way. Away from temptation, from complicated feelings. You got to focus on him—your connection, and the rebuild.

When he'd come home exhausted and worn from a shift with new grayer hairs and deeper creases carved beside his eyes, you'd greet him with an eagerness that embarrassed you sometimes. He sought you out the same way you did him—needing to be close, needing to clear your minds and just touch and kiss and give. And take.

You felt a little like you were starting to go crazy from the lack of release. Dysregulated, maybe. Because it wasn’t like Robby had stopped touching you altogether. No, he still came home and made you feel wanted. Still kissed you until your thoughts went fuzzy, still got his hands on you whenever he could, still fucked you deep into the mattress just how you liked. But it was everything after that started to get to you—the being brought right up to that heightened edge only to be left there over and over, your body not understanding why it never got to finish.

Even your own thoughts began to betray you. You’d be standing at the sink with your hands in warm dishwater, staring down at a plate you’d already scrubbed clean, thinking about him coming up behind you and bending you over the counter. You’d be folding laundry and suddenly lose the thread of what you were doing, a pair of his boxers in your hands from the dryer, your mind filling in some awful, humiliating little fantasy about getting stuck in there and him finding you, taking advantage of the position. The kind of crazy shit that college boys usually searched on porn sites. And it only made the mess between your legs pulse worse, ache worse, until you were hot and flustered and taking cold showers halfway through the day just to reset yourself.

And still, the line was always in the same place. Every single time you thought Robby might finally give in, might finally give you the relief you begged for, he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d leave you twisted up with frustration, blinking back tears while he held you against his chest and brushed your hair out of your face, telling you it was for your own good.

And you had agreed—at least for the first week.

By the second, you were counting days.

By the third, you were becoming a genuine menace.

The second he walked through the front door, you were on him. You’d hear his keys hit the bowl by the entryway, the sound of his shoes being toed off, and you’d already be making your way across the house. Some evenings he barely got a chance to set down his bag before you were climbing all over him, hands in his hair, mouth on his, pressing yourself against him with no patience left in you at all. Other nights he’d drop onto the couch with an exhausted sigh and find you halfway onto your knees before he’d even gotten comfortable.

And Robby knew. He had to know how crazy it was making you. Some little devil on your shoulder told you he was enjoying it, enjoying you being so insatiable, so needy for him all the time, following him from room to room, touching him whenever he got close enough, getting short with him when he made you wait.

Because that had started happening too. The attitude.

The little huffs of annoyance you'd never made before when he spoke to you, the muttered comments under your breath, the way you’d roll your eyes before you could stop yourself and then freeze because you knew he’d seen it.

He'd taken you over his knee so many times in the past few weeks, your bum was almost always sore. And, of course, it only made you wetter too. His voice would drop into that low, hoarse place it got when he slipped into his natural place with you, telling you to count, telling you to take it, telling you that pretty girls still needed to use their manners. Your face would be buried in the couch cushion, holding back your moans as you did as he said. And even when he'd slide his fingers into your sopping folds when he was done, that part still felt like punishment too. How sensitive you'd become, how needy and desperate it all made you.

Sometimes you wondered if he'd keep the torture going past the one-month mark, if he'd decide he was having entirely too much fun watching you unravel. But you trusted him, and he never played games with that trust. You knew you'd get your release soon.

Because you missed everyone. And he knew you missed them. He'd sometimes be deep inside you, sawing his hips so that his swelling cock kissed your cervix, his lips on your ear, his arms wrapped tight around you and he'd ask who you missed most. Was it Park and his big dick down your throat? Did you miss Langdon's sweet kisses? He knew your favorite things about his residents—about the staff. So he'd pluck at them like strings, asking you questions that made your eyes roll back as he drove his cock in and out of you.

And yes. Yes, you missed all of it. How Frank's kissing alone would turn you into a puddle, his mouth so pillowy and tasting like Red Bull. And Brendon. How sweet he was, how somehow he managed to make you feel cared for and desired at the same time. How there seemed to ve a version of him only reserved for you, one that always knew exactly what you needed to shut your brain off and make the rest of the world disapear for a little while.

You missed Jack too. Though you often shoved that thought far, far away.

But other than the sex, you just missed them. The others, too. Mateo, Shen— who hadn't seen in a while. You missed your friends. Dana, Samira, Trinity and Mel.

Maybe that's what you needed. A night just with friends. A girl's night out.

So you texted them. A group chat made up of residents, interns and med students. Mel, Trinity, Joy, Victoria, Samira, Parker. Even Dana and Emma.

And that's how you ended up here at Space Bar, with a colorful cocktail in your hand and pink and green and purple back lights flooding the bar with music thrumming through the speakers.

"What the hell kinda place have you dragged us to?" Ellis shouted over the music beside you at the bar as she pulled up a stool. When you looked over, her skin reflected the multicolored glow of lights, her pretty almond eyes on you. You watched as she tried to school her expression into something flat and deadpanned, but the twitch of her lips and the amusement in her gaze gave her away.

"Good to see you too, Parker," you teased, knocking your shoulder against hers. "And it's a cocktail lounge. V needs to get a taste for real drinks, not just the shit beers at Bob's on karaoke nights."

To your right, Victoria smiled, rolling those big brown doe eyes at you from beside Joy and Emma.

A handful of them had actually managed to get the night off, all of you packed shoulder to shoulder at the corner of the colorful bar. You listened while stories bounced back and forth about recent impossible patients, insane cases they saw, the attendings giving them shit. Whatever fresh disasters had happened in the weeks you were away from it all.

"Trinnnn—" you groaned when you spotted Santos coming from the door with someone trailing behind her, "I said it was a girl's night!"

She pouted back, throwing her head back onto her neck as she replied, "He's like a lost puppy—follows me everywhere, I swear."

Dennis came walking up, sheepishly standing away from the group, "I can…uh, go home."

"No, no, don't be silly," you said, smiling and grabbing his wrist to tug him closer, "How's Amy and the baby?"

He blushed, a deep red staining his cheeks, "She's good. Theo too."

You saw Trinity roll her eyes beside you as she flagged down the bartender and ordered them drinks.

"So, where's Yoyo tonight?" you asked.

She didn't answer, but shot a look at Dennis, who looked at you a little apologetically and said: "Touchy subject."

"No, no!" Trinity exclaimed, "It's cool! I actually like being her little squeeze toy on lonely nights!"

Her elbows hit the bar with a thunk, and she thanked the bartender for the drinks, handing one to Dennis, and then added when she saw the two of you grimacing at each other: "Please stop with that loooook. It's fine. Really."

It was a little quiet for a moment, awkward, uncertain. You wished you'd never asked.

"So when are you gonna tell us the reason you've been gone for a while?" Ellis asked beside you. You were grateful for a change in subject, but when every set of eyes flit up to your face, it made your skin burn hot.

"I've just been home, hanging out." you explained.

Ellis's brows shot up, a mock frown tugging her lips downwards, "No reason for the absence?"

"I just—I was taking a break."

"From…?"

"From the little reverse harem you got going on with Robby, right?" Trinity asked, the annoyed look long gone, now replaced with a shit eating smirk as she sipped her lime green drink.

You nearly choked on your own beverage, looking at her with wide eyes.

"Guys—" Mel cut in, two hands wrapped around her sprite, "I don't think it's really our business—"

"Wait, you and Robby…?" Emma asked shyly, her mouth open, the pieces of her hair that hung around her face swinging as she looked around the group.

"Duh," Joy said dryly, "Where have you been, Em?"

"Oh my god…" you groaned, your stomach flipping.

"What?" Trinity quipped, "we're all just wondering about your little Twilight love triangle—the Ddward Jacob of it all. Will she, won't she with Abbot…Spill, girl."

You agonized with a long sigh, "Trin…"

"So just guys?" Ellis asked beside you. Your eyes found hers again, a funny look in them as she sipped from her drink.

"So far…yeah…" you muttered, not even trying to discern what that look meant.

"So it's true about you and Langdon?" Mel asked, eyes wide behind her glasses. "I've learned to not listen to the rumor mill but—"

"Wait wait wait—so Robby shares you?" Dennis cut in, big blue farmer boy eyes widening. "With who?"

"I don't know really know if I'm feel comfortable telling you guys—"

"Mateo?" Victoria blurted. Several heads immediately turned toward her.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"V!" Joy laughed, the neon lights of the bar reflecting in her glasses as she shook her head in deep amusement and pity.

The heat in your face climbed straight into your ears, you could only stare into your drink, stirring it around. The bright pink color suddenly looked very unappetizing as your stomach churned.

But then Joy's head stopped shaking, and she was looking at you differently now, as if your silence was answer enough.

"Oh my God," she breathed, eyes widening.

"Okay, wow," Dennis laughed nervously.

"That's a yes." Trinity chuckled. "I mean, I'll admit Mateo does have great hair."

You refused to look any of them in the eyes, your throat tightening up as heat blazed across your face and down your neck.

"Woah, what happened here, Pittlings?" you heard a familiar voice from behind you, a set of hands steadying your shoulders. Dana. You let out a breath you were holding tight in your lungs.

She squeezed once before looking around the group, and when you looked up, you saw her eyebrows climbing higher with every face she passed over.

"Why's everybody look like they're waitin' for sentencing?" she asked. "I leave you's alone for five minutes and suddenly it looks like somebody confessed to a murder."

"Sorry, D. Just trying to get to the bottom of some very interesting dynamics," Trinity said with a smile.

"Oh, I'm sure they're very interesting. And also probably none of your business." she said, eyeing the others.

A few groans went up around the table.

"Mm-hmm." She pointed at them. "The amount of nosy packed into one corner of this bar oughta be studied."

"You'd wanna know too!"

"I absolutely do not," Dana snapped without missing a beat. "I know enough already, more than I need to about all of yous."

That earned a laugh from around the bar, everyone's tension easing a little.

"Now," she said, standing up straighter, "Benji's home with the kids and I get one night out a week. So who wants a shot?"

"I'll go…put some music on the juke box." you said, sliding from your chair in humiliation.

You walked across the bar to the touchscreen jukebox slowly. It wasn't a far walk, but it felt long. You counted every uneven step, the ground feeling like it might as well open up beneath you and let you fall into the earth. You wouldn't mind. You tried to collect yourself with deep breaths, reminding yourself that it wasn't really a secret—what you and Robby were. But still. You didn't expect the subject to be pounced on you like that with your friends, your sex life being mapped out like a differential.

 As you stood in front of the glowing screen, you scrolled aimlessly through the song list, though none of the names really processed as they passed beneath your fingertips. The music still thrummed through the speakers, vibrating up through your toes. You could still hear the group talking and laughing from across the bar, and your hands began to sweat a little, wondering if they were still talking about you or—

"Hey."

You startled, looking up to see Ellis. She leaned up against the bright neon jukebox, the violet and blue lights catching along her cheekbones, her pillowy lips, the heavy hood of her eyes. They looked softer than usual, blurred a little by alcohol, her mouth pulled into a small frown.

"Hi," you replied.

"I'm sorry about… that. I should've known better around Jealous little Javadi."

You shrugged, "It's fine."

"And Santos, too. Girl's got awful bedside manner."

"I said it's fine."

Ellis clicked her tongue and tilted her head, trying to catch your gaze when you looked back at the screen. "Look at me."

You did.

She studied your face for a long moment, and you found yourself doing the same. Her expression tightened slightly as she looked you over. Her big almond eyes moved across your face, lingering here and there before she stepped a little closer.

"I'm sorry." she said again, but with more earnestness. "Dana was right, I was being nosy. I should've minded my business, should've asked in a different way."

She was leaning close enough now that you could smell her perfume, her body wash, or maybe it was just her. Shea butter and coconut, something warm underneath that had you leaning toward her before you even realized you were doing it, trying to place it.

"You're a good girl, you know." she continued, and your stomach gave a strange little twist at the casual way she said the pet name. As if she knew.

"Thanks." you murmured, feeling the heat creep back up your neck. You meant to look away from her, to break whatever spell had pulled between you as she studied you closer, but you just… couldn't. Something was off, and it was making your belly flip a little as the two of you stared at one another.

"So how does it work?" she asked.

"How does what work?"

"You and Robby."

She turned a little so she was leaning in fully, as if creating a wall between you and the rest of the room.

You gnawed at your lip, your fingers absently scrolling through the songs. You tried to focus on the screen again, but your eyes kept drifting back to hers.

"You can tell me," she murmured, her lips parting slightly. "I can keep a secret."

"I know."

Your brain kept lagging a little on how close she'd gotten, on how open her features were as she looked at you. She didn't bother hiding anything, her hair pulled back, her eyes searching yours, her lips a little parted. It had your lungs struggling to catch a full breath.

"Usually, um, the…well, Robby will…"

What was wrong with you? Why couldn't you form a full sentence?

Her lips pulled into a little quirk of a smile, as if she knew why entirely. "What will Robby do, hm?"

You took in a deep breath, "Sometimes he lets me pick, sometimes it's more like… a reward system. For… whoever…"

"Oh?"

You nodded, "Like when…" god, your face was so hot, your thighs pushing together without realizing, "When Frank did the cervical reduction a couple months ago… he um, came to see me after."

Ellis's eyes had gone very heavy now, and you watched how they dropped from your eyes to your mouth. "And?"

"Well, he and I—" you swallowed thickly.

"Oi!" you heard from across the bar.

Both of you sprung back from one another.

Dana was calling from across the bar, both hands raised in the air.

"You two doin' shots or what!?"

The next day, you were fucking tired.

Not physically. Well, okay, maybe physically too. A little hungover and very dehydrated, but mostly tired in the particular way that came from having too many thoughts bouncing around your skull with nowhere to go.

Last night had turned out to be fun, eventually. Once everyone got the memo that you and their attending's sex life was not a topic for public discussion, thanks largely to Dana and Ellis glaring people into submission whenever the conversation started drifting back in that direction. You'd stayed out late, came home tipsier than you'd expected, and fell right into Robby's orbit when you'd returned. He'd been up waiting for you, reading over charts with his readers low on his nose, a mug of coffee gone cold beside him. One look at him and whatever resolve you'd had about going straight to bed had evaporated. It hadn't taken long before he was gathering your hair into his fist while you eagerly worked your lips down his cock.

But this morning, you were just exhausted. Robby had headed to the Pitt for his early start on his bike, the weather a beautiful late-summer cloudless sky. But you just couldn't take any more long days stuck in the house like this.

So you headed for the pool.

Robby didn't live in an HOA community because it was fancy or for the oversized houses. He lived in one for the sheer convenience of it. A clubhouse with a gym, lawnmowers that were on a regular schedule, snow shoveling taken care of. And the poolhouse was beautifully kept, just a short walk down the block past neatly trimmed hedges and identical mailboxes, and you headed there with nothing but a towel, a coverup, and a book tucked beneath your arm. Your sunglasses kept the glare from your eyes as you pushed through the gate and made your way across the concrete deck before dropping onto an empty lounger.

It was quiet for a weekend morning, and you were grateful. For a while, you did absolutely nothing. You stretched out beneath the sun, letting the warmth sink into your skin while you worked your way through a few chapters, occasionally looking up whenever someone splashed into the water or the gate clicked open. Eventually the heat became too much, and you wandered down the concrete steps into the shallow end, sighing as the cool water climbed your ankles, your calves, your thighs. You floated around for a bit without much purpose, letting your thoughts drift peacefully in and out of your head, the cold water soothing.

By the time you climbed back out, your hair damp around your shoulders, you felt marginally more human.

While you sat up and lathered on more sunscreen, you saw a family enjoying the pool on other side, a woman in the water with her children while a man lay stretched out on a lounger nearby.

Looking at you.

You stared back, recognizing him, your stomach doing a little excited jump.

You smiled to yourself, snapping the bottle of your lotion closed and standing up. You didn't bother with the cover up, or the towel.

"Good morning, John," you said as you approached, stepping beneath the shade of his umbrella.

He looked up at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes full of mirth.

"Hey, hot stuff."

You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. John Shen and his family lived in the same community as Robby, just a few streets down. A friendly face you didn't get to see often, but it was always a treat when you did. Shen had a way about him that made people instantly comfortable. Cool without trying to be, calm to the point that some people thought he cared about absolutely nothing. Somehow, he never seemed stressed, even at work. While everyone else in the ED ran themselves ragged, Shen drifted through the day with an easy smile and a shrug. And an iced coffee.

Shen held out his hand, and you stepped in a little closer. His palm settled against the sensitive skin on back of your calf, the contact making your blood surge a little.

"Did you come from the hospital? Or did you have off?" you asked, hyper aware of how his fingers caressed your skin.

He nodded, "Came from work just a couple hours ago, figured I'd come down and enjoy the nice day while they last. Swear I can feel the chill of autumn creeping in."

"Don't tease me." you said, "I, for one, can't wait."

"Of course you can't, crazy woman." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth while his hand ran up, cupping behind your knee. "You always say that, then spend all winter complaining you're cold."

You laughed, shaking your head. Your gaze landed on his wife and children in the pool.

"How's Gwen?" you asked.

 All three of them were splashing around together, their laughter carrying across the water. She glanced over, spotted you standing with her husband, and immediately smiled before lifting a hand. Shen and his wife had an interesting relationship, one that allowed both of them to have their cake and eat it too, so to speak. He told you the first time he'd come into the exam room that his wife didn't mind if he occasionally saw you while he worked, and he didn't mind if she had her own time with one of the other dermatologists at her practice.

You waved back. When you looked down again, Shen's hand had found its way to the back of your thigh.

"We're good," he said. "Kids look like they're trying to drown her, but she's good."

You smiled down at him wider.

"Where've you been?" he asked then, looking up at you.

"Home, mostly." you said, your teeth digging into your bottom lip.

"Mm." he hummed, thumb brushing against the top of your thigh, close to the crease of your leg. "Robby said you're taking a break."

The thought of Robby apparently discussing your month long restrictions with the rest of the residents and attendings sent a strange little flutter through your stomach. Despite how ridiculous, your thighs pressed together automatically.

A smile appeared on Shen's face almost immediately as he glanced down between your legs, noticing the shift. His hand slid up higher, until it just brushed the hem of your bathing suit. "Miss you, it's been a while."

Your hand suddenly shot out, having to grip his bare shoulder to hold yourself up as his hand slid up to cup your bum, the tips of his fingers sliding just under the damp fabric of your suit. He squeezed the sensitive flesh in his hand, making you gasp and your knees wobble.

"Do you miss me, hot stuff?"

You nodded, pressing your lips together firmly.

"Cat got your tongue, huh?" he teased, his fingers pressing a little firmer. He had such a nice smile, charming and coy as he felt you up. He barely reacted to how sensitive you were to his wandering hand, but when your eyes dropped to his lap, you saw exactly how he felt. His swim trunks had gone noticeably tighter, a bulge stretching the fabric that made your mouth water.

"Y-yes," you managed, trying very, very hard not to let out the moan that threatened to escape when he slid his prodding fingers along the seam of your lower lips. "Miss y-you too."

"I'm sure you do," he cooed. "Can feel just how bad."

Your fingers dug into his shoulder harder, your teeth latched into your bottom lip as you let your eyes close a little when his middle finger pushed just so at your entrance.

"Too bad you're grounded. I can think of so many fun things we could be doing right now, hot stuff."and then his smile brightened in wattage, and he was pulling his hand away. "S'just a shame, isn't it?"

"Johnnnnn," you whined, stamping your foot before playfully smacking his shoulder. "You tease—"

He chuckled at that, bringing his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean as his shoulders shook, already glancing back down at the paperwork in his hands.

"As tempting as you are, hot stuff, I'm not trying to get my ass kicked by Robinavitch. Now go be a good girl and say hi to Gwen."

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself as you turned and headed toward the pool. You heard his voice call out behind you:

"Hate to see you go, love to watch you—"

You crouched by the water, scooping up a handful and splashing it directly at him.

Robby: have to stay long. do you want to come in

The text from Robby had your stomach tightening immediately as you read it from your spot on the lounge chair a little while later, both of Shen's kids planted beside you and chatting your ear off about their summer holiday plans for Disney World. You nodded along dutifully as they argued over which park was best, but your attention snagged on the screen in your hand the second his name appeared.

You: im at the pool right now

A speech bubble appeared and disappeared while you waited, your toes curling against the warm plastic fabric stretched across the chair. You tried to focus on what Mia was telling you about Epcot, but your attention was already wandering. It always did when it came to Robby.

Then, another text from Robby: leave the suit on. come in.

"I'm sorry, you guys, I gotta go," you said, pushing yourself upright.

Both kids immediately started protesting while you laughed and bent down to hug them goodbye.

"Seriously, John, if you ever need a sitter." you said as you stretched your arms around him.

"Careful," Shen called after you as you turned to embrace his wife. "You keep saying that and we're actually gonna start taking you up on it."

Both he and his wife thanked you and hugged you goodbye, and a few minutes later you were gathering up your things and heading out.You didn’t even bother going back home or changing, knowing full well Robby loved you in your little skimpy swim suits and cover ups—sometimes more than a lacy lingerie set.

An hour later, you were walking into the ED, the AC blasting hard enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. You rubbed your hands over them as you crossed through the entrance, waving hello to Lupe at the desk. She buzzed you through without issue, and you tossed quick greetings toward Ahmad and Mike as you passed.

In the chaos of the emergency department, something felt off immediately. Though, it seemed to be dying down. Voices carried in as they shouted over one another, people burst in and out of doors while the phone rang. Monitors chirped, ranging from steady and level to chaotic fits of panic. You caught a glimpse of Samira disappearing into a trauma room with Langdon behind her with Mel and Whitaker on their heels.

Dana intercepted you before you made it halfway to the charge station.

"Hey, angel. I'm sorry. Did Robby call you in?" She hooked an arm around you and immediately started steering you toward the back hall. "As happy I am to see you, it's a bit of a mess right now."

"What happened? Is everyone okay?"

"Incident at Kennywood. Rollercoaster."

"Oh, god."

Dana grimaced while squeezing your shoulder. "Yeah."

As she turned you down a hall, she added: ""Listen, I'll stick you in a room for now. Things are settlin' down, but it could still be a while before he gets free."

"Yeah, yeah of course, D." you said.

You'd barely made it around the charge station before somebody called Dana's name from across the department.

"Shit."

"Go," you said immediately. "I'm good. I'll find my way."

"North five, angel." Dana said, pointing your way ahead. You nodded, and started walking.

Every room seem occupied the further back you went, stretchers lining the walls and IV poles clustered near doorways. It wasn't as bad as some disasters you'd heard of—Pitt Fest for one—but still. It looked rushed, blood still on the floor of an empty trauma bay. Every room seemed to hold a different injury. Teenagers with broken bones and lacerations. Parents hovering anxiously beside hospital beds. A little girl clutching a stuffed rabbit while a nurse wrapped gauze around her arm.

The emergency department always had a strange feeling to it. Grief and relief lived side by side here. In one room somebody cried. In the next, a family laughed so hard you could hear it through the curtain. It made your chest ache a little harder the further you got.

"Hey, you."

You turned at the breathless voice and found Langdon hurrying toward you, already tearing off the disposable surgical cover he'd thrown on for trauma.

"Hey. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah—" He ran a hand through his hair before letting out a tired breath. "Well, no, actually, not really. But it will be."

"That's good." you said, and you were surprised to see him still following you as you kept walking. "Frank, go check on your patients, I'm good—"

"You know, I missed seeing you around here, baby."

The words stopped you—the pet name specifically had your tummy twisting a little—and Langdon guided you toward an empty strip of wall tucked away from the main traffic of the department, just enough privacy to steal a conversation.

"Don't tell me you've been neglecting your patients over a withheld reward again, Frankie."

His dimple appeared first, deepening into one cheek before the rest of the smile caught up, still a little breathless, shaking his head down at you. "No, never."

You smiled back up at him. It felt almost normal again, like it hadn't been over three weeks of you being kept away.

"Robby said you uh…"

"Yeah." you murmured, your smile slipping.

"Takin' a break from all of us then?" he asked, something amused in his pretty blue eyes.

"Just for now." you said, a little teasing lilt in your voice. "Don't worry, I'll be back soon."

"You're back now." he said, tilting his head down at you. "Does that mean…?"

You shook your head.

"Okay," he said easily, with a sort of half nod, his eyes never leaving yours. "Okay, I'll back off then. Good to see you though, baby."

Something in your chest pinched. Maybe it was because you'd spent the last month mostly at home. Maybe it was because seeing everyone again had reminded you how much of your life existed inside these walls. Or maybe you just really had missed him. Whatever the reason, you didn't let him get far before you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his middle.

"Miss you too, Frankie." you murmured into him, "always."

His arms settled around your shoulders almost immediately, pulling you in while his cheek pressed lightly against the top of your head. You felt the vibration of a chuckle thrum through him before he was gently pushing you away, "Careful, I'll start thinking you have favorites."

"Maybe I do." you grinned up at him, your eyes a little hazier than before, your skin warmer as you felt his long, lean body against yours. God, you really did miss him. The flirty, the easy affection. This was all familiar to slip back into with him.

"Don't make me want to kiss you," he murmured, squeezing you against him again. "I could get in big trouble."

A laugh threatened at the back of your throat. "Yes you could," you said softly.

You stood there with your neck craned back, looking up at him beneath hooded eyes while his blue gaze wandered across your face. His dimple deepened when he smiled. He looked exhausted. Hair slightly disheveled, scrubs wrinkled. There was dried blood on one sleeve he'd probably forgotten about hours ago. Still so pretty. So Frank.

For one second, you thought he might actually give in as his head bent down lower, his eyes dropping to your waiting mouth. But then—

"Langdon! We need you in trauma two!" Perlah shouted down the hall. Langdon glanced up, blinking back to reality, and slowly let you go.

 "I'll see you around, baby. Be good!" he called as he started backing away.

"Bye," you murmured. You lifted a hand in a lazy wave, watching him disappear down the hallway long after he'd stopped looking back.

You felt a little thrown off course from your run in with him, your blood taking a moment to run smoothly, your heart settling. The cool air that rushed into your chest made your chest squeeze, your nipples under the thin bathing suit harden. You inhaled deeply but found it hard to catch a full breath. Fuck, you were screwed if you didn't find an empty room.

Finally, you turned on your heel, north five back in your sights.

But then—

"Bunny?"

You looked to your right and found Brendon Park stepping off the elevator.

Tall was almost an inadequate word for him. Even from halfway across the hallway, he seemed to take up space effortlessly, broad shoulders filling the opening as the elevator doors slid open. The second he spotted you, his attention locked on completely. His gaze swept over you from head to toe, taking in the swimsuit cover-up, the sandals, the just dried hair, and whatever conclusion he reached made something tense in his face.

His long strides carried him toward you quickly.

"Hey—" you started, and he was bending down before you could say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

"How are you? What're you doing here? Were you at the theme park?"

"What?" you asked, still trying to catch up with the speed of the interaction before glancing down at yourself. Right. You could almost look like you came from a theme park. "Oh. No, no— I'm okay. I just came from home."

The relief that crossed his face was immediate, his shoulders dropping slightly, some tension leaving him as he glanced around the department. He sent a glare to a passing doctor you didn't recognize before turning his attention right back to you.

He stepped forward into you.

You stepped back.

His brow furrowed slightly, concern still written all over his face as he looked you over again, checking for something you'd somehow forgotten to mention. The movement felt almost unconscious on both your parts. Brendon kept drifting closer, drawn in by equal parts worry and affection, and you kept retreating beneath the weight of that honed gaze, your brain already struggling to keep up.

He did it again, and again, until your hips pressed into the sharp edge of a table, a little gasp coming from your mouth as he loomed over you closer still.

“Brendon—” you said, and as he leaned down again to try to catch your lips again, you turned quickly so your back was to his chest instead. It didn’t help. If anything, it only made you more aware of how much space he took up, the broad width of him filling in behind you, his shoulders so expansive they cut off the hallway on either side. He'd always been big, big enough to overwhelm, but usually it was so easy to forget because he was so careful with you. His touch was gentle, his voice gentler. Today though—he felt too big for his own good. All that focus of his predatory stare had your heart in your throat. Maybe because you knew how easily you'd give in. It had been so long, after all.

With your back turned, hips pressing into the empty desk, you closed your eyes. The wood edge dug into your skin as he crowded closer. You shivered when you felt his strong nose brush through your hair as he bent his head, tracing slow along your neck and around the shell of your ear, inhaling.

"What's goin' on with you, bunny?" he murmured. "You're trembling."

You gasped when his lips pressed against the tender skin behind your ear, your back arching before you even realized it. Heat pooled hard, throbbing painfully between your legs, your thighs tightening together for some kind of relief while you gnawed at your bottom lip hard enough to hurt.

"N-nothing's wrong," you tried to say, but it came out thin and desperate. "I—we—I can't umm…"

It was too much, too overwhelming. Too many people touching you when you weren't allowed to do anything about it.

"Can't what, bunny?" he said softly, voice so low it sent heat down your spine, his nose tracing the shell of your ear now. "Can't just talk, hm?"

You shook your head a little. His mouth started trailing down your neck, making goosebumps rise over your skin, your nipples beneath your bathing suit top pebbling even harder and your knees wobbling.

"But I've missed you, bunny."

The words went straight in your stomach, heat coiling, core fluttering. You sighed shakily, and then he stepped even closer, and you felt him—hard beneath his cotton scrubs, pressing into the curve of your lower back.

"Oh, fuck," you whispered. "Brendon, I really can't—"

"You don't have to do anything, Bunny," he whispered back, though his kisses had already turned hungrier, firmer against your skin as they went down your neck onto your shoulder. "How've you been, hm?"

"Mmm... I've been... okay..." Your thoughts were starting to slide apart, softening so quickly you couldn't quite hold onto them.

"You smell so good," he muttered, completely ignoring your answer. "Smell a little like desperation. Robby been takin' care of you, sweet girl? Been so long since I've seen you."

Your breath stuttered. "I've been..." You forced yourself to inhale deep, trying to get oxygen back into your brain while he pressed his hips slowly against you from behind. The pressure made your core ache harder. You caught yourself trying to lean away from him just to think straight. "I've been grounded."

You felt the sharp burst of breath against your neck, almost a laugh.

"Grounded, huh?" His teeth scraped lightly against the crest of your shoulder. "What's that like?"

Your face burned. You wondered if Robby hadn't told him, or if he was just pushing all the right buttons. "No, um..." You swallowed hard. "I'm not allowed to… finish. Or be shared."

Brendon went still for half a second.

Then, finally understanding, he leaned harder into you with a low growl that sounded punched out of him.

"Is that right?" he said, and you could tell his teeth were bared, shark-like, before you even spared a glance over your shoulder. "Robby doesn't want his best girl feelin' good anymore?"

"No, it's not—not that—"

Your words broke apart when his hands slid around your hips. Big hands—warm and heavy. His fingers rubbed slowly into your skin just above the waistband of your shorts and it felt so good your stomach tightened painfully around it. You could already feel how wet you'd gotten, slick heat pooling fast between your thighs, you could've sworn you felt it starting to run down your leg.

His hands didn’t stay still for long, and fuck, they felt so good. Your mouth opened in a quiet gasp when they dragged up your front, over your stomach, beneath the loose fabric of your cover-up, his palms broad enough to make you feel held and handled at the same time. He slipped a hand of them under one the little flimsy triangles that covered your breasts, and your lungs caught. His own breath was heavy in your ear, hot and uneven against your skin, the outline of his cock pressing insistent against your back while his fingers wandered and squeezed at you.

You could hardly keep up with your mind or your body,

Your thoughts catching on how you were not supposed to be doing this, on the rules, on the fact that this was Brendon Park with his hands under your clothes, while your body arched back into him anyway, little gasps and whimpers slipping out before you could swallow them. Because it had been so long. Because it had been torturous, missing these big hands on you, missing the thick heat of him pressing into you, the way he touched you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks.

And then, his hands continued their wandering back down your stomach. And then, to your horror and complete and utter pleasure, one of his hands slipped beneath the elastic of your waistband.

"Brendon—"

"Let me check on you, bunny," he whispered, breath heavier now. "Just wanna make sure you're okay. I've missed you."

His palm slid lower beneath the lining of your bathing suit until it settled heavy against your pubic bone, and then his fingers, thick and rough with callouses, dipped carefully into the soaked seam between your legs.

"Fuckkkkk," he exhaled, like the word got dragged right out of his chest with a moan.

Your hands flew to the desk, palms flattening against scattered papers while your head dropped forward in defeat. You were grateful no one was passing by behind you, that the hallway somehow had been deserted the past few minutes. You didn't want to imagine what this looked like.

"Oh my god," you whimpered.

He was barely touching you. And yet, just the pads of two fingers circling slow through the slickness of your folds and the teasing around your clit was enough to make your brain turn to mush and your legs so weak so you could hardly stay standing.

"You're so wet I bet my cock would slide right in this pussy," he muttered, voice strained and wrecked despite the filth of his words, his hips dragging against your lower back harder in a grinding motion.

Park's fingers slid further, cupping your wet mound and prodding your entrance, his palm creating pressure for your clit, and the sharp pulse of pleasure nearly made you cry out. You had to bite into your lip hard to keep yourself from moaning at the contact, the constant ache you'd been left with cracked apart into sparks that shot all the way up your spine.

"Oh god, Brendon—"

You spread your legs obediently when his knee nudged between them.

"You don't have tell Robby, baby," he breathed against your neck. "Let me take care of you."

But hearing Robby's name again snapped through the haze hard enough to make your stomach twist.

 You stood upright so fast you felt dizzy from it. You grabbed Brendon's wrist and pulled his hand from your shorts, turning around to face him with your chest heaving. Despite how equally desperate he had seemed, he pulled away easily at your insistence.

"Brendon," you started, struggling to catch your breath, "I can't, I'm sorry."

He stared down at you, eyes blown dark with arousal, chest rising hard beneath the fabric stretched over his shoulders. You could still feel his thick length in the tent of his scrubs against your belly, could still see his mouth swollen from kissing at your skin. You held onto his thick hand for a moment in between the two of you to stop him. It glistened with arousal along his two fingers.

And just when you opened your mouth to explain, you heard a voice from the end of the hallway.

"Well, hello."

You turned, and your stomach nearly fell to the floor.

Black t-shirt stretched across heavy muscle. Graying curls mussed at the front. Narrowed hazel eyes fixed on Park, his jaw set so hard beneath the shadow of stubble his muscle twitched.

"Abbot." Brendon said curtly, not moving from where he stood with his chest up against yours, his eyes honed in like a predator's.

Jack walked forward, until he was only a couple paces from you. His gaze bounced around your face, then up to Brendon's. There was a faint curve to his mouth, something cheeky and almost amused, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"All okay, sweetheart?" Jack asked when his eyes found you again.

You nodded, suddenly very aware of how close Park was, of warm skin, his heart hammering in his chest up against yours. The way neither of your bodies hadn’t quite calmed down. You could only imagine what this looked like—your mouth parted and heaving, Park's chest pressed up against you.

 "I was gonna grab coffee from Dunkin'." Jack said, "You wanna come?'

You looked between him and Brendon then, uncertain.

"We were having a discussion, Abbot." Brendon then said sternly.

Jack smiled, a charming dimple creasing one of his cheeks, though there was still something in his gaze—something intense and sharp that you'd never seen before. "And I'm sure it was very enlightening."

There was a stiffness to the both of them now, even as Jack shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands in his cargo pockets. The way Brendon wouldn't move, the way Jack's smile twitched when he looked between the two of you.

"C'mon, sweetheart," Jack offered, pulling one hand from his pocket and beckoning you.

Park's arm immediately slid around your middle, pulling you against him even harder. You looked up at him, suddenly the intensity of his nickname rang true— he looked scary, serious, his face darkening as he looked over at the attending.

"She's fine, Abbot, we were just talking."

When you glanced at Jack, all amusement fell from his face.

"Brendon," you murmured, sighing and looking back up at him.

You lifted your hands up into his chest, sliding them up until your fingers gently pressed into his face, turning it towards you. You saw him soften immediately as his eyes landed back on you.

You rose up onto your toes and kissed him softly on the mouth. You could feel his arm tighten even more against you as he breathed you in, his shoulders dropping. When you finally drew back, his mouth followed yours until you fell back onto your heels.

"Not today, okay?" you murmured, wiping some of the chap stick from his top lip, "I need to sort a few things out first. But I promise, you'll be the first to know when things are back to normal."

He sighed, and threw a mean glare at Jack once more before loosening his grip, though his hands stayed on you, guiding you down.

And finally, when he turned away, it was not without lingering his hands on you for as long as possible—his hands slid down your arms, holding the tips of your fingers as he said, "See you around, Bunny. Be good."

You smiled as you watched him go.

And then, turning around with a long exhale, you looked at Jack.

You'd never seen him look like that before.

There was no smile waiting for you or easy charm, no teasing remark halfway from his mouth. Instead, his brows were set low over his eyes, his jaw still tight like he was close to cracking a molar. He stared down the hall where Park had vanished, his gaze fixed on the empty stretch of tile and fluorescent light with an expression you'd never seen on his face. Mean. You didn't think you'd ever seen Jack Abbot look mean before.

"Jack?"

He shook his head and inhaled sharply, gnawing at the inside of his lip like he was trying to stop himself from saying something he knew he shouldn't. When his eyes landed on you, you watched them travel over your face, down your form, and back up again before he jerked his head toward the main ED.

"C'mon."

When you reached him, his hand settled lightly against your back, guiding you a few steps away from the flow of people moving through the department, toward the wall where a computer on wheels sat parked with its screen dimmed and a Esme was organizing a linen cart.

"I—um—I'm supposed to go meet Robby."

Jack paused. He looked down at you for a second, and suddenly you were far too aware of how close he was standing, of the heat of him even through scrubs, of how the space between you wasn’t really space at all. God. You hated this. You hated how seeing him still did this to you, how your heart immediately started acting up, how three weeks apparently hadn’t been enough time for your mind or your body to understand what you'd done was wrong. That you shouldn't want it again.

"Robby's in a trauma," he said.

"Yeah, I'm..." You swallowed. "I'm gonna go wait for him in North Five."

"Okay."

"Okay..."

You started to turn away.

The whole interaction felt wrong. Just wrong. Three weeks ago you'd been tangled up in each other in a way neither of you had planned for, and now it felt like neither of you knew what to say, how to say it. How to be in each other's presence and not think about it.

"Hey."

You’d only gotten an arm’s length away before it stopped you, and when you turned back, he was still standing exactly where you’d left him, his shoulders squared, his jaw set. He let out a slow breath through his nose and took a few steps closer, one hand settling on his hip while he looked you over.

"Are you okay?"

"Are you?" you asked, your voice maybe a little too defensive.

His head tipped back slightly, eyes never leaving your face. You worried for a moment that he'd give himself trismus with how much he was clenching the muscles of his jaw. He seemed to be weighing the answer, deciding how much of it he wanted to give you. "Been better."

"Yeah, same." you sighed.

Jack looked at you a little closer now, and it made your breath shorten. You wished he wasn't so handsome. You wished being this close didn't remind you of a month ago in the back of his truck, memories of your face in his chest with tears in your eyes, him kissing you, both of you crossing a line you even though you knew better. You wished you could forget how easy it felt with him too.

"You seem…" he began. "Was Park being—?"

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I’m just feeling really… I don’t know.” You sighed again, your hands coming up to your face, palms pressing against your cheeks, trying to steady yourself, but the overwhelm kept building anyway, tight in your throat and at the base of your neck, your heartbeat too fast and too loud. “It’s fine.”

“Some of us have been… a little restless, I guess,” he said, voice low, his head dipping as he looked at you, his gaze staying on your face in a way that felt careful instead of hungry. “Three weeks is a long time.”

"Yeah," you huffed sarcastically, "You're tellin' me."

He looked at you a little funny.

"I gotta go but… I'm fine. I guess. Yeah. Thanks…um… Jack. I'll see you."

"Okay, sweetheart. See you."

Luckily you didn't have to sit alone in your thoughts for long.

Robby found you in north five soon enough, and even though he looked exhausted—even though the crease between his brows was deep and feathered and his eyes had that look of a long, awful day full of cases he'd remember for life—he still smiled when he saw you.

"Hi, honey," he sighed, and opened his arms for you to fall into.

You went to him, your hands sliding up around the back of his neck, rising to your tiptoes so you could tuck your face into his chest, and he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in him for hours. His arms wrapped around you and held you, swaying a little back and forth in place, his weight shifting in the muffled quiet of the exam room.

For some reason, some sixth sense, some thing that had been learned after all your time with him, you knew this was what he needed. He was particular about touch outside of this—he didn't accept hugs from most, or even a high five. He kept his praise quick and detached with his staff typically with a simple thumbs up or fist bump (though, you knew there was one person other than you who was the exception to that). But with you… it was like you were the only touch that was safe for him to fall into.

And though you craved touch, not even just from him but from everyone you knew—a hug with a friend, a hand on the small of the back, a bumping of shoulders in comradery, and the explicit kind too— there was something deeply sentimental about the touch from Robby's hands. When the two of you fell into each other, it formed a nucleus from the outside world. Nothing else existed now that he was here and holding you. The noise of the day outside the four walls of the exam room simply paused.

You felt his nose sink into your hair, inhaling, "How are you."

"M'okay," you murmured. "You?"

"Yeah." he said softly.

You squeezed him a little tighter.

After a moment, you said: "Robby?"

"Yeah, honey?" he asked.

"I feel like I'm going a little crazy."

He pulled away, only enough so he was still holding you in his arms but able to look down at you and study your face. His brows pulled together for a long moment while he did, assessing for anything really wrong. You felt his thumbs rubbing back and forth over the sheer fabric of your cover up.

"How so?"

You shut your eyes, breathing deeply, trying to collect yourself. You weren't sure why, but you felt almost like you wanted to cry. When you opened them again, Robby's eyes were still focused on you, his expression full of careful attention.

"I feel like I've barely been here an hour and I'm just so—" you shook your head, releasing your hands from his neck to cover your eyes, pressing your fingertips deeply into the sockets. Bright galaxies burst across your vision, and you inhaled again, steadying the whirring of your brain as you tried to think of the right words. "Everyone is being so sweet, trying to take care of me—"

"—take care of you?"

"—but I just feel so fucking overwhelmed, and I don't know how to tell them that I can't—"

"—they should already know to leave you alone—"

"I just want to go home, but I also really don't—because I miss everyone—but still—" you snapped, "I just want to stop feeling so fucking crazy."

"Okay, breathe, please—" he said, his hands sliding from your back to your shoulders, soothing up and down on your skin.

You opened your eyes again, letting your hands drop, sucking in a shaky breath and looking up at him.

"First of all," he said, his voice low and soothing, "I'm sorry I called you to come in on such a crazy day. I… I selfishly thought of having you here, wanting you after all this bullshit and I didn't think about the others seeing you."

"Well, they saw me." You shrugged. "I even ran into John at the pool with his family."

Robby tilted his head, "Did Shen—?"

You shook your head, "We just said hi, that's all. He said he didn't want to get in trouble. Langdon said so too."

Robby nodded, "Good, good."

"But I miss them." you murmured, your eyes wide and watery up at Robby.

"I know, honey."

"And…" you hesitated, but knew it was better to just tell him. "I feel like you're getting such a good fucking deal out of the past few weeks and I'm not. I feel fucking crazy, Michael."

He sighed, squeezing your arms a little tighter, his face with an expression of knowing that you don't want to hear. "Do you know why we've been doing this the past few weeks? Denying you?"

You let your head fall back on your neck with a little groan, "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I went behind your back, I crossed a boundary. And it's fine, I understand—I just didn't think my body would be so fucking wound tight like this—"

"Okay, I hear you, c'mere," Robby cooed immediately, gently guiding both of you to the hospital bed in the center of the room.

You went without thinking about it, shuffling across the mattress until he could pull you into him. It dipped beneath your combined weight as he settled you on his lap, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while the other came up to cradle the back of your head. You let yourself sink against him completely, legs falling open around the large breadth of his body—hips to hips, chest to chest, your face tucked into the side of his neck where his skin was warm from a long day. His fingers slipped into your hair automatically, fingertips scratching lightly against your scalp while the steady rise and fall of his breathing moved beneath your cheek.

"Okay," he murmured, pressing his mouth briefly to your temple. "Tell me more."

"No, because—" Your voice caught unexpectedly. The burn seared in your throat even worse than before, your eyes prickling, your chin wobbling in a way that only made you more frustrated.

"It's so stupid." You swallowed hard. "You're here saving fucking lives and actually doing something, and I'm sitting here complaining because people..." A humorless laugh escaped you. "People like me too much."

The laugh that left him was soft, so fond that it made you want to hide your face even further. "Oh, honey."

You pushed your lips together to keep yourself from really beginning to weep, croaking out: "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you."

"I know." you admitted, inhaling a deep, shaky breath.

His hand continued moving through your hair, smoothing it back from your face before trailing down your spine in slow strokes.

"I understand what you're saying," he said gently. "But let's not compare apples to oranges, okay? Somebody else's problems don't make yours disappear. If something's upsetting you, it's upsetting you. I want you to tell me these things."

You let out a long breath into his shoulder, your body settling a little heavier against him, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, something you could focus on. His fingers kept moving, combing through the strands at the nape of your neck. For a few minutes, it was just this. His arms around you, your tears drying, your breath coming back to you.

He felt you begin to relax against him and then, his voice gentle and a little raspy: "I have an idea. I know you've been a little pent up, huh? Feeling a little overwhelmed?"

He had a certain way to his voice, a lilt that could always lull you into feeling comforted and yet completely wrapped around his finger. There was a gentleness to him, a softness, a patience. So much so that even without the special set up— the shampoo and the body wash and perfume or even braid in your hair—it had a funny way of making your brain turn to mush when he sounded like that.

You nodded.

"Can you come up a little for me, honey?"

You could do just about anything when he spoke to you like that.

His hands slid beneath your thighs and guided you higher against him, pulling you closer so your chest was up against his clavicle, your nose brushing up into his hair. You breathed him in automatically, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with hospital and the lingering traces of a shift that had gone on far too long. Beneath you, you felt him shifting, heard the quiet rustle of fabric and the metallic sound of a zipper being tugged down.

The realization of what he was doing sent a fresh wave of heat through you. You began to whine a little at the feeling of it. Of him, against your thigh, his member warm and throbbing.

God, you felt so fucking desperate.

"Think this'll help us both relax a little, hm?" he murmured against your arm.

You nodded feverishly, and his mouth brushed your shoulder with a soft kiss in answer while his hands worked patiently. He helped you out of your cover up and your shorts, untying your bathing suit bottoms since your coordination seemed to have abandoned you entirely. You lifted your hips when he needed you to, shifted your legs where he guided them, letting him take care of the details while your forehead rested against the pillow.

"Aw, honey," he cooed, "you're soaked."

You whined a little more, petulant and impatient for him.

"Okay, okay," he soothed, "I know." And as he brought you back down into his lap, inhaling with a hiss through his teeth, the blunt head of his length pressed at your entrance. "Nice deep breath for me, honey."

You did as bid, and then, on your long sighing exhale, he pushed into you completely. Robby let out a low, strained groan that dragged up from his chest, his head tipping back against the thin pillows as his grip tightened at you. Your mouth opened in a gasp around his neck, a mewling whine falling from your lips.

"Ohhh…" you sighed, wriggling your hips a little to get him even deeper.

"Sh, sh, no moving—" he croaked lazily, his hands going to your hips to still you. "Just stay like that."

Your mouth, opened and wanton, found the side of his neck again, kissing and dragging, wet and searching, your tongue pressing along the line of his carotid while your teeth caught lightly at the skin there. He tasted like sweat, like his aftershave, his skin sensitive and thin around his beard. He hummed appreciatively at the feeling.

"Okay, now tell me what's goin on," he finally said once the two of you settled in. He didn't move his hips, but you could feel the involuntary twitching of his cock inside you every now and then. You were wet enough that it spread everywhere, slick between your thighs, warm where it gathered and slipped down over his balls that fit snug against you and dampening the sheets beneath. It made you ache for movement, for more, your walls clenching around him in want, but you held still, your hands gripping at him instead.

You let out a gurgled sound, your lips swollen and tongue still laving at his neck.

"What, are you suddenly too cock drunk to have a conversation, honey?" he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

"Feels… sooo… mmm…" you hummed, the words trailing off as your legs tightened around his on the bed without thinking, the shift pressing you down on him, forcing him deeper. The reaction was immediate—both of you letting out a louder sound this time, your breath catching while his grip snapped tighter, his hands closing hard under your ass, fingers digging in deep enough to sting.

"No. Moving." he gritted out.

"Yes, Robby," you sighed obediently, the name slipping out soft against his skin.

He hummed pleasantly again.

"Tell me what…" you started, but your voice drifted, your mouth still pressed to his neck as your thoughts slipped, the feeling of him filling you pulling your focus under again, your body tightening around him in small, needy pulses you couldn’t quite control. "...What happened with your day."

You felt a little boneless on top of him, your kisses becoming slower, more gentle, until you were only pressing your lips into his beard. He let out a long breath, his hands easing their grip, sliding up your back, then back down in slow passes, smoothing over your skin.

"There was a bad incident at Kennywood."

"Dana told me," you murmured, your eyes blinking open a little, your voice quieter now as you listened, trying to stay with him.

He nodded against the pillow, his jaw shifting under your cheek. "It’s always… the worst when…" He paused, breath catching slightly, like he had to push the rest out. "When it’s kids."

You nodded, understanding.

"I don't wanna talk about my day," he suddenly said, though his voice was still low and gentle, "I wanna hear about yours."

You shook your head, closing your eyes again. You moved a little on the bed.

"Stop squirming so much, honey, I know what you're up to—"

You smiled into his neck. But then you heard his pager go off.

He groaned under you, his head tipping back as he reached blindly toward the bedside table, fingers fumbling for it before bringing it up to his ear. "Robinavitch, I'm busy—oh—hey."

You resumed your soft, leisurely kisses to his neck, praying he wasn't being called out into the fray again. He felt so warm, so good here. You felt so full and content, your mind still hazy and soft, lips swollen and warm against his skin.

"Yeah, hang on—" He pulled the pager away from his ear, turning his head so his mouth brushed against your hair. "Honey—"

"Mm?" you hummed, your lips still moving against his throat.

"It's Jack."

That snapped the rubberband of your brain back to yourself, eyes opening immediately, your head lifting back and your body going still on top of him.

"It's okay, it's okay—" Robby soothed quickly, one hand coming up to steady you where you’d pulled back. He shook his head a little, his expression holding. "He wants to know if he can come check on you. He said you had a hell of a day."

Your brows pulled together as you looked down at him, your hands planted on his chest, the feeling of him connected to you more heightened as you sat back on top of him.

"And… you’re…okay with that?"

His jaw tightened a little, the muscle jumping beneath his beard, but it didn’t settle into anything sharp this time. Something else passed through his face instead, quieter, held in check. "Yeah, it's okay."

You stared at him for another moment, unmoving.

"I promise," he added, his thumb brushing once along your hip. "But if you don’t want him to come in, it can just be me and you."

You worried your lip between your teeth, your gaze dropping briefly to the pager still in his hand, then back to him. There was a small, stretched pause before he lifted it again and brought it up to your ear instead.

You watched him the whole time, and he only nodded when it touched your skin. You didn't take the phone from him, only let him hold it up to you.

"Jack?" you murmured.

"Hi, sweetheart."

His voice was soothing through the device, rough and hoarse and sultry—Robby's lips twitched, not naive to the feeling of your body reacting to the sound of it. You pictured him just as you saw him a little while ago, though in your minds eye, his face had softened, his shoulders were dropped, that intense look long gone.

"Hi," you whispered, "Are you coming in to say hi?"

"Only if you want me to."

Your eyes flicked back to Robby, searching again, and he gave you another small nod, steady this time.

"Okay."

Robby took the pager back, bringing it to his ear again, his gaze not leaving your face. "North five," he said. "Don’t let anyone follow you in."

There was a beat, a quiet exchange on the other end you couldn’t hear, and then Robby lowered the pager, setting it back onto the bedside table without looking away from you.

"C'mere." he said, pulling you into him once again.

You went easily, folding into his chest, your arms tucking in between you where there was barely space, your cheek settling against him. A million questions ran through your head, but they felt quieted by Robby's arms around you, his lips at the top of your head. The way you couldn't help but notice his length swelling more inside of you.

Only a few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Robby reached for the hospital blanket without moving you too much, dragging it up and over your back, tucking it around your hips with one hand while the other stayed firm around you.

"Yeah," he called.

The door opened, and with it came a brief rush of noise from the floor—voices, monitors beeping somewhere down the hall, the squeak of shoes—before it cut off again as the door clicked shut.

"Hey," came Jack’s voice from across the room.

You lifted your head slightly from where it had been tucked into Robby’s neck, turning just enough to look over your shoulder. Jack stood near the door in his the same clothes, black t-shirt pulled tight across his chest and arms, cargos sitting low on his hips, his stethoscope looped around his neck, badge clipped at his belt.

Robby looked at him without expression, merely acknowledging him, before his attention dropped back to you. "I’m gonna let him come say hi, okay?"

You nodded against him. You didn’t see it, but you felt the shift in Robby as he looked up, giving Jack a small nod, a subtle tilt of his head that brought him closer.

Jack’s steps weren’t loud, and you felt him before you saw him, the space beside the bed changing, his presence close enough that you didn’t have to turn to know he was there. His hand came to your back, so broad and warm, and calloused even through your sheer cover up, moving slowly over your shoulder blades, back and forth in an easy rhythm.

"You doing better now, sweetheart?" he murmured.

"Mhm," you hummed.

"D'you tell Robby about your day?"

You shook your head. There was a pause that hung for a second, quiet but noticeable as the two of them looked at each other over you.

"Do you want me to tell Robby?"

You hesitated, your fingers shifting where they rested against Robby's chest, and then you nodded again. You didn’t have it in you to say much—your mouth parted like you might, but the words didn’t come, your focus slipping instead. Your body stayed tuned to both of them, fully aware of Jack there now, of the shift he brought into the space, but you didn’t let the nerves of a changing dynamic pull you away from that soft space in your mind you'd found only moments before. Your eyes moved between them briefly, a little slower, a little softer, before dropping again, your lashes lowering as you settled against Robby.

"S’okay, honey," he said beneath you, his hand coming up to smooth your hair back, tucking a piece behind your ear. "We can talk about it in a little. I wanna show Jack how good of a girl you are first. Is that okay?"

You tightened your hold again. You felt quieted, pacified by Robby's comforting hold, your brain still a little fuzzy despite the other presence in the room.

"She okay?" Jack asked.

"Oh, yeah," Robby answered knowingly, his voice low, that same rough gentleness in it as his hand drifted down your back again. "She gets a little overwhelmed sometimes. This helps." He glanced up at Jack. "Go grab the stool, I’ll show you."

You heard Jack move, the roll of the stool’s wheels against the floor, the faint creak as he settled onto it somewhere beside the bed, though you couldn’t see exactly where. You glanced back anyway, just enough to catch him watching you, a small smile pulling at his mouth when he caught your gaze.

"I’m gonna talk to Jack now, okay, honey?" Robby murmured close to your ear, his lips brushing your hair as he spoke. "If you have anything to add, you can. Don’t worry about being shy."

Your thoughts felt even slower now as your focus narrowed down to the way your body sat on his, your legs still spread around his hips, the stretch of him inside you constant and full. When he pulled the blanket back, the air hit your skin, cool against the warmth you'd created, and it made everything feel heightened for a second before it settled back into that same hazy heat. Beneath you, you felt him react again, a slow swell, a small pulse that made your stomach draw tight.

Jack swore under his breath when the blanket dropped, and you watched him through heavy lids as his gaze lowered, fixed between you and Robby, on the place where you were joined.

"She's a good girl, brother." Robby said seriously.

"Yeah," Jack said, the edge in his voice gone quieter, more focused. "Yeah, she is."

"Jack." Robby’s tone shifted when he said it—flat, deliberate. There was a pause as he waited until Jack looked at him fully before continuing. "I want you to understand what you’re asking for."

Jack's jaw tightened a little at that, his expression a little more serious.

"This isn't just fucking around for fun." Robby said with a tightness to him, carefully stern. "It's a dynamic that only works because what’s underneath it is solid. Because at the end of the day, this what actually matters."

Jack didn't say anything.

"Her and I work because we want the same things," Robby went on. "Trust, for one. There’s no wondering where the line is, no second-guessing it. And when something crosses it—" his eyes flicked to you for half a second, then back, "—we deal with it."

Jack's lips pursed. You squirmed a little in Robby's hold, but he went on anyway.

"There are rules her and I both follow. She knows she can trust me, and, though it may look different to the outside, she has all the control here."

"Even if you give the okay?" Jack asked, more direct now.

Robby nodded, "The only way this works is with her okay. She is the one letting me make that call. She gives it all to me, and tells me when she wants things or doesn't. She's a good girl because she willingly hands me the responsibility to take care of her, to know her best, to understand and let her be exactly who she is without question."

You weren’t sure why, but again, your throat began to tighten. You closed your eyes, pressing your face into Robby’s neck, disappearing there. It was strange, hearing them talk about you like that, like you weren’t right there between them—but it didn’t feel bad. If anything, it settled somewhere deeper, somewhere steady and comforting. You'd never heard Robby explain your dynamic to anyone, it was just something that came to be between you, something that both of you understood and needed. Even through hours of conversation, of open talks of wants and needs and dreams and desires, you'd never heard it put like this before.

"Do you remember, a few years ago, when…"

"When you planned that ego-death trip to Head Smashed In?" Jack said, a quiet amused note to his answer.

Robby nodded slightly beneath you. You’d heard about that before, it was right before you knew him, before any of this.

"I don’t think…" he started, his hand moving slow up your back, then settling there firmly again. "I don’t think I could’ve come back from that and been where I am now without this. Without her."

Your grip on Robby tightened. His arms came around you a little tighter too.

"I’m telling you all this, Jack," he went on, his voice steady again, "because if you want in, you need to understand it’s not just about getting your rocks off—"

"—I never said that was—"

"I know. But you also need to understand its not about stealing her from me, either." Robby cut in, the words heavy, as if said through bared teeth. It made you squirm again in his hold, your body clenching down and him twitching inside of you, the place between you so wet and sensitive and swollen it made your hips begin to tingle.

But then Robby’s words finally clicked in your head, and you lifted your face from his neck, pulling back just enough to look between them. "Wait—"

"I’m not looking to steal anything," Jack went on, shaking his head, his voice rougher now, less smooth than usual. "I want— fuck…" He broke off, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing over his mouth before he dropped it and leaned forward, elbows braced on the bed, his head dipping for a second.

You shifted again, sitting up a little more, your chest pulling away from Robby’s as you reached for Jack, your hand sliding into his hair without thinking. He reacted right away, his hand coming up to hold yours there, pressing it lightly against his head, still not looking up, his grip steady like he didn’t want you to pull away.

But when he did, the look on his face almost made you cry in earnest. There was so much there—a yearning, a loss, a sadness. And yet, so much want it made your chest feel like it cracked in two.

"You're… joining us?" you asked softly.

He took the hand you had in his hair and brought it down, guiding it to his face until your palm cupped his cheek, the rough shadow of his beard dragging lightly against your skin.

"Is that something you’d like to try?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, your thumb moving along the edge of his cheekbone before you could stop yourself. And when you did, he turned his face fully into your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm, his lips warm, lingering as his eyes stayed on yours before they slid back to Robby.

"I saw Park cornering her today," he said, the words coming out a little tighter, "It made me feel insane. How do you… how does that part work?"

Robby let out a small breath through his nose, something almost amused under it, even as his hand stayed firm at your side.

"I mean, right now, it pisses me off," he said plainly. "Because he's supposed to know better. They're supposed to ask first." Robby said. There was a dry edge to it, an annoyance even as his cock jumped inside of you. Then his attention came back to you. "What did he do, honey?"

You gnawed on your lip, and Jack rolled the stool so you could see them both at once. He sat on Robby’s right, angled toward the bed, his forearms braced on his thighs as he looked up at you. And from that angle, being split over Robby's member that was pulsing and swelling, feeling both of their eyes on you, it had your stomach clenching.

"Oooh—" Robby choked slightly, his hands tightening at your hips to hold you still, his grip still firm as he felt the change in you. "What is it?"

You smiled a little, reaching forward now for Jack, your fingers carding through the top of his graying hair, pushing it back. "I like this view."

Both of them chuckled a bit at that. But Robby's hands tightened on your hips again, "Tell me about Dr. Park, honey. It's time we talk about it now."

You let your hand fall from Jack’s curls, both of your palms coming to rest flat against Robby’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your touch.

"He… um…" You glanced at Jack, then back to Robby, your fingers curling a little in Robby's shirt. "We ran into each other in the hall, and he was worried I was at Kennywood too. But then he—." Your face went warm. "He said he missed me, he starting touching me—" You swallowed, eyes dropping for a second. "I think I just got overwhelmed."

"Do you miss him too?"

You bit your lip hard enough it hurt, your eyes dropping for a second before you went on. "Yes. But... I don’t know if it’s just because it’s been so long."

Robby nodded once, not interrupting, just watching you.

Jack hadn’t moved, his gaze fixed on you.

"He… he tried to—um—finger me—"

The word caught on the way out of your mouth, your voice hitching as Robby’s hips jerked up under you sharply. The movement made you gasp, your body tightening, your hands pressing harder into his chest.

Jack’s eyes flicked between you both, trying to take it all in—the dynamic, the shift of the room moment by moment.

"I didn’t let him," you rushed on, your voice thinner now. "He touched me and I was—I was getting so close too fast, but I couldn’t—I knew you’d be mad. That I was grounded."

"Grounded?" Jack asked, his brow pulling slightly.

You nodded. He looked to Robby, and Robby answered without looking away from you.

"After your little run-in," he said, calm, measured, "we adjusted things for a few weeks. Other than the no sharing, she's not allowed to finish."

"Fuck." Jack whispered.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first. It was small, almost unconscious—your hips shifting against him, a slow, shallow rock that dragged him deeper each time. It built gently, the light press of your clit against the thatch of hairs at the base of him creating a delicious friction. Your body leaned into it before your mind caught up, your breath starting to change as it settled into a rhythm. Robby didn't seem to want to stop you this time, he just let you gently rock back and forth.

"How did it feel, honey?" he croaked, his eyes changed to a narrowed, hungry gaze as he watched you. "Having Park's fingers on you after so long?"

"Felt so good," you whispered, "too good."

"Fuck." Jack said again, but this time, it was hoarse with a thick arousal. "When I saw…" he went on, swallowing thickly. Your eyes flickered to him.

"I only saw you after the fact, but his fingers were—they were wet and I didn't realize—" Jack's hand was on his lap, tightening around the inside of his thigh. You licked your lips, rocking your hips harder against Robby now.

"I kissed him too, Robby—I'm sorry—" you moaned out louder now, pressing down harder, chasing that friction now as Robby's hands pushed you down onto him further, his lip beginning to curl back.

"I wanted to punch him." Jack growled.

You gasped, mewling at the feeling now, Robby's cock punching deeper inside you as he dipped his hips and pushed back in.

"Seeing you up against Park like that, all pushed into him—fuck—" Jack groaned, tightening his hand on his cargo pants where you could see a little stain of precome through his pants. "Robby, brother—pull down her—"

He didn't even have to finish the sentence before Robby was reaching up and yanking the little triangles of your bathing suit aside, your breasts falling, nipples peaking at the cold air. The fabric cut into your skin around the globes, so they were more pressed together as your mouth hung open, watching both of them through heavy lids. Jack groaned in what almost sounded like pain as his hand tightened around his growing bulge.

"Take it out—" Robby commanded to the attending, "Do it—"

Jack didn't hesitate, He unzipped his cargos, pushed them down to just the mid thigh, and pulled his thick cock out.

"I see what you meant, honey—" Robby quipped with a breathless little smile as he punched up into you again. "When you said he felt big—"

Jack let his head fall back onto his neck a little, but his lips quirked into a breathless little smile, "You two—you two gossiping about me?"

You nodded, "I told him you felt so big inside me, Jack, how good it— your cock—oh god," you mewled.

Your features pinched together at the feeling of tightening in your spine, hips beginning to cramp.

"No, no, no—honey—don't you fucking dare—" Robby demanded, his teeth bared up at you.

"What?" Jack whimpered. You watched his wide grip wrap around his throbbing shaft, the glistening bead of arousal growing at the reddened tip. He used it, sliding the slick with his thumb over the head of his cock while he watched you bounce on Robby.

"She wants to come—" Robby said, though it was mean, a groan, a chastising.

"Fuck it, let her—"

"No—" Robby growled.

"Pleaseeeeeeeee…" you mewled, tears beginning to blur your eyes so you could hardly see Jack, how his jaw unhinged and his body slumping over as he fisted his cock faster.

"No." Robby barked, even as his thrusts became uneven. "Hold it."

Your face pulled into a wailing grimace, the pain in your belly, your spine, of holding it back.

"Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe—" Jack soothed, coming back to himself a little, his voice hoarse and desperate and yet soothing, "easier if you don't tighten up so much, just breathe through the feeling, it's just a wave—"

You did as he said, pulling in a deep breath, trying to force your hips to settle, to loosen, and Robby’s eyes widened as he watched you. Then he was groaning low, pushing you down onto himself with one last thrust. Oh, fuck, that’s so good— he moaned, his voice breaking as you felt him fill you with long ropes of thick, hot, spend, your thighs starting to shake from it.

You heaved in long, slow breaths as you whined from the denial, your eyes locked on Jack as he worked himself faster, his mouth parted, breath coming rougher. But instead of folding in on himself, he shifted, pushing his knees wider, leaning back in the chair just enough to hold himself there, his body straining. The noises he made were shallow, deep, a desperate string of curses, of your name.

"Come, Jack, please—please come for me—" you begged, your voice catching as your hips started to move again over Robby.

"God, doesn’t she beg so fucking pretty?" Robby said, breathless, his hands coming up to push your breasts together in his broad hands.

"Yes, God yes, oh fuck—oh fuck—look at me, sweetheart, that's it, look at me when I—" Jack moaned, but the words cut off into a long, strained groan, his brows pulling tight as he came, thick spurts hitting your thigh and his hand, his fist working himself through the overwhelming euphoria.

All three of you were full of breath for a long moment, your hips still tight with the loss of any relief. But you sighed dreamily still, drawing your finger through the milky come along your thigh. Both of them watched you in silence as you lifted it, your lips closing around your fingertip, sucking the salty spend clean. You pulled it out with a small pop, glancing between them with a faint, sheepish smile at the way they were staring.

"Jesus," Robby huffed.

"Yeah." Jack responded.

And then, like it caught up to them all at once, Jack pushed up from the stool, grabbing a few paper towels, wiping his hand off quickly before tucking himself back into his cargo pants. He zipped up, turned back, and stepped in closer again, holding out the towels just as you started to lift yourself from Robby’s lap.

"Thank you," you said softly, taking them.

He didn’t step away. If anything, he closed the space, his hand coming to your elbow, steadying you as you shifted, your legs still a little unsteady. Behind you, Robby moved too, rolling off the bed, one hand still at your side. For a second, both of them had their hands on you at once: close, warm, grounding as you settled back down onto the bed, the paper towels tucked beneath you.

As you sat there, feeling the slow, sticky release from between your legs, you looked up at them. They were looking at each other now, something silent passing between them. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"So…" you began.

Both of them looked at you from either side of the bed.

"Is this like… going to be normal? How is this going to work?"

Robby sighed, looking at his fellow attending. Both of them still were wordless as they watched each other, as if sizing the other up even after your shared moment.

"Oh, I know," you said, softer now. Your hands came up, one to each of them—Robby back in his black hoodie, the fabric worn and soft under your palm, and Jack’s bare arm, warm under your fingers. They both looked down at you then, both of them a little quieter, a little more open than you were used to seeing. You looked back at Jack.

"Why don't you come for dinner?" you said. "Maybe next week?" Your eyes flicked to Robby. "Would that be okay?"

Robby made a sort of frown, thinking.

But it was Jack who spoke first, "That sounds great, sweetheart."

"And for now, let’s just… go on as normal. Think about what we actually want. We can just… take it slow."

Jack tipped his head down a little, a small smile pulling at his mouth. "That sounds nice." He came closer to you, brushing a kiss to your temple, but you caught him before he could pull away, your hand coming up to his face, your fingers settling along his jaw, holding him there.

When you glanced back to Robby, you saw he was smirking now, watching the two of you with a renewed light ignited behind his eyes.

You looked back at Jack once again, and your focus dropped to his lips.

"I think I deserve a real kiss goodbye," you said softly. "Don’t you think, Robby?"

Robby let out a quiet laugh, folding his arms across his chest. "I think you do. She was such a good girl, after all, Abbot."

Jack huffed a breath of a laugh, his mouth twitching before he leaned in the rest of the way.

"Anything for our best girl." he said, before pressing his lips to yours.

end note (so not to have spoilers): so much love and adoration for my friend court (@pearlessance) !!!! thank you for letting me pluck the idea of split custody from your beautiful brain!

thank you so much for reading!!!

🏷️ @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @kittymeowmeow17, @viviandarkbloom11, @kneelforloki, @kitkatrina, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @anthropsych, @shawnysimp, @1-800-bobcut, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing comment below if you'd like to be added!

[lacyydollette]

PERMISSION TO NEED ME ᰋ AARON HOTCHNER

pairing ᰋ aaron hotchner x reader

summary ᰋ you always try so hard to not rely on your boyfriend because you know how busy he is. so naturally when there’s a power outage in your apartment you hesitate to let him know about it which leads to a very disappointed aaron behind you door.

warnings ᰋ angst with fluff end. lots of pauses (sue me i want the dialogue to go slower) swearing & language.

one thing about being with a man that was a man— which, by that, you mean a man who was so unlike the little boys you had dated before—was that he was extremely assertive, mature, and overall just knew how to take care of you just right.

and one thing about being with so many little boys unlike him was that over time you had learned to shut down, because they always made you feel like you were too much.

asking for too much, when the whole time it was beyond the bare minimum.

so naturally, whenever you had issues, you dealt with it yourself.

like right now when you had a power outage on your whole street, meaning everything was shut. your fridge, electricity, elevator (which meant you had to climb up and down eight floors), and most importantly, your stove.

you didn’t call your boyfriend because you felt like it was too much.

shit, you couldn’t even use your phone to order food because it was dead let alone try to call him.

it was running on 5%, and you had just enough to let your best friend know that you were alive and that if you didn’t answer, it was probably because you ran out of battery. while she insisted you leave your house and maybe go over to aaron’s, since she herself was all the way in the other side of the country for a work trip, you had refused, because seriously, it’d be embarrassing.

sure, you’d crashed at his place since you’ve been together for almost three years, that’s normal—but this just didn’t feel right. you weren’t about to go bother him and ask if you could stay at his place for god knows how many days until the electricity was fixed. that was too much. at least, that’s what you thought it was.

it was fine. you were going to be able to survive on a dead phone, dead stove, absolutely no lights, all alone in your apartment.

but it wasn’t fine when aarons’s eighth call to your phone went straight to voicemail and he hadn’t heard from you all day, which was so unusual, because you usually responded no matter what.

naturally, his only solution was calling your parents, your family, anyone he knew, but they also hadn’t heard from you. that left him with one last person: your best friend, who he essentially forced an answer out of until she finally cracked and told him what was going on.

“she’s fine, she just. . didn’t want to bug you,” she had sighed through the phone. “power’s out. the lights and everything. she refuses to leave.”

“and she didn’t even try to call me?” he’d asked, voice going flat.

“you know how she is.”

hearing that he’d cursed under his breath, grabbed his keys and jacket, and headed out the door, worry swirling in his gut the entire thirty-minute drive to your apartment.

he parked near your building’s garage, said a quick hi to your doorman, then went to the elevator. when he realized it didn’t work, he took the stairs two at a time, jaw tight.

another string of curses left him. he was beyond irritated—not at you, never at his sweet girl—but at the fact that you felt like you couldn’t rely on him, like you always had to solve your problems alone.

if he couldn’t help you on your worst days, then why was he even there?

he finally got to your door, only to realize the doorbell didn’t work either. of course. he knocked, harder than he meant to.

a few seconds later, you opened the door in your pajamas, hair up in your crazy big rollers he still didn’t fully understand the point of—something about volume and blowouts or whatever you’d explained to him a hundred times.

you were probably getting ready to sleep off the night alone in the dark.

“hey,” you breathed out, staring at him. from the look on his face, you knew you might be a little screwed.

“hi,” he said simply, eyes scanning you quickly, alive, breathing, upright, before the tension in his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.

“come in.” you give him a light peck on thr lips before you cleared your throat and stepped aside, trying not to do anything to intensify the situation further.

“what’s up with the lights?” he asked as he came in, toeing off his shoes like he always did, acting like he didn’t already know.

“power outage,” you muttered, leading him toward your bedroom. there was still a bit of light from outside, but not much.

“have you eaten?” he asked, following close behind, hands in his pockets.

“not yet,” you admitted with a wince. “my stove doesn’t work, and my phone’s dead, so i can’t order takeout.”

you flopped down at your vanity chair, turning away a little as you started taking your rollers out, trying not to look directly at him.

aaron watched you for a beat, then came up behind you, catching one of the rollers you fumbled. “and you didn’t bother telling me about all this?” he murmured, standing behind you as he gently started helping with your hair, fingers careful not to tug.

“my phone died?” you offered, glancing at his reflection. he looked calm, but you knew him—you could see the tick in his jaw.

“yeah?” he said quietly, setting another roller down. “before or after you decided to play pioneer in the dark instead of calling me from literally anywhere else?”

you chewed your lip. “. . before,” you whispered, then sighed. “i’m sorry.”

you finally blurted it out; you knew it was due.

“not a word,” he said, stepping back and shaking his head. “get dressed, pack a bag. you’re coming with me.”

“baby, you know you don’t have to—” you started, then froze when he gave you a look. firm, not angry, but very, very clear.

“i’m not asking,” he said, tone soft but absolute. “i’m telling you. pack a bag.”

you swallowed and nodded quickly, turning away to change into proper clothes. you grabbed a small overnight bag and started shoving in necessities makeup, skincare, some clothes, your laptop, and your dead phone, while he waited in the doorway, arms folded, eyes following your every move.

he was quiet, and with the way he was quiet, you knew he was more hurt than mad.

“done,” you breathed out, holding up the bag.

“good.” he walked over, took it from you without a word, and with a hand on the small of your back, gently steered you out of your apartment after you’d double-checked everything and locked the door.

you both walked in silence down the eight flights of stairs and out to his car. he opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were settled, then put your bag in the back and got into the driver’s seat.

the car was quiet as he pulled away from the curb.

his hand wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. you stared at it for a few seconds, realizing you couldn’t take it anymore you gave in and reached over, gently prying his fingers away so you could lace your hand with his left hand on the center console.

“you’re mad at me,” you said softly, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand—the hand you were honestly obsessed with.

“i’m not,” he sighed, squeezing your fingers. “i’m just—” he cut himself off with a deep breath, jaw clenching.

“i should’ve told you. i’m sorry,” you said, filling the silence. “you’re right. i should’ve called.”

“you should’ve told me,” he agreed quietly. “i should’ve been the first person you thought to ask.”

you looked over at him, seeing the faint frown lines between his brows, the way he was staring straight ahead like if he looked at you too long he’d say something he’d regret.

“i know,” you said. “i just. . didn’t want to bother you.”

he huffed out a humorless laugh. “bother me? you think you bother me?”

you swallowed. “i know you’ve got stuff to do. and besides. . it’s just a power outage. i felt dumb calling you just for that ”

“you live on the eighth floor with no lights, no elevator, no food, and a dead phone,” he said slowly. “that’s not nothing, sweetheart.”

“still. it felt like a lot to ask.”

“from me?” he asked, finally turning his head to really look at you. “after three years? after everything? you’re allowed to ask me for things. that’s kind of the point.”

you bit your lip, shoulders hunching. “i just got used to hearing i was too much, you know? wanting too much.”

his expression softened immediately. his hand tightened around yours.

“look at me,” he murmured.

you did.

“you’re never ‘too much’ for me,” he said, voice low, steady. “you’re my girlfriend. you’re supposed to call me. you’re supposed to need me. if you don’t, then what the hell am i here for?”

your eyes stung a little. “you do enough already.”

“clearly not if you’re sitting in the dark, hungry, pretending you’re fine,” he countered gently.

you didn’t have an argument for that, so you just squeezed his hand instead, letting the silence settle between you, softer this time.

by the time he pulled into his driveway, the knot in your chest had loosened a little. he parked, killed the engine, but didn’t move right away.

“for the record,” he said, still looking straight ahead, “you never ‘bother’ me. if it’s you, it’s not too much. ever.”

your throat went tight. “okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try to remember that next time.”

“don’t try,” he corrected quietly, finally turning to meet your eyes. “just call. right away with absolutely no hesitations.”

you nodded, and that seemed to be enough for him. he leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then climbed out to grab your bag before opening your door.

later after he made sure you ate he moved around to plug your phone in, for you to answer calls from your mom and letting everyone know you were fine, all while you curled against him on the couch while some random 90s movie played in the background. his arm was around you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder as he breathed you in, quietly enjoying the feeling of holding you.

“aaron?” you murmured.

“mm?”

“thank you for coming to get me,” you said quietly.

he pressed his lips to the side of your head. “always.”

“and. . i’m sorry i didn’t call. i’m trying to be better at that,” you admitted. “it’s just. . leftover crap from before you.”

“i know,” he said. “i’m not mad at you for having history. i just need you to let me be different from it.”

you swallowed. “you are different.”

“then treat me like it,” he said gently. “let me show up for you.”

you shifted, turning so you could look up at him. “okay,” you whispered. “i will. i promise.”

“good,” he murmured. “my girl’s safe. that’s all i need.”

[cicadasexfest]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Show Me How Masterlist°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Synopsis: A very depressed and single Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch stumbles across a sugar daddy website while browsing the internet. While ignoring friends and loved ones' concerns on his well-being, Robby decides to unburden himself from his loneliness by caving and finding a sugar baby for...companionship. As it tends to happen when lines are blurred, things complicate as the arrangement becomes less transactional and much more intimate than Robby could have anticipated.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Prologue...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Show me how (you care)...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Tell me how (you loved before)...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Interlude...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Show me how (you smile)...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Tell me why (your hands are cold)...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･I'm turning around (and having visions of you)...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･The friend I'm dreaming of is far away (but I'm here)...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* Show me how (you're proud)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* Tell me how (you reach the moon)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* My thoughts err away tonight...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* My heart fell to love again...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* The friend I'm dreaming of is far away (and doesn't feel my love)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* But I do (I do)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ

series open to blurbs/chat/requests.ᐟ.ᐟ

[cherienymphe]

The Devil of Danforth Estate

Titus Danforth x Reader

WARNINGS: Dub-Con/Non-Con, blood, murder, power imbalance, exhibitionism

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies 

summary: You expected to sign away a piece of your soul when you were hired on to serve the Danforth family, but Titus Danforth wouldn't be satisfied until he owned you in mind, body, and spirit.

⛧⃝

When you were hired on to serve the Danforth family—or the Danforth Clan as many liked to call them—you knew that you were stepping foot into the devil’s lair the moment a huge stack of papers were placed before you to read and sign. You knew there’d no doubt be things you’d witness and be privy to that you’d be legally barred from ever speaking about. You hadn’t known then just how depraved and differently the top 1% of the world behaved, but you’d known that you were signing a piece of your soul away in a sense. 

…but when you impressively scrawled your name in cursive on that dotted line, you hadn't known you’d be signing your body away too.

Titus Danforth was a gentle brute, if such a thing ever existed. He was one half of the Danforth legacy, a title and inheritance he shared with his twin sister Ursula. He was gruff and crass and possessed a child’s demanding nature despite not having been one for decades. With all of the money in the world in his pocket—and an army of people ready to answer his every beck and call and request at the drop of a hat—he could behave however he pleased without fear of consequence. 

An unfortunate fact he took great advantage of.

“This one’s new.”

That was how you were formally introduced, the older man eyeing you in a way that felt extremely distrusting. It didn’t necessarily offend you, understanding the protective nature of some rich asshole to guard his assets and livelihood. Still, the screening process to get hired onto the Danforth estate was a tedious and rigorous one, hardly a walk in the park, so he should’ve known that no one passed through these doors without the utmost confidence they could be trusted.

Your superior, Pernilla, had taken on the task of showing you the ropes, and she’d stopped any and all focus on anything else to give the grey-haired man her undivided attention. It was your first example as to how to act around the immediate family members, and you’d followed her lead, straightening and focusing on nothing else but him.

Such a small act had his full attention.

“Yes, Mr. Danforth,” the other woman confirmed despite the fact that it wasn’t a question. “She’s one of two new editions to the staff, fully screened and hired on only a week ago.”

You hadn’t moved a muscle as he eyed you, looking down his nose at you in a way that had you reminding yourself what you’d signed up for. The money you were getting just to wait on some privileged jerks had you ignoring the glint that passed through his gaze as he ran his eyes over you, slowly as if not to miss a thing.

Mr. Danforth only hummed, a low and deep sound from within his chest.

“Let’s hope you last.”

He was gone without another word, completely dismissive of your presence, and that was the last time you saw him for a while. Two months, in fact. The job didn’t require much more out of you than you expected, and that wasn’t to say that it was easy, but you’d been prepared for the demanding nature of your new employers. Two months. That's how long the wool stayed over your eyes, how long you’d been under the impression you were working for normal rich assholes.

…but then Ursula announced her engagement and then the wedding seemed to happen only a month later and then the wedding night changed everything.

The screams that rang throughout the estate gave you nightmares for months, assaulted by the visions and memories of mopping up fresh blood off of the hard wood floors. You hadn’t been able to stop shaking, a heavy weight settling in your chest as the reality of your new employer crept in. The mountain of papers you’d been forced to sign made more sense than ever in that moment, and you’d only been able to ask yourself one question.

What had you gotten yourself into?

You’d had no way to guess that cleaning up crime scenes would be the least of your problems. Your bloodstained hands took up all of your attention as you slowly and dazedly walked back to the servants’ quarters, cheeks damp from your tears and wondering if there was any way to get out of this. The contract was legally binding, legally preventing you from saying a thing, so surely you could just…leave, right?

So distracted by the physical evidence of your part in all this, you almost ran into one of the few people who could decide your fate in this household. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from gasping in shock, stopping in your tracks and lifting your gaze to his face. The first time you ever met him felt like a whole other life ago, the events of Ursula’s wedding night serving as some paradigm shift.

There was only before and after, now.

Titus Danforth stood before you in all of his intimidating glory, made doubly so by the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing, and you forced yourself not to linger your gaze on it. He seemed to notice your discomfort—your fear—and if you hadn’t known better, you’d say he relished in it. When he took a step towards you, it took everything in you not to take one back.

“What’s your name?”

You forced your mind to work, blinking as you started to mumble the throw away name you’d been told to choose. However, before you could fully get it out, the older man was interrupting you with a bark of a tone. He sounded upset.

“Your real name.”

At that, you frowned, uncertainty tainting your chest. You furiously wracked your brain, accepting that you had never been trained on such a situation before. No one in the family was supposed to even care to know your real name and anything pertaining to your personhood outside of your role as their staff, let alone go out of their way to ask for it.

You nervously swallowed.

“Pernilla said…”

Your quiet words died in the air as Titus Danforth slowly shook his head, stepping towards you with an unyieldingly stern look on his features. You tried and failed to ignore the way your heart raced, keenly aware of the blood on his person and the confirmation of a violent disposition. The terrifying man before you clasped his hands behind his back, and you were forced to stare into his eyes as he held you hostage in this dimly lit corridor.

“What’s my name?” he asked you, that gruff tone of his making the question sound like a growl.

“Titus Danforth,” you answered without hesitation.

“Exactly, and that means this is my estate you’re working on, my money that employs you, and my person that your boss answers to. Do you know what that makes me?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer.

“That makes me your boss. That means that anything Pernilla or any one of these other disposable staff members ask of you is irrelevant as far as I’m concerned. If she tells you to go left and I tell you to go right, you fucking go right,” he said to you, and you nodded. “Do you understand? Say you understand.”

“I understand,” you forced out, finding it hard to breathe.

Your shaky breath was noticed, and you didn’t like the way he straightened, eyeing you differently now. There was the faintest twitch to his pink lips, and something resembling a faint yet cruel smile lingered.

“Now…what’s your name?” he repeated, his voice softer now.

You quietly told him without hesitation, and he mimicked it.

“Y/N,” he said again with a nod, voice louder now. “Go get yourself cleaned up, and bring a bottle of brandy and a fresh set of towels to my room.”

“Yes, Mr. Danforth.”

At that, he finally moved again, hand coming up between you and you weren’t able to stop yourself from flinching. He only held it there, and when he stepped towards you again, this was the closest he’d ever been. The silence was suffocating as he merely looked at you, a thoughtful look behind those hazel eyes.

“Sir. I want you to call me sir, Y/N.”

You really hated the way he said your name, and you regretted ever telling it to him.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, and he slowly nodded, a satisfied look washing over his features.

With a simple nod, he dismissed you, and in a short time, you found yourself increasingly more worried about Titus Danforth than the bodies piling up on this estate. 

“What about this one?”

You hesitated for only a moment before answering.

“That one’s nice.”

Mr. Danforth threw you a look at that to which you glanced away, and his deep laugh had a shiver crawling up your back.

“You said that two shirts ago,” he distractedly replied, reaching behind his head to slide it off.

“They’re all very nice, sir,” you told him, an honest response. 

You avoided looking at him as he searched for another expensive shirt that looked like any other regular shirt, wondering if you would ever stop feeling so…afraid around him. 

You didn’t know how nor why, but some kind of way, Titus Danforth decided that it would be you who would see to his every beck and call no matter how small it seemed. It felt like so long since you were even able to fulfill any other kind of household duty, recalling that every time you had a broom or a duster or a load of laundry in your hand, you were being summoned by the older man.

He needed a drink or he wanted a caddie as he golfed or he needed someone to lay out an outfit for him while he showered. You were hired on to answer to the every whim and need of the Danforths, but somehow it was only Titus who consumed most of your time. It was a strange position to be in, having to constantly be around this man who frightened you, but in a way…sometimes you felt like his friend. Or something like it.

The man grew up with the shiniest of silver spoons in his mouth sure, but all of the money and expensive education and best nannies the world had to offer just couldn’t refine the man. They couldn’t make him…fit. The expensive clothes and the handsome face could not hide how rough he was around the edges, how much he seemed to struggle with…behaving.

You, a seemingly nameless staff member, barely counted as a person in their eyes, and so…Mr. Danforth talked. He talked about any and everything to you, some of it interesting and some of it disturbing, but forced to be his confidant regardless. You were a nobody with no one of consequence to repeat it to, and he treated you like your sole purpose was to amuse and humor him.

When you heard him approaching you again, his voice pulled you from your thoughts. 

“...and this one?”

He was just barely pulling it on when you looked up, and you ignored his watchful gaze as he moved closer. Sometimes Mr. Danforth watched you like he was looking for something from you—expecting something—and you really wish you knew what it was at times so that you could give it to him and end that observant little stare he liked to fix you with.

“That one’s my favorite,” you honestly told him, and he liked that.

You could tell by the way he tilted his head at you, a secretive smirk on his pink lips.

“Then I’ll wear this one.”

You nodded at that, just wanting this to be over. 

You were sure the other staff members thought you got it so easy being forced to spend so much of your time sucking up to and answering to Titus Danforth, but it was worse than scrubbing the kitchen floors to you. The man terrified you beyond belief, even more than Chester Danforth who you’d met only on occasion, the elderly man confined to a bed most days.

Mr. Danforth was quick to react—quick to anger—and in the time you were forced to spend with him, it became clear that the man couldn’t be controlled. Ursula tried, oh she tried, but even you knew that she only had as much control over her brother as he allowed her to. Her hold over him wasn’t real, very easily broken, and you tried not to linger on the things you’d seen in your time here.

“What will you do while I’m gone?”

His gravelly voice had you giving him your attention, and you wracked your brain.

“Your father wants the main garden replanted, and it’s something I’ve been assisting with in between other duties.”

Mr. Danforth had a look on his features like he didn’t like that, lips turned up ever so slightly as he turned his back to you, arms spread out. You rushed to grab his suit jacket from a nearby chair, helping him slide his arms through the sleeves. You didn’t like the low hum that reached your ears, and when he abruptly turned around to face you, you flinched. He was so close, and his gaze slowly dropped, and you took the silent hint.

It was scary how much you grew to know him.

“I want you to wait here…until I get back,” he slowly said as you buttoned the piece of clothing.

His words gave you pause, and he noticed.

“I don’t like these stupid gatherings, and I don’t want to have to hunt you down when I finally return.”

When his jacket was buttoned properly, you took a few steps back, forcing yourself to nod. You regretted it almost immediately, briefly squeezing your eyes shut.

“You know I hate that…”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I understand,” you said to him. “I’ll be here.”

He fixed you with a look that you couldn't name, and then he was gone, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.

It wasn’t the first time Mr. Danforth demanded you basically die of boredom in his bedroom while you waited for him to come back. Sometimes you had to when he was meeting with his father or having a drink with a friend in one of the studies or even when he went out for the night and brought some strange woman back to one of the many guest rooms. He’d offhandedly mentioned once that he didn’t like bringing women back to his bedroom.

You only guessed why when you had the unfortunate task of cleaning that previously occupied guest bedroom one day, disturbed by the alarming amount of blood on the sheets.

Too many times did you find yourself fetching him a fresh towel or something to drink or even eat in the middle of the night, doing your best to ignore his state of undress while some other staffer handled the task of escorting his woman of the night off the property. You felt like a mere object with the sole purpose of serving him in some way, like a letter opener patiently waiting in his desk drawer until it needed to be used.

You told yourself that you could be spending this time doing worse things, acknowledging that at least his bedroom was five times the size of every apartment you’d ever had. During moments like this you mostly sat around in a chair, occasionally poking around in something innocent. Even rarer, you sometimes nodded off, hard to fight sleep when Mr. Danforth had you waiting around like some dog.

…and it didn’t help that he required so much of you.

You sometimes thought that it was fortunate you didn’t get to accomplish many other household tasks because waiting after the older gentleman took so much out of you itself. It never sank in just how much you’d been running around until it was time for bed and your body felt weighed down by sand. This being one of those times.

Approaching his bookshelf, you pulled one at random and plopped yourself into a chair.

You were at the estate for a year when Mr. Danforth made you cry for the first time.

It was a miracle really that you lasted a year before he ‘broke’ you, but the circumstances didn’t call for any other reaction. A year of doting on him and validating his every choice and fetching him his every desire no matter how ridiculous ultimately amounted to nothing. Well…it wasn’t nothing, but more so the complete opposite of anything you’d ever expected.

Titus Danforth was a protective and selfish bastard when it came to anything he deemed as his. His fortune, his house, his car. Resource guarding is the term you often heard used for animals, and Mr. Danforth—not all that removed from an animal—was very guilty of such. You were a frequent witness to the way he snapped and growled and protectively curled over anything he thought someone was trying to take from him. That description didn’t seem like an exaggeration in your mind, thinking to yourself that that’s exactly how he came off.

It didn’t scare you until the thing he was viciously guarding was you.

A year of answering his every beck and call had certainly garnered you the unofficial title of Titus Danforth’s servant amongst your coworkers. His food was always handed to you, his rooms were left alone by anyone but you, and it was only you who handled his every need and request. So much so that when he needed to travel, he wouldn’t hear of taking anyone but you to accompany him.

You’d gotten sick once, and hearing that it wouldn’t be you fetching his towels, he hadn’t wanted assistance from anyone else. Of course, he’d made that known at the time in a way that was less than polite, but the message had gotten across loud and clear. You thought he just saw your labor and your time on the clock as his—his right, you supposed—but you hadn’t realized that he saw you the person, not the employee, the same way.

You made a mistake by getting distracted.

Mr. Danforth’s food wasn’t quite ready when you went to retrieve it, and so you’d occupied the wait time by exchanging silly bullshit with one of the cooks you saw often. He was younger than you, but still handsome nonetheless in that boyish charm sort of way. You two weren’t best friends or anything, but you were no strangers to each other. A soft laugh had been on your lips when the kitchen grew so silent so quickly, it couldn’t help but to be noticed. The young man in front of you had swallowed the rest of what he was saying, looking over your shoulder now with a back so straight that you knew who was back there before you even turned around. 

Titus Danforth wasn’t looking at anyone but you when you faced him, and you swallowed at a look in his eyes you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of. His hands were behind his back and his legs were spread just enough to firmly plant his feet, looking more like a strict military man than some spoiled heir. The relaxed slouch of your frame dissipated, and the older man before you took notice.

You could hear a pin drop.

“Is this how you choose to spend your time when you’re supposed to be waiting on me?” he slowly asked, a sarcastic lilt to his tone.

“No, sir,” you hurried to answer. “Your food isn’t ready yet–.”

“So you come back to me and tell me that,” he sternly interrupted with a nod. “...and then you come back down here and get it when it is ready.”

You swallowed, starting to nod before thinking better of it.

“Yes, sir.”

Those hazel eyes of his eyed you for what felt like a long time, and you’d gotten better at not squirming beneath his gaze. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at this moment, but you knew that you didn’t like it, and you didn’t relax at all when he turned his attention to the man behind you instead.

“What’s your name?”

He accepted your friend’s response, slowly nodding.

“When my food is ready, you bring it to me,” Mr. Danforth pointed at him, and you fought to keep the frown off of your face.

The grey-haired man sharply cut his gaze back to you, jerking his head, and you moved quickly, not wanting to upset him further.

His footsteps were heavy behind you as you exited the kitchen, and the walk back to his room was silent. For the most part. You could hear his breathing, that's how close he was, and you could feel the heavy and heated weight of his gaze on you. You mentally scolded yourself, torn between wanting to call yourself all kinds of idiotic names and giving yourself grace for arguably the smallest fuck up you could make.

…and it was your first offense too.

“I want to apologize again, sir,” you said to him once the door was closed behind you both. “I didn’t think it would take more than a few minutes.”

He didn’t respond right away, merely looking at you as he moved about his room. 

“Ursula has taken it upon herself to be a gracious host to some friends tomorrow night,” he finally said, completely ignoring your apology. “Find me something…nice to wear.”

You felt somewhat relieved at the direction of the conversation, a soft ‘of course’ leaving you as you made your way to his closet. You knew what he liked and what colors suited him best, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts when he followed you. You hadn't even heard him approach, normally so careless about the sound of his footfalls.

“Do you like him?”

His voice surprised you, and you jumped slightly before turning to face him.

Mr. Danforth was staring at you with an expectant look on his face, brows furrowed just the slightest. He was closer than he normally stood, head tilting just a tad as you processed his words.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you like him?” he repeated, saying your friend’s name.

Understanding washed over you, and you blinked.

“He’s my friend,” you answered with a shrug. “I see him a lot whenever I have to go down to the kitchen.”

Mr. Danforth’s only response was a low hum, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and he took a step back just as a knock sounded on his door. You had no doubt that was the food that he’d just made such a fuss over, proven right moments later, and as you tilted your head to gaze into the bedroom, you watched the way the older man eyed the younger one. Mr. Danforth stood close to him as he watched him set down his food, thick arms crossed over his chest, and when those hazel eyes rose to meet yours, you quickly looked away.

You found it odd that he both asked for your friend’s name and asked him to bring him his food. It was unlike him, and while Mr. Danforth could be unpredictable on occasion, he was a pretty consistent man who liked his routine. That’s why no one was more surprised than you to be woken out of your sleep by Pernilla, the other woman telling you that Mr. Danforth—your Mr. Danforth—was requesting the presence of you both.

“It’s probably some poor woman he’s brought back to the estate,” she’d mumbled as you both hurried through the corridors. “He must need a clean up.”

Her wording gave you pause, and you recalled the blood you saw on occasion after he spent a night in a guest room. You had naively assumed things got a little rough, perhaps a nose bleed or some kink gone wrong, but it hadn’t occurred to you that anyone in this family could be killing people outside of a wedding night gone wrong. Your stomach churned at the thought, but you frowned as you thought to yourself that you never knew Mr. Danforth to bring women back to his room.

Your uneasy feeling only increased when you made it through his threshold.

The older man stood there in a bloodstained shirt, reminiscent of that night of Ursula’s wedding, and his hands weren’t too much cleaner. He looked so calm, like he wasn’t standing before you as some bloody mess, and you found yourself shaking much like you had that night. As you moved closer, your vision was drawn to shiny black work shoes just barely peeking out past the foot of the bed.

“Pernilla, give that to Y/N so she can start wiping this up. Go bring us a mop too.”

He said the words so nonchalantly as you slowly moved further into the room, the frown on your face dropping completely.

The scream that left you sounded like something out of a horror movie, and you couldn't stop yourself from stumbling back against a nearby chair. Your hysteric reaction had Pernilla following you before listening to him, and you even heard her gasp. If she was just as shocked and horrified as you, she didn’t show it, and you could feel her eyes on you as you stared at the body—the familiar body—through tearful wide eyes.

“Pernilla,” Mr. Danforth snapped, and she didn’t hesitate any longer…leaving you alone with him.

He tossed the towel at you, and it bounced off of your chest and onto the floor.

“Clean this up,” he spat, but you couldn’t move.

The body of your friend was facing away from you, facedown but the way his head was turned on his cheek allowed your eyes to connect with his empty lifeless ones. There wasn’t much blood beneath him, most of it on Mr. Danforth’s shirt, and you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking. You could hear him speaking, but barely so, the sound muffled to your ears.

When he was in your line of sight again, you just stared at him in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Your body kept going back and forth from hot to cold, growing more lightheaded by the minute as the room started to sway. You hadn’t even realized that your legs had begun to shake until you reached out for the chair to steady yourself.

“Y/N,” he finally said your name, voice gruff and bordering on angry. “Clean. This. Up.”

You just stared at him, unable to move and asking yourself why, using your eyes to ask him why.

Pernilla returned before you could move, and you could feel her looking between you both. Logically you knew that you needed to listen to him unless you wanted to lose your job or worse, but you physically couldn’t move. He was giving you a demand, and you couldn’t bring yourself to obey. A sob climbed out of your throat, and you tried to blink the tears away.

“Mr. Danforth, I’d be more than happy to–.”

“No, Pernilla,” he barked, keeping his eyes on you. “She will clean this up.”

Your gaze turned pleading as you looked at him, slowly shaking your head.

“No?” Mr. Danforth wondered, leaning in. “Are you telling me no?”

Your breath was coming out in chops, now, and you were finding it so hard to breathe.

“Please…please,” you softly said. “I…”

You felt like you were going to be sick, but before you could be, Mr. Danforth lunged for you. The shriek you let out was loud, a pained whine escaping you at the harsh grip he had on your arms. He was sadly just as strong as he looked, and you couldn’t swallow down your cries as he all but threw you to the ground…right next to his body.

You were an inconsolable mess as you attempted to stand, but the older man was right there, harsh hands on your shoulders as he forced you back down to your knees. He forced the towel into your hands, his own hands wrapping around your wrists as he physically made you move yours back and forth along the bloody floor.

“Pernilla, get it out of here,” he told her, and your sobs grew louder as she did just that, dragging the body of your friend towards the door. “Y/N will clean up this mess.”

You could barely see through your tears, crying out every time more blood got on your hands. Mr. Danforth knelt over you the whole time, fingers harshly pressing into your skin and nose gently at your ear as he forced you to do what he demanded. When the towel had served its purpose, he repeated the actions with the mop, harshly yanking you to your feet.

Mopping up the rest of the blood felt like an out of body experience, his hands over yours and his chest at your back as he forced you to participate in the disposal of your friend. When the floor was spotless, Pernilla returned to retrieve the cleaning supplies, and again you could feel her eyes on you.

You knew what she was thinking.

What did you do? How had you offended Titus Danforth to deserve this? And how had you dragged your coworker into it? The man had so much as never laid a finger on you, and in one hour he’d yanked you around and threw you to the floor into a pool of blood. You were covered in it.

With her gone, and with the floor clean, Mr. Danforth kept a firm hold on you as he forced you into the bathroom. The bright lights had you blinking and squinting, looking down as you stumbled forward. His firm chest was still at your back, and you couldn’t even linger on the oddness of that, too distracted by the blood on your hands.

When he turned on the sink, it felt almost…romantic as he put both of your hands under the water. The hot liquid and soap broke up the bodily fluid, and you could only tearfully watch the pink water swirl down the drain. Mr. Danforth meticulously washed both of your hands together, his even breathing in your ear such a contrast from your own. You absentmindedly noted how warm he felt against you, the smell of cigar smoke and cologne filling your nose.

When he was satisfied, he turned off the water, and he took half a second to grab a towel and push it into your hands. He held it there, and you slowly lifted your tearful gaze to meet his evenly cold one, pink lips pressed together. The grey stubble around them moved slightly as they twitched, and he eyed you with a look that made your blood run cold.

“I hope that now nothing else will distract you from me.”

An unintelligible sound left your throat at his words, and for the first time ever, you shrank away from him in unbridled fear.

Mr. Danforth watched you keenly as you wiped down his desk, and you pretended not to notice.

You’d always been a little terrified of him, but it was different now. Seeing the aftermath of his brutality or watching him manhandle some other staffer hadn’t prepared you for being on the receiving end of it yourself. Especially not in the manner you had that night, and you swallowed at the thought.

The memory of blood and a body haunted you for months, plaguing your mind with nightmares night after night. It made it hard to find sleep, and many days you might as well have been dead on your feet. Your friend had been killed because of you, that much you knew whether Mr. Danforth came outright and said it or not. He never did even try to give some half assed excuse that explained how an employee ended up dead in his bedroom, but this was the Danforth Clan—a family that practically controlled the world—and what was one body of some insignificant employee?

Your friend’s fate often brought tears to your eyes.

Sometimes you wondered if you’d be next should you piss him off enough, but there was a part of you that vehemently denied that. Mr. Danforth seemed very…intent on you—intent to watch you, intent to have you near him, intent to keep you. Funnily enough, that knowledge scared you more than anything, keenly aware of the way he studied you any time he so much as told you to get him a drink.

Tonight, it was several drinks.

“I’ll be back late, but I want two glasses brought to my room,” he said to you.

“Yes, sir.”

The greying man simply eyed you at that, so close and so silent as he ran his hazel eyes over your face, drinking you in. That air of distrust he’d first expressed when you first met was long gone, the older man more than sure that he’d scared you into submission, scared you so much that you would never even dream of crossing him.

You hated that he was right.

When he was around, the hours seemed to drag on for ages, but when he was gone, time seemed to fly by. Between cleaning duties and fetching a thing or two for Ursula, the hours passed swiftly, and you were informed when he was back at the estate well into the night. You were alone as you fixed the drinks—always alone these days—and you tried not to linger on the aftermath of that night.

None of your coworkers wanted to get too close to you, the rumors spreading amongst the staff, a mix of speculation and the truth swirling around you. Pernilla often sent you a sympathetic look when no one was looking, she being the only other witness to that horrible night and Mr. Danforth’s treatment of you. Only she had witnessed the second defining night of your time here, and as you made your way upstairs, you were unaware that a third was in the making.

So focused on pleasing him and not wanting to be on the receiving end of some other traumatic treatment, you hadn’t realized what you’d walked into until you were right in front of it. You almost dropped the tray of drinks, a full bottle of some expensive Cognac in the other hand. You were quick to steady your grip, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your head away.

“I apologize, sir Danforth, I had not realized…”

Your words died in the air as you completely turned away from the scene before you.

You weren’t currently looking at them, but the sight of his taught form brutally pushing into the woman beneath him was at the forefront of your mind. You could still hear her soft moans and his heavy breathing, and you briefly looked towards the ceiling, wondering if this could get any worse.

“Set it down,” you heard him say, voice strained and tone thick with an unsatisfied appetite.

You did as he said, placing everything just as he liked it, fully prepared to leave.

“Did I say you could go?”

His question had you halting your steps, and your lips parted as you stared at the wall in front of you. The woman he was with made a slight noise filled with frustration and confusion, and you noted that you didn’t hear the soft movement of the bed anymore. A chill passed through you as you internally wondered if this was actually happening, and you felt you should’ve known this night was going to be off when he brought a woman back to his bedroom.

You knew Mr. Danforth was entirely serious, and your shoulders sank.

“Turn around.”

The huskiness of his tone has you shuddering, and you hesitated for half a second before doing just that.

You stared at the wall behind them, forcing yourself not to cry at the trajectory of your night. The room was filled with silence, and you could feel his gaze on you, watching you and watching your reaction. You didn’t understand why he was doing this, but then he told you to look at him, and your frown deepened.

When you did, he held your gaze for a few seconds before he started moving again. Your brows twitched as he fucked some woman you’d never seen before, her tan skin contrasting against his pale hue. She didn’t seem to mind, at all that you were an unwilling voyeur to this, and when the older man looked down at the woman beneath him, you looked away.

That lasted for all of four seconds.

You heard her gasp in shock and when you looked over he was up and coming towards you. You couldn’t stop your eyes from widening, keeping your gaze on his face as Mr. Danforth approached you in all of his naked glory. The muscles in his arms and chest moved with every step, and your employer didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.

His bare chest heaved as he stared you down, nostrils flaring.

“What did I say?”

Your face was on fire, but your eyes were anything but, looking at him pleadingly.

“Sir–.”

Your words were cut off as he roughly grabbed your chin, holding it in his hand as his gaze passed between your own. You glanced behind him briefly, noting the way the woman was propped on the bed, an impatient look resting on her face. When you looked at him again, his thumb brushed along your skin, and you were sickenly aware of his state of undress and his close proximity.

“You will look at me, and if I catch you looking away, I’m going to be very unhappy,” he gruffly told you.

When you gave him the response you wanted, a tear skipping down your cheek, he turned his back on you.

Forced to watch this, you couldn’t do anything but wring your hands together, flinching every time his palm sharply came down against her skin. She seemed to like it, and you wished you could disassociate on command, but alas you were acutely aware of everything. Every groan he made, every curse that fell from his lips, and every animalistic noise that climbed out of this throat. You were even aware of the way his tongue touched his lip as he watched himself disappear into her and the way his stomach tightened with every push of his hips.

You felt yourself shudder every time his gaze lifted to you, and you knew that Mr. Danforth had no doubt you wouldn’t disobey him. He just wanted to watch you watch him fuck this woman. Those hazel eyes of his wanted to watch you squirm with discomfort, wanted to look at you as you observed him in his most bestial—yet vulnerable—moments.

Your skin was warm and your head was spinning and to your great dismay, there was tightening that had begun in your lower stomach. You hated this, and you’d only been more miserable one other time in your life, but even still the sight before you had you squeezing your thighs together, wholly ashamed of what was happening.

…and when he came inside of her with a brutish grunt, pinning her beneath him and a thin layer of sweat coating his frame, you couldn't have run away faster, consequences be damned.

The trajectory of your relationship with Mr. Danforth—with Titus—shouldn’t have surprised you.

…and yet it did.

It seemed that he didn't want to deal with the hassle of a body every time he wanted to break you a little more, so his new favorite pastime was getting his rocks off with you as a witness. Nameless woman after nameless woman was brought onto the estate, and night after night, you were forced to stand there and watch as he fucked every single one. You wondered if this was your punishment after running out that first night, or if this was inevitable and staying put wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Every time he finished inside of them, he crudely sent them on their way, promising that someone would see to it that they get home. They would leave while still struggling to get their dress zipped up or their underwear completely on, and Mr. Danforth would stride around you as naked as the day he was born, telling you to turn his shower on while he nursed his drink.

This psychosexual torture he liked to engage in was messing with your head, and he knew it, and you often wondered what the end goal was. Maybe he took pleasure in just messing with the staff, with you, or maybe this was all part of some drawn out punishment for offending him months ago. You often wondered when it would end, when he would grow bored of tormenting you or bored of even just having you around.

It had never occurred to you that he was purposely fighting against something that was inevitable.

Titus Danforth wanted you, and not just in the way that a spoiled child wants his favorite toy all to himself. He wanted every part of you in his hands and beneath his lips. He wanted all of you in every way he could get you, and the countless women he fucked underneath your terrified gaze served a purpose of satisfying the twisted sexual craving he had for the very same woman he was forcing to be a witness to his depravity.

You didn’t know any of that though.

Not until he was gruffly telling you to sit on his bed one day.

You’d hesitated, glancing at the untouched dinner you brought him, and you could tell by the darkening look in his eye that he didn’t want to have to tell you twice. Your heart was in your stomach as you slowly walked towards the impressive piece of furniture, legs shaking with every step. You didn’t want to believe what your mind was lingering on, but something in the back of your mind scolded you, calling you a fool for never considering this is where you’d end up. 

Any man that could kill without so much as a blink or ounce of remorse was a deviant, and any man that could force you to watch him have sex with countless women with no care to how uncomfortable it made you was a sexual deviant. It made sense in the moment that he wouldn’t just stop there, and still you hoped. His eyes never strayed from you once, and giving him one last glance—looking for anything that might ease your worries—you leaned your hands and backside against the mattress.

You didn’t miss his slow exhale as you pressed down, sliding back.

“Right there is just fine,” he said, forcing you to stop, just seated on the edge.

The silence surrounding you was deafening, and Mr. Danforth only stared at you for a moment or two before slowly walking towards you. You couldn’t stop yourself from swallowing at his approach, and you had no doubt that he noticed. You didn’t take your eyes off of him as he stood this close to you—too afraid to—and you only had a few seconds to mentally prepare yourself for whatever was about to happen.

He was slow to kneel in front of you, and your fearful confusion morphed into just plain old fear when his hands found a home on your knees, slowly pushing. You couldn’t stop your lips from trembling as he parted them slightly, hands sliding up your thighs to meet at the button in the center.

“I don’t want you wearing these pants anymore,” he quietly said to you from in between your legs as he unbuttoned them. “A skirt. You’ll look nice in a skirt.”

Your gaze slowly lifted to the ceiling as he curled his fingers over the top of your slacks, yanking and jerking them until he was sliding them off of your legs. If he noticed the tears in your eyes, tears that eventually fell, he didn’t say anything. He likely didn’t care.

When he leaned in, you could feel his breath on your clothed skin, your legs trembling when he slowly parted your thighs further. His rough fingers gently brushed along your flesh, and you heard him deeply inhale the closer he got. His fingers were getting dangerously close to your underwear, and you could only close your eyes as he hooked a finger into them.

The tip of his tongue touched you as he held the fabric to the side, stretching it to give him access. It was a featherlight touch, and yet you jerked all the same. Your nails dug into his bed as a means to cope, wishing that you could just push him away and run off of this estate without fear of consequence, never looking back. As it were though, all you could think about was bloodstained shirts and dead bodies and a family with enough money to make you disappear a thousand times over.

Mr. Danforth gently touched you with his tongue again…and again, and when he did something unexpected, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mound, you couldn’t hold in your gasp. It seemed to trigger something in him, a switch turning on as he practically growled against you before leaning back and roughly ripping the thin scrap of fabric past your thighs and off your ankles.

When the older man fully pressed his mouth to your cunt, you tried to control yourself. One of your hands slid to behind your back, struggling to remain sitting up as his stubble scratched against your thighs in a way that had you squirming. His hold was tight on you as he ate at you, tongue sliding between your folds so slowly and in a gentle way you didn’t expect. When he yanked you just a little more towards the edge, your arms faltered, and you desperately wanted to remain as unfazed as you could.

…but Titus Danforth was good at what he was doing.

When he sucked at your flesh in time with pressing his tongue to your walls, you let out a shuddering breath against your will. The longer he moved his tongue inside of you, the harder it was to remain sitting up, lashes fluttering as you desperately pressed a hand to his head. He didn’t budge, and you sank your teeth into your lip.

You wanted him off of you.

No such thing was going to happen though, you knew that, and you whined in frustration. When he spread your thighs further, your arms finally caved, failing you and you stared at the intricate designs on the ceiling when you fell back. Your thighs were trembling, and steady moans started to crawl out of your throat, each one louder than the last.

You could hear yourself pleading, sometimes pleading for more, sometimes pleading for him to stop. His fingers dug into your thighs painfully as he held you open for him, and your head slowly moved from side to side in time with the heaving of your chest. When you dared to look down, all you saw was a vision of silver in between your thighs, and you threw your head back once again.

When you came, it was with an embarrassing whimper, eyes squeezed shut and thighs pressing against his head. You came so hard it almost hurt, and Mr. Danforth didn’t pull away until he felt like it, mouth completely pressed to you as you fell apart onto his tongue. When you tried to crawl away, he just held you in place, lazily curling his tongue into you and making your toes flex.

When he finally pulled away, letting you go and allowing your legs to drop, the tears finally spilled over. You laid there on his bed with tears running past your ears as he stood over you, and you didn’t know where to go from here. You didn’t want to look at him, just waiting for him to dismiss you so you could be free to lose your mind in peace.

When he eventually did, you couldn’t get away from him fast enough, grabbing your underwear and your pants with a quickness that surprised you. Your speedy exit however was stopped by a harsh grip on your arm, and when that harsh grip became outright painful, you were forced to meet his gaze, shrinking away at his close proximity.

You didn’t know what he was thinking as he intensely eyed you, and you flinched when he jerked his head.

“My food is cold,” was all he said, making you deflate.

When he let you go, you took a few shaky steps away from him, struggling to organize your thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” you forced out with a nod. “I’ll get you a new plate, right away.”

You felt nauseous as you grabbed the tray, legs unsteady as you walked towards the door. He didn’t stop looking at you once, and you felt deeply uncomfortable with every step you took, cringing at the wet feeling between your thighs as you made your way back down to the kitchen.

Titus Danforth was an insatiable man.

That one evening in his bedroom triggered a chain reaction of events that weren’t surprising to you, just disappointing and terrifying. The number of women he brought back to the estate decreased until he eventually brought none back at all. Why would he now? That was what you were for—a ‘willing’ and bought body that couldn’t fight back or refuse him.

You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the sound of his heavy breathing washing over you, a rough and tight grip in your hair as your lips covered his cock. That was mostly what you did at first, suck him off during just about every visit, and that seemed to be all he wanted for a time. That and spending the occasional afternoon with his face between your legs, making you fall apart again and again when you were supposed to be steaming his clothes or dusting his furniture. 

It almost seemed like he was holding himself back from crossing another line—the final line—but you knew that it would be crossed eventually. He was never going to be satisfied with just the feel of his cock in your mouth, inevitably giving into that hunger for more. It was an every day thing, his hands on or in you, curling his fingers into you and massaging your walls, whatever task you’d been in the middle of long forgotten.

It went unnoticed. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Titus Danforth to take up so much of your time, and it’s not like the sexual abuse was taking place anywhere outside of his bedroom. For the time being anyway. The toll it was taking on you, however, did go noticed, and Ursula merely pursed her lips at the third piece of china you broke this week.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Danforth,” you hurried to say, looking for something to clean it up with. 

You didn’t even bother giving some excuse, only struggling to avoid her thoughtful gaze as she looked down at you. A soft hum left her throat, and her heels slowly clicked against the floor as she circled you.

“My brother isn’t working you too hard, is he?”

You almost laughed at the loaded question, schooling your features and looking up at her with a tight smile.

“No, Ms. Danfoth,” you lied. “I just haven’t been sleeping very well.”

That part wasn’t a lie, and the half truth seemed to satisfy her although it did nothing to lessen the frown on her face. Ursula was by no means a good woman, but you knew that she didn’t appreciate her brother’s brutal nature. Especially when it came to women, and she only watched you for a moment more before telling you to be swift in cleaning up the mess.

Ursula was smart, and you knew that she didn’t fully believe you, but clearly she didn’t feel unnerved or worried enough to press it further. Her brother’s attachment to you was no secret, and truthfully, she’d probably long seen where this would inevitably lead before you had. Even if you did tell her the truth, you knew that she couldn't stop him, Ursula having no real control over Titus.

She wouldn't have been able to stop him from killing your friend just to scare you into submission nor stop him from forcing you to be a witness to whatever depravity he was up to at night nor keep his hands off of you. She especially wouldn’t have been able to stop him from fucking you.

There was nothing special about the day he first pushed his cock into you.

The sun was shining and the food you brought him was only half eaten and he’d only taken a few sips of the brown drink you brought him before he was roughly reaching for your face. He’d never kissed you before, and the action took you by surprise, a noise of shock escaping you. His hands were tight on your face, holding you so fiercely that you couldn’t even think about getting away.

Your hands against his chest meant nothing as they became pinned between you, and as he pressed himself against you, you could feel him. You could feel his arousal, feel how hard he was, and you knew then that he had no intention of stopping. He had no intention of letting you walk out of that door without knowing what it felt like to be stretched around him—to be dominated in the way that mattered most.

You hadn’t been prepared for all the biting.

Titus liked to leave little nips along your neck and shoulder and even breasts, hands painfully tight on your skin as he drove himself into you again and again. The bands of muscle that were his arms rippled with every movement, and you hadn't been able to swallow down a single noise as he fucked you into his bed, his bare skin slapping against yours.

However brutish you thought he was during the day was nothing compared to what he was like when he had you wrapped around his cock. He was borderline feral, noises leaving his lips that sounded a lot like the growl of some predatory animal enjoying the taste of its prey. Every movement from you resulted in him tightening his hold on you like some constrictor, satisfied at the way you could barely move beneath him, serving your only purpose of taking the length of him with ease.

Titus fucked you well into the evening, coming into you with loud groans before catching his breath in the crook of your neck. You laid beneath him shaking like a leaf, chest heaving and skin glistening with sweat. When he eventually pulled out of you, any thoughts you had of leaving were shut down as he gruffly told you to get his shower going for him.

You hadn’t expected him to pull you inside with him, feeling wholly out of place as he showered with his back to you. You’d glanced at the exit through the glass shower door, turning back only to find his intense gaze on you. He said nothing—his eyes saying it all—and you’d swallowed as he moved closer, handing you a bar of soap and turning back around.

“My back,” was all he mumbled, and you listened to the unsaid request.

When you were done in the shower, you hadn’t been prepared for him to force you to your knees, a harsh grip in your hair as he pulled you closer.

Titus loved the sight of your lips wrapped around him, sometimes more than satisfied with just that, sending you on your way for the time being with the taste of him lingering on your tongue. But he didn’t love it more than being inside of you, looking the most at peace you’d ever seen him when he was watching his cock disappear into you.

Every chance he was presented with, he was fucking you with a vigor that always left you so worn out. When he summoned you to his room at night or when he bent you over his desk and even when he had you on his bathroom counter, your lips parted and head forced back as he yanked on the hair at the nape of your neck.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he breathed, thighs pressing against yours. “Look at me.”

There was an edge creeping into his voice when he repeated himself, and you obeyed him, tearful eyes on him as he pounded into you. Your uniform was haphazardly thrown somewhere, and one of your hands was pressed against the hard wood of his desk, the other pressing into his defined chest. Your breathing was choppy and your eyes were fluttering, the weight of unfinished tasks and all that came with Titus’ demanding appetite catching up to you.

“Keep them on me,” he told you. “I want you to look at me when I fuck you.”

The desk shook beneath the force of his thrusts.

“I want those pretty eyes on me when I take you apart.”

His nose brushed against yours with every movement, and you fought to hold his gaze, recalling the last time you disobeyed him. Your backside had been sore for days, shuddering at the memory of his hand coming down again and again onto the sensitive skin of your ass cheeks.

Titus always talked to you during like a normal couple—telling you what felt good, telling you what he wanted you to do, praising you. It was an interesting position to be in because hours later, he’d be treating you like the servant you were, but somewhere in his twisted mind, this whole arrangement was…nice. To him, this was wholesome.

So much so…that when Chester Danforth demanded a marriage and an heir under threat of revoking the fortune, Titus Danforth would not consider anyone but you.

…what…?” you breathed, frowning at Ursula, tears collecting in your eyes.

She looked just as distraught as you though she did a much better job of hiding it. 

When she requested your presence in her study one morning, you’d had no way of guessing what this could possibly be about. All sorts of possibilities ran through your mind, your unconventional dynamic  with her brother being at the top of the list. You’d been wracked with nerves the whole way there, and the words she said to you were the absolute last thing you'd ever expected.

“It’s…not going to happen,” she slowly told you, leaning against her desk and gazing down at you. “Titus is no better than a child with his favorite toy of the week.”

You took no offense to her analogy, often repeating something similar yourself.

“Although I shouldn’t be surprised at the true nature of your…rapport.”

She made a slight face at her choice of word, and you swallowed. The blonde woman didn't miss that, and she pursed her lips, something akin to a look of sympathy on her beautiful features.

“My brother has never had any qualms about getting what he wants, no matter how frowned upon or uncouth it may be. I can’t imagine what you’ve endured.”

You blinked back tears, looking away and shaking your head in disbelief.

“Father’s putting his foot down and giving us an ultimatum and Titus is lashing out,” she assured you. “That’s all this is.”

That's what she said, but somehow you still found yourself standing before Chester Danforth in all of his sickly glory, having a discussion with him you never thought you’d have.

“What is the nature of your relationship with my son?”

You said nothing to the ailing man, pressing your lips together as you fought the urge to tell him that his son was a depraved rapist, fully aware that the man in question was just outside of that door. When your lips quivered and you looked away, the older man made a noise.

“Ah.” he quietly said. “I feared that was the truth of it.”

You weren’t some gold digging whore after the Danforth fortune, and you weren’t some wanton maneater looking to get your claws into Titus Danforth. You were a woman who realized too late that she signed every single part of her away on that fateful day, and that was the gist of what you said to him.

“I’m sure you can find some other woman—any woman—willing to be his bride who he will be satisfied with.”

The other man coughed, an awful hacking sound, and you flinched.

“He demands no one but you,” he finally breathed. “He is entirely willing not to fight me on this…so long as it is you.”

You looked down at that.

“That is the only satisfaction he seeks.”

You wracked your brain, fully prepared to come up with some other argument when he spoke again, completely quieting your fears.

“It will not happen,” he said with so much conviction that it should’ve offended you, but you were only glad to be in agreement with the dying oligarch. “I will not give into his childish whims.”

The old man told you that, and you certainly believed it, but even he hadn’t been able to predict the ruthlessness Titus could possess when he felt like he was being controlled.

Chester Danforth died peacefully in his sleep, and for a long time, that's what mostly everyone believed, but only you and a few others had been privy to the screams that night. Only an unlucky few heard the sound of Ursula’s panicked voice bouncing throughout the corridor walls, asking Titus what he’d done. Only you had the luxury of stripping the old man’s former bed, shaky gaze locked onto the small spots of blood on his pillowcase.

It wasn’t long before Ursula was singing a different tune, and you didn’t know what Titus said to her, but she’d only watched in perfect silence and an unspoken disapproval as her brother presented you with a ring. You’d stared at it in horror, stomach churning to a painful degree, and you made the mistake of looking to the blonde woman for help.

“Don’t fucking look at her,” Titus snapped, and he forced your gaze back to him. “What are you looking at her for?” 

He tilted his head at you, that hazel stare of his so intense, and you could feel your legs shaking.

“Titus,” you breathed, a few tears finally spilling over. 

You could tell he was getting angry, his chest starting to heave, and when he pressed his chest to yours, all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut. The ring carried the weight of the world as he slid it onto your trembling finger.

The wedding was a small intimate affair, only close family in attendance, many of whom you’d met before but under completely different circumstances. On one hand, you felt like you should’ve counted yourself lucky to be marrying into the Danforth family, but you knew you held absolutely no power even though you carried the name.

The ring, the dress, the ceremony…none of it was proof of your transition from a nobody to someone with a hand in the biggest influence over the world. It was not a ceremony that propped you up as an equal, worthy of walking side by side with Titus Danforth as he controlled the seat in tandem with his sister.

You were official property now.

The ring may as well have been a collar, the dress a noose, and the name a brand placed upon your skin. You were not Titus Danforth’s wife now, but his property with nothing to your name that wasn’t acquired through him. He owned you with pride, and as you said ‘I do’ and allowed him to fiercely press his lips to yours, there was no escaping him.

Your only hope was the wedding night.

The fucked up tradition was no secret to you, and as the defining moment drew closer, you could only hope that you’d pull the one bad card. You practically prayed for it, knowing that you’d only escape your new husband through death, and some part of you wondered if he would have what it took to do it should fate have other plans for you that didn’t involve a married life with Titus.

You begged and begged and begged for it, desiring death over this. 

You considered it an act of mercy, one you hoped you were granted, and as you all sat around the table, no one was more nervous than you as that old intricate card dispenser was passed from hand to hand and then finally you. Your left hand felt weighed down by the ring you didn’t want, and as you turned the box in your grasp, you briefly glanced up at Ursula.

You knew if it came down to it, she’d have no trouble killing you.

The thought almost made you smile, but you didn’t, glancing over at Titus as he leaned back in his chair…waiting. You looked around at your other new in-laws too, your veil grazing your cheek as your heart raced. You could tell by the sound of him shifting that Titus was growing impatient—anxious to see how this night would progress—and you flinched a bit when the box clicked, the sound of your fate ringing in the quiet room.

You felt yourself go stiff when the card was finally in your hand.

You could hear a pin drop, that’s how quiet it was, and the longer you stared at the card, the more your heart started to race. Your lips trembled, and you couldn’t stop yourself from collecting tears in your eyes, wanting a hole to swallow you up. 

“What does it say?” Titus impatiently asked, and when you didn’t answer he took it from you.

The tears finally spilled over just as you looked up at Ursula, a familiar deep laugh reaching your ears.

“She got Old Maid,” he huskily said, flipping the card around to show everybody

Light laughs reached your ears, and you tried to hide just how upset you were, but when your gaze met that of your husband’s…he saw. He saw the sadness and fear and even disappointment, disappointment that you wouldn’t be killed tonight, and his jaw clenched.

You paid for it later when it was just the two of you, consummating your marriage in true traditional fashion. Your dress was a bundle of white on the floor, and Titus had your legs wrapped around his waist. His strokes were slow and torturous, his heavy breathing mixing in with yours—his excited and yours pained.

His hand was tightly curled around your throat, thick fingers harshly pressing into your skin as he leisurely fucked you. He didn’t take his eyes off of you once, wanting to witness every part of you tonight, basking in the spoils of his victory.

Titus had you, officially and legally and bloodbound and all. The heaviness of your vows still rang throughout your mind, and you’d wanted to faint as you agreed to ‘the possession of each other’. Maybe in some sick twisted way you’d never understand, Titus did belong to you, but all that mattered was that you belonged to him. The ring on your hand was proof of such.

His other hand pressed into the mattress as he curled his hips unto yours, basking in the feel of you clenching around the length of him, moving inside of you with ease. It still embarrassed you how wet you could get when he was fucking you, desperately wishing that your body could be as repulsed by him as your mind.

His facial hair gently grazed your skin, almost like a kiss, when he leaned closer. He didn’t look away from you once, and you winced when he tightened his hold on your neck.

“I know you wanted to die tonight,” he whispered to you, and you bit your lip. “I know you wanted to pull that card and just wait for one of us to kill you…to take you away from me.”

A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, and Titus hummed.

“...but Mr. Le Bail wouldn’t do that to me. I’ve always followed the rules, always played the game well, and you’re my reward.”

You sniffed at that, struggling to breathe under his grip.

“You are my pretty little prize, Mrs. Danforth, and you are never getting away from me.”

[qveendiorsworld]

Ugh, I love reading this so much!!!! Like this sexy sliver lunatic is deliciously evil and I must have him!

I just imagine him smoking his fresh Cuban cigar right after taking out his own father just for attempting to take away his maid so to be bride. One aspect I love is that we kinda see Titus torture himself as well by toying with the reader before fully sinking his teeth into her like a cat would a mouse. And that’s what makes it so tantalizing for all parties involved, the erotic delay of the inevitable.

Also Titus is so real for saying “but Mr. Le Bail wouldn’t do that to me. I’ve always followed the rules, always played the game well, and you’re my reward” because it was to least the ghost demon could do for his number 1 disciple 😂

[cherienymphe]

Omg yes very much a cat playing with a mouse although I'll give him credit and say he was trying to behave in the best way he knew how 😭 like no I'll be good and not fuck the maid but I will make her watch me fuck other women and kill any man she smiles at!

And I liked the idea of Mr. Le Bail doing just that bc one thing about Titus he does follow the rules and he lives and breathes the satanic worship

[cinnxmxngxrl]

Shared Custody pt 2

Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x reader

FIRST PART Updates Account

You convince yourself that sleeping with Robby was just a one-time relapse, and return to the co-parenting routine you’ve carefully built. But everything unravels when you’re dragged into a family vacation at a resort in Mexico. One full week of trying to survive Robby’s relentless attempts to win you back.

warnings/tags: smut, minors DNI, porn with plot (lots of plot), age gap (but readers age isn’t disclosed), jealous!robby, co-parenting, GirlDad!Robby, this is long as fuck so read it with time, they’re still down bad for each other, unprotected piv, semi-public sex, handjob, blowjob, fingering, creampie

You remembered that day as if it had been yesterday. The cold porcelain of the toilet seat under your thighs. The pregnancy test stick clutched in your trembling fingers while you tried to aim. The uncertainty that made every sound echo louder in your tiny studio apartment, the best place a med student could afford. The steady drip-drip-drip from the leaky faucet. The nervous pacing of Robby’s footsteps just behind the thin wooden door.

“You good in there?” he asked, you could picture him leaning in, pressing his ear against the wood like he could somehow hear your thoughts.

You quickly wiped away the silent tears that had been streaming down your cheeks. “Yeah…” Your voice came out shaky and small. “Yeah. I’m done.”

You wiped, flushed the toilet, and stood up on unsteady legs, pulling your pants back on. Carefully, you set the cup and the pregnancy test on the edge of the sink before washing your hands.

“Can I come in?” Robby asked from the other side. Guilt was already eating him alive. This was his fault. He should have been the one guiding you, teaching you how to become a great doctor. Instead, he had jeopardized everything,  your education, your career, your future. Now, because of him, you were taking a pregnancy test in a cramped bathroom, wondering what the hell you were going to do with your life if two pink lines appeared.

You didn’t answer with words. You simply walked to the door, opened it, and stepped aside so he could enter. “It says three to five minutes,” you murmured, nodding toward the test resting on the sink.

“How—” Robby cleared his throat when his voice threatened to crack. “How are you feeling?”

“Scared?” The word came out like a question. Truthfully, you didn’t even know if “scared” was the right word. What was the right word for finding yourself in a situation you’d never wanted, knowing it was your own damn fault? You should have been more careful. You should have said yes the first time he asked about wearing a  condom. You should have told him to pull out instead of moaning “fill me up, Robby” every single time like you had lost all sense. 

You knew the odds. You knew the risks. But when he was inside you, none of that had mattered. And now destiny was laughing in your face. You had no plan. If you were pregnant… what then? Goodbye to med school. Goodbye to your dream of graduating and matching into emergency medicine. You’d probably have to move back in with your parents and spend your days raising a child instead of becoming a doctor. And goodbye to Robby, because why would a man like him want to stay tied to the med student he’d accidentally gotten pregnant and the baby he never asked for?

Fresh tears slipped from the corners of your eyes, soaking your cheeks instantly. You tried to stay quiet, but the sobs broke free anyway.

“Hey, hey, hey… come here.” Robby closed the distance in one step. The heat of his body wrapped around you like a shield. He slid one strong arm around your waist, anchoring you against his solid frame, and the other hand cradled the back of your head. “It’s perfectly normal to be scared. But you’ve got me. You’re not alone in this.”

“What are we—” Another sob escaped, muffled against his shoulder. “What am I gonna do, Robby? What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever feels right,” he whispered against your hair, pressing a gentle kiss there. “You’re supposed to do whatever you want to do. You have all the choices.”

“But which one is the right one?” You pressed harder into him, as if you could disappear into his chest. “Which one won’t make you hate me?”

“Jesus— Look at me.” He gently cupped your face with both hands, lifting it from his chest so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His own were red and watery. “Let me say this once, and I need you to hear me. I could never hate you. None of this is your fault. It’s no one’s fault… this just happens, okay? If the test is positive, then… it’s not the end of the world. We’ve got options. We have time to think about it.”

“Then why does it feel like it is the end of the world?” You tried to hide your face again in the broad warmth of his chest, where your tears had already left a dark patch on his shirt. He wouldn’t let you. He kept your face cradled between his palms, one thumb softly stroking your cheek as he wiped away another tear. 

“Why does it feel like no matter what I choose, you’ll end up resenting me for it?”

“I won’t,” he assured you again, his voice steady even though you could feel how hard he was trying. “You have to think about what you want. Nothing is more important than that. I’ll be here for whatever you decide.”

“What if I don’t want to keep it?” The words tumbled out. “Wouldn’t you feel like… like I took something away from you? Wouldn’t you think I’m selfish?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” He leaned in and kissed the tip of your nose, his warm lips making you shiver. Then your cheek, tasting your tears. Then your lips, reassuringly. “If the test is positive and you choose to terminate 6he pregnancy, I wouldn’t think that makes you selfish. I wouldn’t think you’re a bad person or that you’re stealing something from me. I’d think you’re strong. I’d think you’re being brave. And I’d be right there with you.”

The calmness in his voice steadied you a little. You could tell he was terrified, probably having a panic attack on the inside, but he was pouring every ounce of strength into not showing it. He wanted to be the rock you could lean on, the one who had answer, who knew what to do, who’d be there to support you no matter what.

“Is that what you’d want?” he murmured against your lips. “An abortion?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered, so softly he might not have heard if he weren’t so close. “But… maybe it’s the only right choice. What would I even do with a baby? I’d have to drop out of med school… I’d fall so far behind. Raising a baby… I don’t know when I could even go back.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, you know?” he said gently. “A lot of women finish their studies while pregnant. They work while being moms too. Think of Dr. Shamsi, she finished her residency while—”

You knew he meant well, but right now the last thing you needed was a pep talk about strong women. “Yeah, well, I’m not Dr. Shamsi, Robby,” you cut in, the words coming out harsher than you intended. “I don’t think I can do it. And I can’t… I can’t put that weight on you. That burden. A child, Robby. I’d feel so guilty knowing I trapped you.”

An incredulous laugh escaped him. He pulled back just enough to really look at you. “Trap me? Jesus fuck… do you even hear yourself? When have I ever made you feel like you’d be trapping me?” 

His tone edged toward anger, which only made your own flare up. “You didn’t ask for this! You’d be stuck with a child you never even wanted just because I didn’t want to get rid of it!” You couldn’t meet his eyes anymore and stared at the floor instead.

“A child…” He let out a slow breath. “A child doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.” The words he’d been too afraid to even think until now finally slipped out. “Yeah, it would be difficult. Yeah, it would be a fucking challenge. I’m not gonna lie, I’m scared. But I don’t think a baby would be the worst thing to ever happen. Not by far.” 

He’d be lying if he said he had never dreamed of having a child, of becoming a father. In his mid-twenties, he had pictured it so differently. Finding the love of his life, getting married, waiting a year or two before having their first baby, then another one soon after. A proper family. But life had gotten in the way, long hours in the ED, the weight of responsibility, his own fears and insecurities reshaping the entire trajectory of his existence. Time slipped through his fingers, and before he knew it, the dream had been pushed further and further into the distance. Definitely not like this, a baby at forty-nine with the fourth-year med student he’d been sleeping with in a messy situationship for only a few months… that was never part of the plan. And yet, as that pregnancy test sat on the edge of the sink, the possibility grew heavier, more real. Maybe this was how it was meant to happen. Maybe the universe had finally caught up with him. Maybe it was time to stop running, time to stop hiding, and finally commit to something bigger than work. Something that actually mattered. Something that’d change his life and give it a new meaning, a new purpose.

“You’re saying you’d want it?” you asked, surprise flashing in your eyes as you finally looked up at him. “If I were pregnant… you’d want the baby?”

“I’m saying I want you to do what you want. But yeah… if you chose to keep it, then I’d want it too. I’m in, 100%.” Behind the fear in his voice, you heard absolute certainty.

“And how would that even look?” you asked quietly. “How would we do it?”

“If we’re doing it, we do it right. Together.” He took your hands in his, brushing his thumbs over your knuckles. “You could move in with me. Once the baby’s born, we’d arrange our shifts so one of us is always with them. We’d get a sitter to help us so you can still have time to do your residency. You have me. You’ll have me every step of the way.”

“Promise?” you whispered.

“Promise.”

Silence stretched between you, as if the rest of the world had stopped spinning. In that tiny bathroom, it was just the two of you, holding each other’s hands with the promise of facing whatever came next together.

“I think it’s been over five minutes,” Robby said finally, glancing toward the sink. “Want to check?”

You nodded, and Robby released one of your hands, picked up the test, and held it between you without looking at the result yet. “Together?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Together.”

The imposing voice of Dana cut through the fog in your mind. “Earth to you… hello?”

You blinked, startled, and reluctantly dragged your eyes away from the computer screen where you’d been pretending to chart for the last ten minutes. Dana was leaning against the nurses’ station counter with one hip, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Are you even listening to me right now? Because I’ve been talking to myself for five minutes. What’s up with you? You look like you didn’t close an eye last night.”

You forced a small, nervous laugh and quickly looked back down at the computer, hoping the glow of the screen would hide the exhaustion on your face. “Sorry… I slept okay,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant and unbothered. You weren’t fooling anyone, least of all Dana. You could feel her eyes studying you, taking in the faint shadows under your eyes, the slight slump of your shoulders, and the way you kept subtly shifting in your chair. Because no matter how hard you tried to focus on work, your body was still painfully aware of last night. The ghost of Robby’s thrusts still lingered between your thighs, a delicious ache that refused to fade even twelve hours later. 

Every time you moved, you were reminded of how hard he had taken you, how thoroughly he had ruined you. Your muscles were sore in the best and most inconvenient way possible. You crossed your legs under the desk, trying to ignore the throb that pulsed through you at the memory. The last thing you needed was Dana figuring out why you were so distracted. Unfortunately, Dana had the observational skills. She narrowed her eyes even further, tilting her head as she continued to stare at you. “Yeah… sure you did.”

Dana drifted his gaze past your shoulder down the corridor. Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly, lifting her brows a fraction and her mouth twitching like she’d tasted something sour. You followed her line of sight to Robby, striding toward trauma two, wearing his navy scrubs and cargo pants. There was a loose, easy roll to his shoulders, a confidence in his steps that screamed satisfaction. The corners of his mouth were curved in a half-smile that was the unmistakable “I got laid and it was fucking amazing” look.

Dana let out a dry huff of laughter, crossing her arms over her chest. “Jesus. I hate when he walks around with that ‘I got laid and it was amazing’ face. It’s obnoxious as hell. Makes the rest of us feel like we’re doing it wrong.”

You kept your face carefully neutral, tapping your fingers against the keyboard, but without writing anything. “Maybe he’s just in a good mood.”

“Oh, please, don’t give me that. You know that face, it’s always the same with that man.” Dana tilted her head, studying him as he paused to talk with Victoria, that satisfied smile lingering a beat too long. She narrowed her eyes, thinking hard for a second, then her head snapped back toward you when realization hit him. “Wait a minute… That face. That exact face is too familiar. It’s not just his regular ‘I got some’ look. That’s the same damn face he used to wear back when you two were sneaking around four years ago. And I haven’t seen it on him once since you two called it quits. Not a single time.”

Heat flooded your cheeks instantly. You felt cornered, exposed, like a deer caught in headlights. Dana ran this place, nothing escaped her eyes. Trying to lie to her was usually pointless, she could smell bullshit from miles away. “I– I really need to finish these charts,” you stammered. “I promised Hannah I’d try to get home early so we could—” The excuse died on your tongue, it sounded pathetic even to your own ears.

She looked at you like she’d already decided you were guilty. “Please tell me you didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t do what?”

She snorted. “You’re a terrible liar. Always have been.”

You exhaled through your nose, dropping your shoulders in defeat. You glanced around the nurse station. It was quiet, no one close enough to overhear, then leaned in just a fraction.“Okay,” you muttered. “It was one time. One weak moment. I’m not doing it again.”

Dana didn’t t look surprised, just disappointed in the resigned way of someone who’s watched this film before and knew how it ended . “You’re so stupid,” she said, almost fondly. “Letting that mess of a man back in again.”

“I know.” You rubbed a hand over your face, wishing you could teleport anywhere but here. “I know. I’m just… so weak when it comes to him. He’s got this way of looking at me, like I’m the only thing in the room that matters, and the way he touches me…” You trailed off. “God, Dana, you don’t know how good it is. How he remembers every single—”

She held up a hand with the palm out. “Stop. Right there. I do not need the details. I’ve worked with that man for the last 20 years of my life, and I still got to work with him for the next eight hours. Spare me the play-by-play.”

“Sorry. It’s just… it felt like coming home, you know? And then this morning reality hit like a truck. And I realized I fucked up last night.”

Dana studied you for a long beat, and her expression softened just a fraction, enough to show the concern underneath.“Honey,” she said quietly, “you’re not weak. You’re human. And that man has always known exactly which buttons to push with you. But you’ve built something solid these last five years. Don’t throw that away because the sex is good.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I told him it was a one-time thing. A relapse. I’m not doing it again. I swear.”

Dana arched her eyebrow high. “You swear.”

“Yeah.” You met her eyes even if your stomach twisted. You were embarrassed to let anyone know about your poor life choices, but if you could trust anyone, that was Dana, one of the only people who’d been here since the start of your story with him. “Last night was… it was stupid. It won’t happen again.”

She studied you for a long beat, then she pushed off the counter, stepping closer and dropping her voice to that tone she used when she’s done playing nice.“You'd better not. Go out. Meet someone. Anyone whose last name isn’t Robinavitch. Someone who can actually commit to a relationship.”

You looked down at your hands, still faintly wrinkled from too much hand sanitizer, a nervous habit you’d gotten out of him. “It’s not that easy.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” she countered. “But it’s supposed to be possible. Find a guy who doesn’t bolt after a month because he ‘feels trapped’ and ‘needs space.’ Someone who doesn’t look at commitment like it’s an impossible mission. Someone who stays.”

The words sting because they’re true. Robby never lied about it, he’d told you early on he wasn’t built for the long haul, that relationships felt like another thing he’d inevitably fuck up. And when Hannah came along, when the exhaustion and the shifts and the fear piled up, he didn’t fight to keep you together. He just… drifted. Back to separate houses, separate beds, separate lives. 

“Hon, you know Robby was not made for a relationship. He’s a great dad, nobody’s arguing that. The man would walk through fire for that little girl. But you? He loves you in the way he knows how: sporadically. And that’s never gonna change. Keep it that way. Keep him in the dad column. Don’t let him back into the partner one.”

You rubbed your temples, the ache from last night’s lack of real sleep settling in behind your eyes. “I know. I do. It’s just… when he’s there, when he’s touching me, talking to me like I’m still his… it’s like the last five years never happened. Like we could pick up where we left off.”

“That’s the trap,” Dana said quietly. “It feels like home because it used to be. But homes can be haunted too.”

In the days that followed, you did everything you could to avoid Robby. At work, you kept your distance, volunteering for procedures on the opposite side of the ED whenever possible and burying yourself in charts or patient updates the moment you felt his presence nearby. Because every single time your eyes met his, even for a brief second, your body betrayed you.

You remembered the crushing weight of him on top of you that night, the way he’d fucked you into the mattress like the world was ending. You remembered how perfectly your bodies still moved together, how easily he could pull those broken sounds from your throat. Years had passed, but the fire between you hadn’t dimmed. If anything, it was burning brighter and hotter than ever, threatening to consume every boundary you had built.

Thankfully, Robby seemed to sense your need for space and didn’t push. He gave you room to breathe at the hospital, only speaking to you when a case genuinely required collaboration. His tone stayed strictly professional, his touches nonexistent. He still called every evening like clockwork to talk to Hannah, but with you he remained carefully polite, never lingering, never teasing, never crossing the lines you had drawn. 

You should have been relieved. He was finally respecting your wishes, he was doing exactly what you had asked him to do, and yet… on nights like this, when Hannah was at his place for her half of the week, the silence in your house felt suffocating. The emptiness pressed in from every corner. No little footsteps pattering down the hallway, no giggles echoing from the living room. Just you, alone in the quiet, with nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company. And your mind refused to shut off, It buzzed loudly, relentlessly, replaying every moment of that night in vivid detail, the heat of Robby’s skin, the burn of his beard against your neck, the groan in your ear when he came undone inside you. 

You kept hearing his promises afterward: that he was a changed man, that this time he wanted you for real. Not out of duty because he’d gotten you pregnant. Not because he felt trapped by responsibility. But because he truly wanted to be with you, because he loved you. God, you wanted to believe him so badly. There were moments, weak and dangerous moments when you wished you could be reckless enough to fall for every word that came out of his mouth. To let yourself be dumb and hopeful and blind, just like you were five years ago.

Maybe you would have risked it if you were the only one who would get hurt when everything inevitably fell apart. You could survive a broken heart, you’d done it before. But Hannah couldn’t, she was innocent in all of this. She didn’t deserve to watch her parents try and fail again, to feel the instability, the confusion, the heartbreak of seeing her mother and father almost become a family, only for it to crumble. You refused to gamble with your daughter’s emotional safety just because you still craved the man who once broke your heart.

The knock on the door came right on time, just as the late afternoon sun was starting to slant through the living room windows. You were still in your scrubs, hair thrown up in a messy bun, when you opened the door to find Robby standing there with Hannah perched on his hip, her little pink backpack slung over his shoulder, making him look both silly and endearing at the same time, and her head resting sleepily against his chest.

“Hey,” Robby said softly. “We’re here.”

Hannah’s face lit up the second she saw you. “Mommy!” She reached both arms out, already wiggling to get to you. Robby shifted her gently into your arms, brushing his hand against your side in the process. The brief contact sent an unwelcome spark through you that you immediately tried to ignore.

“Hi, baby girl,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her soft brown hair, she smelled like the strawberry shampoo Robby always used on her. “Did you have a good time with Daddy?”

“We had a great time,” Robby answered for her, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He set her little backpack down by the couch and rubbed the back of his neck, looking unusually hesitant. 

“Listen… I’ve been thinking about something.”

You raised an eyebrow, bouncing Hannah lightly on your hip as she played with the collar of your top. “That sounds ominous.”

He let out a small laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Not ominous. Just… I’m thinking of taking some days off work. Vacation days.” Your surprise must have shown on your face because Robby quickly continued. “I’ve been thinking about taking her somewhere warm. She’s been talking about the beach nonstop lately. There’s this resort in Mexico I’ve been looking at, very kid-friendly, right on the beach. Thought it might be nice for her to run around in the sand and actually see the ocean.”

Robby had never been one to take vacations. For most of his life, work had consumed him completely. He was drowning in the ED, the never-ending stream of patients, the constant pressure of being the one everyone relied on. There was always something more important, and a quiet voice in the back of his head constantly whispered that everything would crumble if he wasn’t there to hold it all together. He had never felt the pull to travel, no place ever seemed worth leaving the hospital for. Nothing could impress him or hold his attention long enough to make him want to step away. His entire identity had been tied to the job for so long that the idea of doing anything else felt foreign, almost selfish.

That was before Hannah arrived, she changed everything. From the moment she came into his life, Hannah gave him something he had never truly had before, and that was real purpose. She became the reason he woke up every single day determined to be better, to be the kind of father she deserved. The person who had to stay strong and healthy because she depended on him for everything, from teaching her how to tie her shoes, to how to be kind, how to stand up for herself. 

But Hannah had given him more than just purpose. She had awakened in him a brand-new desire to actually live. For the first time in years, his world expanded beyondwork. He wanted to do things, he wanted to see things, and more than anything, he wanted to experience them with her. His life no longer felt like it should revolve solely around the ED, he craved as much free time as he could carve out so he could share it with his daughter, watching her discover the world. He refused to miss even a single moment of her childhood while she was still small and everything felt unique to her. Hannah had unknowingly pulled him out of the endless cycle of work and survival. 

And that was how the trips began. Beach days where Hannah squealed at the waves and collected seashells in her bucket. Lazy summer afternoons fishing at a lake. Winter weekends at a cabin resort in the mountains, where they built snowmen in the backyard and drank hot chocolate by the fire. Whatever Hannah wanted to do, Robby made it happen.

You nodded slowly, processing the information. You dropped Hannah off carefully on the floor, and she immediately walked to her bedroom, mumbling something about saying hello to her stuffed animals. “Mexico… That sounds really nice for her. When were you thinking?”

“Probably in a couple of weeks, if I can get the time approved. I’d take about a week.”  He paused, watching your expression carefully. “Are you okay with that? With me taking her?”

“Yeah,” you said without hesitation. “Of course I’m okay with it. She’ll love it. Just make sure you send me all the flight information and the hotel details once you have them. I want to know exactly where she’ll be and how to reach you.”

“Already planning on it,” he assured you. “I’ll send everything as soon as it’s booked.” A comfortable silence settled for a moment. Then Robby shifted his weight and looked at you again, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes. “Actually… I wanted to ask you something else.” He rubbed the back of his neck again, a tell you knew too well. “Would you want to come with us?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“I’d pay for everything,” he added quickly. “Your flight, your room. You don’t have to worry about that. You’ve been working insane hours lately with residency. It might be good for you to get away for a few days, too. Relax. Sleep in.”

The offer hung in the air between you, and for one brief second, you let yourself imagine it. You pictured the three of you on a beach in Mexico. Hannah running barefoot through the warm sand, her hair messy from the ocean breeze, laughing with pure joy every time a wave came close enough to tickle her toes. You saw yourself and Robby sitting nearby on lounge chairs, drinking margaritas while the sun kissed your skin. The sound of the waves rolling onto the shore, lulling you into a nap you hadn’t allowed yourself in years. 

After surviving on less than six hours a night for so long, the mere idea of lying back on a lounge chair and actually resting felt almost sinful. Vacations had always been a luxury you couldn’t afford. Not with the mountain of student loans, the demands of your residency, and the constant juggle of motherhood. The thought of taking time off just to relax had felt selfish, unrealistic, and completely out of reach. And now Robby was offering it all on a silver platter.

You quickly shoved the beautiful images away before they could take root and make you weak. Because that was the problem with Robby’s offer, it wasn’t just a vacation. It was a week of playing house, of blurred lines, and of watching him be the devoted father he had become, while your stupid heart remembered exactly how good things used to feel when the three of you were almost a real family.

“Robby…” You let out a slow breath. “Thank you. Really. That’s incredibly generous. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He furrowed his brow slightly. “Why not?”

“Because going on a vacation like that, the three of us,  it would be confusing. For her, especially. If we’re sharing space like a family for a whole week, she might start getting ideas about us getting back together. I don’t want to give her false hope. And it’d be confusing for us two, we need to keep our distance after… You know what.”

Robby’s jaw tightened for a moment, but his voice stayed calm. “We can get separate rooms. Hell, we don’t even have to hang out the whole time if you don’t want to. You could do your own thing, be at a different pool, get spa treatments, whatever. I’m not asking you to pretend we’re a couple. I just… I want to do this for you. You deserve a break too.”

You shook your head, even as a small, traitorous part of you ached at how sincere he sounded. “No, Robby. Thank you, but no. It’s sweet of you to offer, but it’s too complicated. We’ve worked really hard to keep things stable and clear for Hannah. Mixing a family vacation into that… it blurs too many lines. I appreciate it, I really do. But I think it’s better if it’s just the two of you.”

He watched you for a long moment, something like disappointment passing across his face, a quiet frustration he tried so hard to hide. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Message received. I’ll just take her, then. But the offer stands if you ever change your mind.”

You gave him a grateful smile, even though your chest felt tight from how much you wanted to say yes, because of how much you wished that maybe in another life, Robby and you could be those parents sunbathing in Mexico with their kid. “I won’t. But thank you.”

He nodded once, lingering for another few seconds like he wanted to say more, but decided that by pushing too hard to get close to you again, he’d only end up pushing you away. “I’ll text you the details as soon as everything’s booked.”

“Sounds good.”

Before heading toward the door, Robby paused. He gave you one last long look, the kind that always managed to slip past every defense you’d carefully built over the years. In that single glance, you were flooded with memories you spent most days trying desperately not to dwell on. Memories from five years ago, back when everything still felt possible. Back when you still believed, with naive, foolish hope, that the two of you could somehow make it work.

And then there were the much more dangerous memories from just two weeks ago, the night where, for a few stolen hours, it felt like the rest of the world had simply stopped existing. His hands on your body like he still owned every inch of it, the way he’d whispered your name against your skin, the overwhelming feeling that you had teleported back in time, back to when it was just the two of you. For those few hours, you had let yourself believe again. You had let yourself imagine that maybe, just maybe, there could still be a “we” in your future.

A couple of days later, you heard the knock of the door echo through the house just as you were finishing packing Hannah’s favorite stuffed capybara into her little backpack. You opened the door to find Robby standing on the porch. Hannah immediately squealed at the sight of him.

“Daddy!” She bolted forward, launching herself into his arms. Robby caught her with ease, laughing as he lifted her high and spun her once before settling her on his hip. “Hey, angel,” he said, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek. “You ready for Daddy’s house?”

You stepped aside to let them both in, arms crossed loosely over your chest as you watched the usual handoff routine unfold. Hannah was buzzing with energy, clutching Robby’s shirt with her little hands. “Daddy, Daddy! Are we really going to the beach soon?” she asked with her eyes wide, full of pure excitement. “With the ocean and the sand?”

Robby grinned, the kind of soft and genuine smile he only ever wore for her. “We sure are, baby girl. I already picked out a really nice hotel. It’s right on the beach. Want me to show you the pictures later when we get home?”

“Yes!” Hannah bounced in his arms, practically vibrating. “Does it have a pool? And ice cream? And can I get a new swimsuit to wear?”

“It has a huge pool, and I’m pretty sure they have all the ice cream you can eat,” Robby answered patiently. He glanced over at you while still holding her. “I booked one of the family suites with a big balcony overlooking the ocean. You’re gonna love it, Han.”

Hannah gasped dramatically, her little mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. “Mommy, did you hear? Daddy got a hotel with a balcony! For the ocean!”

You couldn’t help but smile at her pure joy, even as a knot started forming in your stomach. “I heard, sweetheart. Sounds amazing.”

Robby set Hannah down so she could run to grab her stuffed animal from the couch. The moment she was out of earshot, he lowered his voice slightly. “I meant what I said the other day. The offer’s still open if—”

Before he could finish, Hannah came racing back, clutching her capybara tightly. “Daddy, can Mommy come with us to the beach? Please?”

Robby didn’t miss a beat. He looked straight at his daughter with an innocent expression that you knew was anything but. “You know what, Han? I was actually thinking about inviting Mommy too. What do you think? Would you like Mommy to come on the trip with us?”

Hannah’s entire face lit up like the Fourth of July. She spun toward you so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. “Mommy! You have to come! Please please please! We can build sandcastles together and swim and eat ice cream and watch the sunset and— and everything!”

You shot Robby a deadly look over Hannah’s head, the kind that promised a painful retribution the moment you two were alone. He simply raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. He was weaponizing the one person he knew you could never say no to. Hannah. She had always been your biggest weakness, your softest spot, and Robby knew it better than anyone. Those big, warm brown eyes were lethal. One pleading look from her, and your resolve crumbled like sand.

And right now, she was using every ounce of that power, blinking up at you with hope while clutching your hand like her entire happiness depended on your answer. It was unfair, completely unfair. Robby wasn’t just standing by and letting her beg, he was actively encouraging it, using your daughter as the ultimate emotional leverage. He knew you could resist him, he knew you could fight your own feelings, your own desires, your own stupid heart. But Hannah? Saying no to her when she looked at you like that felt almost cruel. And the worst part? He wasn’t even trying to hide how satisfied he was with himself, that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth said everything. He was enjoying this far too much.

“Hannah, baby…” You crouched down to her level, gently brushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Mommy would love to, but I’m super busy with work right now. I have so many shifts and—”

Robby’s voice cut in smoothly from behind her. “Actually, you have a bunch of vacation days saved up. I checked it yesterday.”

You straightened up slowly, narrowing your eyes at him, silently warning him to stop this nonsense before it went too far. “Robby.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Just stating facts. You shouldn’t lie to your daughter, you know?”

Hannah grabbed your hand with both of hers, swinging it dramatically. “Mommy, pleeease? Pretty, pretty please!” You opened your mouth to respond, but Hannah was already in full pleading mode, her big puppy-brown eyes, exactly like Robby’s, staring up at you with devastating effectiveness.

“I really can’t afford it right now, sweetheart,” you tried again. “Plane tickets and hotels are expensive, and Mommy—”

“If Mommy can’t pay,” Robby interrupted you. “Then Daddy will pay. I’ve got it covered. Flights, resort, activities, all of it. You wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing.”

Hannah tugged harder on your hand, bouncing on her toes. “See? Daddy’s paying! So you can come! Please, Mommy? I want all of us together. Pretty pleeeeease.”

You felt cornered, trying to come up with more excuses, but as you reached inside your head, you couldn’t think of any. Robby stood there looking far too pleased with himself, while your daughter continued her relentless assault with those lethal eyes and endless enthusiasm.

“Hannah…” you started, searching desperately for another excuse.

“But Mommy,” she whined, pressing her face against your leg, “I’ll miss you so much if you stay here.”

Robby, the absolute traitor, decided to join forces. “She’s got a point,” he said casually, though his eyes were anything but casual when they met yours. “It wouldn’t be the same without you. And like I said before, I can get us separate rooms. You can do your own thing the whole time if you want. But it would mean a lot to her… and to me.” 

The “and to me” was spoken so quietly you almost missed it. You looked between the two of them, your daughter with her hopeful, shining eyes and her father, the man you still stupidly loved,  with that steady and patient gaze that had always been able to wear you down. The silence stretched. Hannah’s lower lip started to tremble just slightly, the ultimate weapon in her arsenal.

With a long, defeated sigh, you finally gave in. “…Fine,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “I’ll go too.”

Hannah let out an ear-piercing squeal of pure delight and threw herself at your legs, hugging them tightly. “Yay! Mommy’s coming! We’re all going to the beach together!”

Robby’s smile was slow and satisfied, though he tried to keep it modest. “That’s great,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Really great.”

You pointed a finger at him over Hannah’s head. “You’re going to pay for this later, Robinavitch.”

His only response was a knowing chuckle. “Looking forward to it.”

Hannah continued dancing around the living room in celebration, already chattering about sandcastles, seashells, and swimming with dolphins. You stood there watching her, with your heart full of love for your daughter, loving every second of seeing her so happy, and equal parts dread and excitement about what you’d just agreed to, a family vacation in Mexico with Robby. God help you.

Hours later, the glow of your bedside lamp was the only light in the room. You were already tucked into bed, wearing an old, oversized t-shirt that had seen better days. Your phone suddenly vibrated on the nightstand, making you glance at the screen, letting out a slow breath as soon as you noticed who was calling. A Facetime from Robby. 

You hesitated for two rings, it was almost midnight, and you didn’t feel like having any possibly agitating conversation right before your bedtime, but ultimately ended up accepting the call. Robby’s face filled the screen almost immediately, he was in his bedroom too, the light of his lamp illuminating his face. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hand through it, and his glasses were perched low on his nose, those fucking glasses… No, don’t even go there, you silently muttered to your brain

“Hey,” his voice sounded rougher, the way it always got late at night. A small smile tugged at his lips. “You already in bed?”

“Yeah,” you replied, adjusting the blanket over your lap, as if trying to cover yourself up. “It’s late, Robby.”

He hummed in agreement, slowly dragging his eyes over what he could see of you on the screen. “You look comfortable. Cute shirt.” There was a brief pause before he asked, almost casually, “So… have you started packing swimsuits yet?”

You stared at him for a moment, the irritation you’d been carrying for the past hours finally bubbled up. “Robby… we need to talk.”

Robby lifted his eyebrows slightly, but the lazy smile didn’t leave his face. “Alright. About what?”

“You manipulated me into agreeing to this trip.” 

Robby let out a low chuckle. “Manipulated? Damn, you’re using big words tonight.”

“It’s not funny,” you said sharply, though you kept your voice quiet so you wouldn’t wake Hannah. “You used our daughter to convince me, and then you joined in. That was low, even for you.”

He tilted his head, still smiling like this was all some lighthearted game. “Anything else?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes. You guilt-tripped me. The whole ‘it would mean a lot to her… and to me’ line? That was manipulation.”

Robby leaned back against his headboard, resting one arm behind his head, giving you an even better view of his bare chest. He looked far too relaxed for someone being accused of emotional manipulation. “Jesus,” he muttered, still chuckling softly. “Oh-ho-ho, I’m so evil, I manipulated the mother of my child into letting me take her on a fully paid week at a luxury beach resort in Mexico.” He raised an eyebrow, mock-serious. “Am I gonna go to prison for that?”

“Robby.”

“Relax,” he said, softening his tone just a fraction, though the amusement was still there. “Hannah’s excited. You saw her. She wants all three of us there. I’m just trying to give her what she wants.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” you shot back. “I know your real agenda behind all of this.”

He tilted his head again, looking curious now. “Oh yeah? And what’s my agenda, according to you?”

You sat up a little straighter in bed, clutching the blanket tighter. “You’re using this stupid trip as an excuse to try and get back with me. You think throwing money at a vacation and putting us in the same space for a whole week is going to magically fix everything. It’s not going to work.”

For a moment, Robby just looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then that stupid smirk of his spread across his face again. “Have you seen me in swim trunks lately? I look real good. You might have to swallow your words when you see me.”

You let out an exasperated scoff, though you couldn’t stop the flush that crept up your neck. You hated the way he could still make you laugh when you were trying to be pissed. You hated the way your body still reacted to his words. “You’re impossible. Seriously, it’s impossible to have a serious conversation with you sometimes.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Sun, sand, good drinks, me looking like this… you never know.”

“I’ll go,” you said, cutting him off before he could keep going. “But don’t even think this means anything else. We’ll get separate rooms. We’ll make separate plans. I’m going for Hannah. That’s it. Don’t get any ideas.”

Robby ignored your warning completely. “You look so gorgeous right now,” he murmured. Suddenly, his voice went quieter, more intimate. Robby moved his eyes slowly over your face, down to the collar of your shirt and back up again. “All soft and sleepy in bed like that. Fuck… I wish I were lying there with you.”

Your stomach flipped despite yourself, the way he said it, so sincere and full of a hunger that never ceased but only grew stronger every day, made heat bloom in your belly. You wanted to scream at how easily he could still do that to you. “Robby…” you warned him.

“I’m serious,” he continued. “I miss the way you feel under me. The way you breathe when you’re falling asleep next to me. I miss—”

“Goodbye, Robby.” You didn’t wait for him to finish, you ended the facetime call with a tap of your finger, plunging your screen into darkness. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too empty without his presence there. You dropped your phone onto the mattress beside you and stared up at the ceiling. Your skin felt warm, your mind was already replaying the way he’d looked at you, the tone of his voice when he said he wished he was lying there with you.

You pulled the blanket higher up to your chest, trying to ignore the storm of feelings Robby had just stirred up with nothing but his voice. It didn’t work, the ache was still there, as well as the flutter in your chest. The way your heart tripped over itself whenever he looked at you like that. Five years later, and Michael could still make your stupid heart race like you were that same fourth-year med student who used to sneak into his place late at night after shift. And now you had agreed to spend an entire week with him. A full week in Mexico. Seven days of Robby being Robby, charming, attentive, and far too good at reminding you exactly why you fell for him in the first place.

You had to force yourself to go back to one of the saddest days you could remember. Robby had come home from a brutal twelve-hour shift. You had just collapsed onto the couch after finally getting Hannah down, she’d been fussy all day, teething and crying restlessly. The moment he walked through the door, you could tell it had been a bad one. His eyes were glassy and distant, the lines on his face etched deeper than usual. Lately, every shift seemed to carve something out of him. He moved closer and pressed a quick, almost mechanical kiss to your forehead. No hello. No “how was your day.” Not even the ghost of a smile. Just autopilot, he was running on empty.

He sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, far from you, shoulders slumped. “There’s some pasta in the fridge I made,” you whispered, hoping it would reach him. He didn’t answer, didn’t even nod. He just stared at nothing, too drained to move.

Then Hannah let out a small cry from her crib. Before you could push yourself up, Robby was already on his feet. He scooped her up gently against his shoulder, swaying her in a soothing rhythm. “Are you okay, little angel?” he cooed softly, tender in a way it hadn’t been for you in weeks. “Yes, you’re okay. Yes, you are. Daddy’s here… shhh, go back to sleep.” That was the only moment you saw him smile genuine, and heartbreakingly soft as he held his daughter.

Tears burned in your eyes as you stood and walked closer to him. You had spent so many sleepless nights turning it over in your mind, and you couldn’t keep prolonging the inevitable. “Robby… we need to talk.”

“About us?” he replied, already sensing where this was going.

You nodded, feeling your throat tight. “Why do I get the feeling that you don’t want to be with me? That… you regret telling me to move in with you and being together?”

Robby sighed heavily, rubbing his temples like the weight of the world was pressing down on them. “It’s just work. You have no idea what it’s like trying to hold the whole fucking department together when everything is crumbling down and—”

“It’s not just that,” you cut him off. “You don’t look at me. You don’t talk to me. I understand your job is hard, that you’re stressed and exhausted, but… shit, Robby, all we do is ignore each other. The only time we actually speak is to argue about something stupid.” The tears slipped free then, there was no holding them back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I thought I could do all of this, but I—” Tears welled in his eyes too, spilling over as he tried to hold it together. “I don’t know what to do. I—” A sob cut him off.

“Do you need space?” you asked, dreading the answer. “Is that it? You need us to take some time?”

He looked at you for a long moment, broken and defeated. “Yes.”

Two weeks had passed, and before you realized it, the suitcase lay now open on your bed, half-filled with the folded clothes you had carefully picked for the trip. You stood in front of it, folding another sundress, while Hannah sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by her own small pink suitcase and a pile of toys.

“Hannah, baby, do you have everything?” you asked for what felt like the tenth time. “Swimsuits? Sunscreen? The colouring books Daddy bought you for the plane?”

Hannah nodded enthusiastically, holding up her favorite ruffled swimsuit. “Yes, Mommy! And my water wings and the new sunglasses Daddy got me!” She beamed with uncontainable excitement. “Are we leaving soon? Is Daddy almost here?”

“Any minute now,” you replied, zipping up the main compartment of your suitcase with a sigh. Your stomach had been in knots all morning, this trip still felt like a terrible idea the more you thought about it, but Hannah’s joy made it impossible to back out now.

Right on cue, there was a knock at the front door. Hannah shot up like a rocket and ran toward it, yelling “Daddy!” at the top of her lungs.

You followed more slowly, pulling both suitcases behind you. When you opened the door, Robby stood there in a casual white linen shirt and shorts, looking annoyingly relaxed and handsome in the morning sunlight. His eyes immediately found yours, a small playing on his lips. “Hey,” he said softly. “You two ready?”

“Daddy!” Hannah launched herself at him. Robby scooped her up effortlessly, kissing her cheek as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Hi, my little mermaid. You got all your stuff?” He glanced over her head at you. “Need help with the bags?"

“I’ve got them,” you said, a little more curtly than you intended. 

The drive to the airport was filled with Hannah’s nonstop chatter from the backseat. She pointed out every car, every cloud, every sign, asking a thousand questions about the plane, the ocean, and whether there would be dolphins. Robby answered every single one with patience, occasionally glancing at you in the passenger seat. You kept your eyes on the road, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this all felt. 

At the airport, Robby handled check-in, and when the agent handed over the boarding passes, you caught a glimpse of them and froze. Business class.

You turned to him slowly as they walked toward security. “Seriously, Robby? It’s a four-hour flight. We could’ve flown economy like normal people.”

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I had miles on my card for an upgrade. Didn’t cost anything extra.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Robby.”

He leaned in slightly, keeping his voice low so Hannah wouldn’t hear. “Forgive me. I just wanted to spoil my family a little.”

“We’re not a family,” you said firmly, glancing ahead at Hannah skipping between you two. Robby didn’t argue, he just gave you a look that said he disagreed but wasn’t going to push. 

The flight itself was smoother than you expected. In business class, the seats were wide and comfortable. You both let Hannah had the window seat, ans she spent most of the flight pressed against the glass, watching the clouds and looking at the ocean. Robby sat in the middle, keeping Hannah entertained with the in-flight entertainment and snacks.

You tried to read, but your mind kept wandering, every time Robby’s arm brushed yours, reaching for something, or when he laughed at one of Hannah’s excited comments, memories flooded your mind back, and you had to constantly remind yourself the only reason you were doing this was because Hannah had asked.

You landed in Cancun four hours later. A private transfer waited for you outside arrivals. The driver loaded your bags while Hannah bounced between you and Robby, holding both your hands. The drive to the resort took about forty-five minutes along the coast. You watched the palm trees that lined the road and the turquoise water on one side. Hannah pressed her face to the window the entire time, gasping at every new sight.

When the resort finally came into view, it was even more beautiful than the pictures. A luxurious property with white buildings, infinity pools cascading toward the ocean, and tropical gardens everywhere. 

The humid air of Cancun wrapped around you the moment you stepped out of the transfer van. The resort lobby was stunning with high ceilings, white marble floors and massive floral arrangements. Hannah’s hand was firmly in yours, her fingers squeezing with excitement as her eyes darted everywhere at once. “Mommy, look! There’s a fountain! And flowers! And the ocean is right there!”

Robby walked a few steps ahead, carrying Hannah’s pink suitcase in one hand and his own duffel in the other. He looked completely at ease, the fabric of his shirt slightly damp from the humidity and clinging just enough to show the lines of his shoulders. He glanced back at you with a reassuring smile before heading straight to the reception desk. You stayed back with Hannah, letting her point out every detail she noticed.

A few minutes later, Robby returned, twirling a key card between his fingers. “All set. We’re in the beachfront wing. Follow me.”

The walk to the room was beautiful but felt endless. Hannah skipped between you and Robby, holding both your hands and swinging them as she chattered nonstop about building the biggest sandcastle in the world. 

Robby finally stopped in front of a beautiful wooden door, he swiped the key card, and the door clicked open. The suite was breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that opened onto a wide private balcony overlooking the ocean. The living area had elegant white furniture, and as you stepped further inside, your eyes landed on the bedroom area with two queen-size beds.

You stopped dead in the doorway. “Where’s the other room?” you asked slowly, worried you already knew the answer Robby was about to give you.

Robby set the suitcases down and scratched the back of his head, looking mildly sheepish. “Yeah… so there was a mix-up at the front desk. We only got one room.”

You stared at him with disbelief. “What? Are you serious right now?” The asshole had to be kidding. But then again, this was Robby, and this was exactly the kind of shenanigans he’d put you through. You should have known he wouldn’t keep his promise to let you do your own thing at the resort, to not act like you were a real family on a family holiday. You had been to hopeful to expect he’d at least wait a little longer before showing his real intentions.

Hannah, completely oblivious to the tension, let out a delighted squeal and immediately launched herself onto the nearest bed, jumping up and down with pure joy. “This one’s mine! No, this one! Look how bouncy it is, Mommy! Daddy, come jump with me!”

You barely heard her, your whole attention was locked on Robby. The family suite was gorgeous, in tasteful neutral tones, with fresh flowers on the nightstands, a bottle of champagne and fruit plate waiting on the table with a welcome note, but none of that mattered. What mattered now was that Robby had not only manipulated you to agree to this trip, but he’d also lied to you.

“Michael, do you think I was born yesterday? You totally did this on purpose. I know it.” 

He held up both hands in a placating gesture, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “There was a confusion with the booking. I swear. They had us down for a family suite with two queens instead of two separate rooms.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. “Go fix it. Right now.”

“I already tried,” he said calmly, stepping closer so Hannah wouldn’t overhear. “They’re completely booked. Peak season, a big wedding happening this week. No other rooms available in the whole resort.”

You let out a frustrated breath, rubbing your temple. “This is not what I agreed to, Robby. Separate rooms. That was the condition. I never would’ve come if—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “But it’s just one week. I can take one bed, you and Hannah can take the other. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you hissed, keeping your voice down as Hannah continued bouncing happily, now unpacking her stuffed capybara and arranging it on the pillows. “This is exactly what I was worried about. You’re pushing boundaries.”

Meanwhile, Hannah had moved on to dragging her suitcase across the room, chattering excitedly. “Mommy, can we go to the beach now? The water is waiting! I want to find seashells and build a castle.”

Robby glanced at her with that fatherly smile that always made your chest ache, then looked back at you. “Look at her. She’s already so happy. One week, that’s all. We’re adults. We can handle sharing space for a few nights without it meaning anything.”

You stared at the two queen beds again. They were large, luxurious, with more pillows than necessary. The balcony doors were open, letting in the warm breeze and the constant, soothing sound of waves. It would have been perfect… if it weren’t for the man standing two feet away looking far too pleased with this “mix-up.”

Hannah suddenly ran over and grabbed your hand, then Robby’s. “Come on! Let’s go to the beach! I’m ready! I have my bucket and everything!”

You looked down at your daughter’s beaming face, then back at Robby. He raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting. You let out a long, defeated sigh. “Fine. But this changes nothing, Robby. Separate beds. No funny business. And the second a room opens up, we’re switching.”

“Whatever you say,” he replied, but the small, satisfied smile on his face told you he wasn’t worried at all.

He set his suitcase near one of the queen beds and nodded toward the bathroom. “I’ll go change first. Won’t be long.”

You nodded silently, still processing everything, but as soon as the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, you turned your attention to Hannah, who was already pulling things out of her pink suitcase with frantic excitement.

“Come here, baby,” you said softly, kneeling on the floor beside her bed. “Let’s get you ready for the beach.”

Hannah stood in front of you, wiggling with impatience as you helped her out of her travel clothes. You carefully slipped her into her favorite ruffled swimsuit, bright pink with little white flowers, adjusting the straps and smoothing the fabric over her tummy. Then came the sunscreen. You squeezed a generous amount into your palm and rubbed it slowly over her arms, shoulders, back, legs, and face, making sure every inch was covred. Hannah giggled when you got to her nose, squirming because of how tickly it was.

“You have to stay safe from the sun, okay?” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’re going to have so much fun, but Mommy doesn’t want you to get burned like a toast.”

“I won’t!” she promised solemnly, then immediately went back to bouncing on her toes. “Can I wear my new sunglasses? And my hat with the flowers?”

The bathroom door opened, and Robby stepped out, for a moment, time seemed to slow. He wore dark swim trunks, paired with a simple white shirt that he hadn’t bothered to put on yet,  it was slung over his shoulder. You had seen his bare body no more than a month ago, you’d been under it, but it still felt, somehow, like seeing him again for the first time.

You stared at him longer than you should have. His soft but solid tummy that drove you insane, and that familiar trail of dark hair across his chest that you had always, always loved running your fingers through.

Your eyes traced the lines of his chest, the way the hair curled slightly, the soft give of his stomach. Heat flushed up your neck because God, you still loved every inch of him. 

Robby caught you looking and a knowing smile spread across his face. “What?” he asked teasingly. “I got something on my face?”

You blinked hard, tearing your gaze away. “No,” you muttered, grabbing your own beach bag a little too quickly. “I’m… going to change.”

You escaped into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind you. The mirror showed your flushed cheeks, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. This was just a week, you could handle this. Just a week of sleeping in the same room, just a week of seeing his body, just a week of him deliberately trying to break down our walls.

You changed into one of the bikinis you’d packed, a simple black two-piece that tied at the sides and back. You liked how it looked on you, it was flattering, but as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you felt suddenly, acutely aware of how little it covered. Your body had changed since having Hannah, a few stretch marks here and there, breasts that were fuller but not as perky as before. Standing here in just this tiny bikini, knowing Robby was right outside… it felt vulnerable.

You adjusted the ties one more time, took another steadying breath, and stepped out of the bathroom. Hannah immediately squealed. “Mommy, you look so pretty!” She ran over and hugged your legs before darting into the bathroom herself to grab her sunglasses and sun hat. “I’ll be right back!”

You stood in the middle of the suite, adjusting the strap of your beach bag, when Robby stepped in from the balcony. He had been leaning on the railing, looking out at the ocean, but the moment he turned and saw you, he stopped dead. His eyes widened, and he dramatically clutched his chest with one hand, staggering back a step like he was having a heart attack.

 “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, the grin on his face pure mischief. “Warn a guy next time.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. “You’re so not funny, Robinavitch.”

You wanted to slap that smug smile right off his face and kiss him senseless at the same time. The two urges warred inside you, because you hated how much his words mattered. How easily he could make you feel like the most beautiful woman who had ever stepped foot on this earth, and how completely you believed him when he said it. He wasn’t just mumbling the words because it felt like something he was supposed to say. No, Robby looked at you like he truly wanted you, like he was dying to get his hands back on your body, to pull you close and remind you exactly how good it used to feel. His gaze lingered, tracing over you in a way that made heat flood your stomach. God, you hated how much you still wanted him to.

He didn’t stop. He kept one hand pressed to his heart, shaking his head slowly as his gaze traveled over you, unashamed, appreciative, and far too warm. “You’re trying to kill me on day one, huh? That bikini… fuck. You look incredible.”

Heat flooded your face again, but you crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly self-conscious. “Stop it. This is exactly what I was worried about.”

Robby took a slow step closer, still smiling, but his voice dropped. “Can’t help it. You’ve always looked good, but seeing you like this…” He let the sentence trail off, his sight lingering on the curve of your waist and the ties at your hips.

Before you could respond, Hannah burst back out of the bathroom wearing her oversized sunglasses and floppy sun hat, striking a dramatic pose. “I’m ready! Let’s go see the ocean!”

The sand was warm under your feet as the three of you made your way down the wooden boardwalk to the private stretch of beach reserved for resort guests. The sea stretched out in front of you, waves lapping against the shore, leaving behind lines of foam. Hannah’s excitement was infectious. She ran ahead a few steps, then back to you and Robby, her little sun hat flopping with every bounce. “The water is so blue! Can we go in right now? Please?”

Robby chuckled, adjusting the beach bag on his shoulder. “Let’s set up first, kiddo. Then we’ll swim.”

You chose three loungers under a large thatched umbrella near the water’s edge. You spread out towels while Robby helped Hannah with her water wings. The resort staff had placed a small cooler with chilled water and fruit beside the chairs, and soft music drifted from speakers along the beach. 

Once everything was settled, Robby stood and offered his hand to Hannah. “Ready, little mermaid?” 

She grabbed his hand with both of hers and tugged him toward the water. You watched them go, settling back into your lounger with the book you’d brought.  The sun felt incredible on your skin, you opened your book, but your eyes kept drifting over the top of the pages. Robby and Hannah waded into the shallow waves. Hannah squealed every time the water touched her legs, clinging to Robby’s hand. He lifted her high when a bigger wave came, spinning her around as she laughed uncontrollably. His swim trunks moved lower on his hips, and it made it impossible for you to focus on your book, every few minutes your gaze wandered back to them. 

After nearly an hour, Hannah came running back to you, dripping wet and beaming. “Mommy! Come build sandcastles with me! Daddy said he’ll watch our stuff.”

You set your book aside and took her hand, walking down to the firmer sand near the waterline. The two of you knelt together, digging with plastic shovels and buckets. Hannah chattered nonstop about her castle needing a moat and a tower for the princess. You helped her pat the walls smooth, adding seashells and bits of coral you found along the shore. The sun warmed your back, and for a while, everything felt simple and perfect,  just you and your daughter creating something together. But you felt Robby’s eyes on you the entire time, when you glanced up, he was sitting on the lounger, with his elbows on his knees, watching with an unreadable expression. 

He didn’t look away when your eyes met, the intensity in his gaze made heat bloom across your skin. Later, when the castle was tall and elaborate, Hannah got a mischievous glint in her eye. “Can we bury Daddy in the sand? Like a mummy?”

Robby, who had joined you, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see how it is. Ganging up on me already?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Sounds fair.”

The three of you worked together, slowly covering Robby as he lay back in the sand. Hannah patted sand over his legs with delight, while you worked on his arms and torso. The heavy sand molded around his body as he lay there patiently, occasionally joking with Hannah about becoming a “sand mummy.” Every time your hands brushed his skin while smoothing the sand, a spark jumped between you. He noticed, and you knew he did.

When you finally stepped back, Robby was almost completely buried, only his head and part of his neck visible. Hannah clapped her hands and danced around him. “He looks like a turtle!”

Robby chuckled, trying to move and finding himself well and truly stuck. “Alright, ladies. Fun’s over. Unbury me.”

You exchanged a look with Hannah, a smile spreading across your face. “You know what, Hannah? Don’t you want to go get some ice cream? I saw a stand right by the pools, and since this is all-inclusive, we can have all the ice cream we want.”

Hannah’s eyes lit up like stars. “Yes! Chocolate and strawberry and rainbow sprinkles!”

Robby snapped his head toward you, as much as he could with what little mobility he had left. “Ice cream sounds great. Why don’t you get me out of here and we go there together?”

You crouched down beside him, close enough that your shadow fell over his face. You leaned in until your faces were only inches apart. “This is for booking one room, Michael.”

His eyes widened with outrage. “You wouldn’t—”

You straightened up before he could finish, taking Hannah’s hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s go find that ice cream. Daddy can wait a few more minutes.”

Hannah giggled conspiratorially and waved at Robby. “Bye, Daddy! We’ll bring you some… maybe!”

As the two of you walked away hand-in-hand toward the resort path, Robby’s voice followed you, half-laughing, half-protesting. “This is unfair punishment! Hannah! Come back!”

You didn’t look back, but you couldn’t stop the satisfied smile on your face. For the first time since arriving, you felt like you might actually survive this week, but only if you kept winning the small battles.

The light of late afternoon had softened into the warm pinks and oranges by the time you and Hannah returned to the suite. The scent of ocean salt that clung to your skin and your hair was a wild mess. You both needed showers badly. You helped Hannah first, rinsing the sand from her hair and body. After drying her with one of the oversized white towels, you slipped her into her favorite purple dress and brushed her hair until it was smooth. Your turn came next, you took your time, letting the warm water wash away the salt, sand, and sunscreen. When you emerged wrapped in a towel, Hannah was sitting on one of the queen beds, flipping through a children’s book the resort had left. 

She looked up with a bright smile. “Mommy, I’m so hungry! Can we go eat now?”

“Soon, baby. Let’s wait and see if Daddy gets back so we can all go together.”

You were both dressed and ready when the door to the suite finally opened. Robby stepped inside, still covered head to toe in sand. It clung to his hair, dusted his shoulders and arms, and left visible trails down his legs. His swim trunks looked gritty, and there was sand stuck to the damp skin of his chest and stomach. He looked equal parts ridiculous and defeated. You and Hannah stared for half a second before bursting into laughter. 

Hannah pointed, doubling over on the bed. “Daddy! You’re a sand monster for real!”

Robby closed the door behind him with a dramatic sigh, brushing uselessly at his arms. “It’s not funny,” he grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “That wasn’t cool at all.”

You tried to stifle your laughter, covering your mouth with one hand. “You deserved that, Michael.”

He shot you a look, narrowing his eyes playfully. “I have sand in places no person should ever have sand. I’m talking places, okay? You left me there all afernoon.”

You raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Really? The whole afternoon?”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending another shower of sand onto the floor. “Maybe a beach guard eventually helped dig me out. That’s not the point. The point is you two left me there.”

Hannah was still giggling uncontrollably. “Sorry, Daddy. I ate all the ice-cream.”

Robby shook his head, trying to look stern but failing miserably. “Traitors, both of you.” He glanced down at himself again and sighed. “I need a shower. Give me ten minutes and we can head to dinner.”

While Robby disappeared into the bathroom, you and Hannah sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the water run. When Robby finally emerged, he looked refreshed, wearing a clean button-down shirt and shorts. “Ready?” he asked, offering Hannah his hand.

The buffet was everything a resort like this promised, long tables overflowing with fresh seafood, grilled meats, salads, tropical fruits, and many dessert stations. Hannah’s eyes were wide as saucers as she piled her plate high with pasta, shrimp, and fruit, while you and Robby chose more balanced meals. 

You ate slowly, savoring the flavors while Hannah chattered between bites about everything she’d seen that day, occasionally yawning as the long day caught up with her.

After dinner, the walk back to the suite was peaceful, the pathways were lit with lanterns, and the sound of waves grew louder again as you approached the beach wing. Hannah walked between you and Robby, holding both your hands, her steps slowing with tiredness.

Back in the room, the bedtime routine felt strangely intimate. You helped Hannah brush her teeth while Robby turned down the beds. Hannah chose to sleep with you tonight. You tucked her in on the bed closest to the balcony, reading her a short story while Robby dimmed the lights.

Soon, Hannah’s breathing evened out into sleep, her body curled against your side. You lay there in the semi-darkness while Robby settled into the other bed, the sheets rustling as he got comfortable.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Robby murmured, soft enough not to disturb Hannah’s peaceful sleep. “The three of us here like this… I had a great time today. Even if I spent three hours buried under sand.”

You closed your eyes, trying to ignore the way your treacherous heart agreed with him. It did feel nice, dangerously nice. You’d had so much fun being with him, doing things together like a regular family: building sandcastles, chasing waves, watching Hannah’s delighted squeals. For a few stolen hours, it had felt real. “Tomorrow morning,” you said quietly, despite the ache in your chest, “you’re going to the reception and asking if they have any more rooms available.”

The next morning you woke slowly, Hannah was still curled against your side on the queen bed. Carefully, so as not to wake her, you slipped out of bed. You moved quietly around the room, brushing your teeth, splashing cool water on your face, and running a brush through your hair. You chose a red bikini today, tied the strings and slipped on a light white cover-up. Before leaving, you scribbled a short note and left it on the nightstand: Went for an early walk on the beach to watch the sunrise.

Robby woke later, he spotted the note immediately and read it with a smile. “Mommy went for an early beach walk,” he told Hannah, helping her sit up. “Let’s get ready and surprise her with breakfast on the beach. What do you think?”

Hannah’s face lit up. They took their time, Robby patiently helping her brush her teeth and wash her face. He changed into swim trunks and a loose linen shirt, applied sunscreen to Hannah’s face and arms, and they headed out hand-in-hand, making a quick stop at the breakfast buffet to grab some fresh fruit, croissants, yogurt, and cold water bottles to bring to the beach.

The ocean sparkled brilliantly as he scanned the loungers, looking for you. When he finally spotted you further down the beach, his steps slowed. You were standing near the water’s edge in just the red bikini, the morning light highlighting every curve of your body. You looked relaxed, confident, and breathtakingly beautiful. And you weren’t alone. A tall, ripped guy in his mid-to-late twenties stood close to you, shirtless, his sculpted abs and broad shoulders glistening slightly with sweat or water. He was laughing at something you said, leaning in with confidence, clearly flirting back with you. 

He looked like he belonged on a fitness magazine cover, young, with zero signs of the wear that came from decades of work. An ugly twist of jealousy hit Robby in the chest. But it wasn’t just jealousy, it was insecurity hiding right behind it. This guy was younger, fitter. Probably had endless stamina and no emotional baggage. Robby became acutely aware of his own softer stomach, the gray hairs scattered across his chest, and the wrinkles around his eyes from years of exhaustion. He felt every one of his fifty. years in that moment, standing there holding a plate of fruit and his daughter’s hand.

Hannah tugged excitedly on Robby’s hand. “There’s Mommy! Look, Daddy! She’s over there by the water. Can we go say hi? Please?”

Robby forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, angel. Let’s go.”

They started walking across the warm sand. Robby’s focus narrowed entirely on you and the man standing far too close. As they approached, he heard the guy’s easy laugh again. The young man was animated, gesturing toward the horizon with one muscular arm, clearly in the middle of some charming story. 

“Good morning” Robby said, trying not to sound bothered but doing a terrible job hiding his annoyance. “I see you found company.”

The guy’s gaze flicked from you to Robby, then back to you with mild confusion. “Is that… your father?”

The word landed like a punch, and Robby let out a short and dry laugh, though his jaw tightened painfully. “Her father,” he mumbled on the low. “Cute. No. I’m her husband, as a matter of fact.” His voice didn’t even hesitate over the blatant lie he’d just said.

You laughed, an uncomfortable and forced sound that made Robby’s chest twist. “He’s not my husband,” you corrected quickly. “He’s just… a guy I know from work.”

Robby turned to you slowly, raising one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “A guy you know from work? Excuse me?” The young guy shifted awkwardly on his feet, clearly sensing the sudden thick tension crackling in the air. “I’m the father of her daughter. Michael Robinavitch, nice to meet you.”

The guy’s eyes darted between the three of you, with a confused look across his face as if he couldn’t quite process the sudden shift. Just a couple of minutes earlier he’d been leaning in close, flashing an easy smile and flirting with acute woman at the beach. Now here you were with a man standing possessively close and a little kid next to him. And as if he couldn’t quite believe that Robby, was somehow the father of that kid. “So… you have a daughter? With her?”

Robby kept his tone light for Hannah’s sake, ruffling her hair gently with one hand, but there was an edge underneath his words. “Yes. I got her pregnant. It was a wonderful experience, actually.”

The words came out with a possessive undertone he didn’t even try to hide. What a fucking little prick, Robby thought. He wishes he could pull a woman like you. Sure, the guy might have abs where Robby had a softer belly. Maybe his forehead was smooth, with no lines etched from the pass of time, and his head might still be free of silver hairs. But Robby had pulled you without any of that polished bullshit, and you had always looked at him like he was the most handsome man to ever exist. A little asshole like him wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a woman like you.

You shot Robby a warning glare, a mix of anger and embarrassment. because now you had to explain your awkard family situation to this stranger. “It’s… complicated,” you told the guy, forcing a polite smile that felt brittle on your face. “Really complicated.”

The young man rubbed the back of his neck, his sculpted shoulders tensing visibly. He was clearly uncomfortable now, the easy flirtation from moments ago evaporating. “Yeah… uhh, I think my friends are calling me. Nice to meet you, though.” He gave you one last lingering, appreciative glance before turning and walking away toward a group of guys further down the beach.

The second he was out of earshot, you rounded on Robby, trying to keep your voice low and controlled so Hannah wouldn’t hear, but still with a furious undertone in it. “What the hell was that? You completely ruined it. He was flirting with me, and you had to march over here acting like some possessive caveman. And “her husband” What the hell was that?”

Robby set the beach bag down on the sand a little harder than necessary. “Oh please,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, the movement highlighting the soft give of his stomach beneath his shirt. “He’s not even your type.”

You stared at him incredulously. “And how exactly would you know what my type is these days, Robby?”

He shrugged, but his eyes were dark with a potent mix of jealousy and insecurity. “Because I know you. That guy? All looks and no substance. Perfect abs and zero idea what real life looks like. You’d be bored in ten minutes.”

The words hung between you. Hannah, sensing the growing tension like children always do, tugged gently on your hand. “Mommy, can we eat breakfast now? I’m hungry.”

You forced a warm smile for her, pushing down the frustration and smoothing her messy brown hair with your fingers. “Of course, sweetheart. Let’s sit down and eat. Daddy brought all your favorites.”

The rest of the morning on the beach passed in silence from your side. You didn’t speak one more word to Robby. Every time he tried to make conversation,offering you some mango, commenting on how beautiful the water looked, asking if you wanted more sunscreen, you answered with short nods or turned your attention to Hannah instead. Robby noticed, and after a while, he stood up slowly, brushing sand from his legs.

“I’m gonna take a walk around the resort for a bit. Give you some space.” He looked at Hannah with a soft smile. “You stay with Mommy, okay, angel? I’ll be back soon.”

Hannah nodded, already busy building another small tower on her sandcastle. Robby lingered for a second longer, resting his eyes on you with something regretful in them, before he turned and walked away down the beach path. You watched his back until he disappeared behind the palm trees.

The hours passed slowly, you played with Hannah in the shallow water, built more sandcastles, applied more sunscreen, and read a few chapters of your book while she napped under the umbrella. But your mind kept replaying the scene with the guy, Robby’s jealous interruption, his possessive words, the way he’d looked at you. It stirred up too many old feelings you didn’t want to examine.

 Part of you enjoyed the attention he gave you, the way Robby got possessive whenever another guy even stepped too close. It felt good to be wanted like that. To see him look at you like he still wanted you to be his and his only, even after all this time, even after everything that had happened between you. It was dangerous, how much you liked it. Because it stirred up the same old feelings, the ones that made it so hard to remember why you kept pushing him away in the first place.

Robby returned a couple of hours later, carrying two fresh iced drinks. He approached cautiously and sat down on the edge of your lounger, close but not touching you. “I know you’re pissed,” he said. “And you have every right to be. I overstepped. I was an asshole back there. Jealous and… yeah. I’m sorry.”

You stayed silent for a long moment, staring out at the turquoise water. “You were. You ruined a nice, harmless conversation.”

Robby nodded, accepting it. “I did.” He paused, then offered one of the iced drinks. “I walked by the spa earlier. They have really good reviews. I thought of getting you a massage as an apology. You deserve to relax after everything… and after dealing with me being an idiot.”

You looked at him then, searching his face. His expression was sincere, the usual cocky edge softened by genuine regret. Part of you wanted to stay mad. The other part, the tired nd overworked resident and mother, desperately wanted that massage. “…Fine,” you said eventually. “But this doesn’t mean I’m not still annoyed.”

“Understood.” He gave you a small smile.

You left Hannah at the resort’s supervised children’s activity center, a beautiful shaded area with crafts, games, and attentive staff. She was thrilled to join the other kids, waving goodbye without a second thought. 

The spa building was serene and even more luxurious than the rest of the resort. Robby stepped up to the elegant reception desk first. You watched him leaning slightly on the polished wood counter, and the woman on the desk checking the screen and nodding. 

After a couple of seconds, Robby came back to you. “Okay, it’s all settled. I’m gonna head back, maybe hit the pool with the bar. Enjoy your massage. You deserve it.”

Before Robby had any time to head to the door, a masseuse in a white uniform approached you both. She offered a welcoming smile. “Okay, beautiful couple, ready for your couple’s massage? We have the ocean-view room prepared with the full aromatherapy package you selected. It’s one of our most popular experiences.”

You froze right there and then, the word “couple” hitting you like cold water. Your stomach tightened instantly, a rush of irritation flooding through you. “Robby,” you said, turning to him. “What the hell did you do now?”

He looked genuinely surprised, his eyes widening as he raised both hands in a surrender gesture. “I swear I don’t know,” he said quickly, sounding sincere for once. “I just booked a regular massage for you. I didn’t say anything about a couple’s anything. I was very clear, one person, one massage.”

The masseuse glanced between the two of you, still smiling politely, completely unfazed by the sudden tension. “It’s our signature couples experience, side-by-side tables, synchronized massage, and a glass of champagne afterward. Very romantic and relaxing. Perfect for reconnecting.”

Before you could refuse, clarify, or even form a full protest, the staff were already guiding you both forward with efficiency. They led you down a quiet, incense-scented hallway that opened into a treatment room. Two massage tables stood side by side in the center, candles flickering all around the room and towels folded neatly.

Your heart was racing now, a mix of irritation at Robby and anticipation because soon he would be shirtless again, lying only a few feet away while you were both having a “couple experience” when all you needed was to be as far away as possible from the concept of you and Robby being a couple. Your brain was already getting all these confused, dangerous feelings after spending so much time together, the laughter, the casual touches, the way the three of you looked like a real family from the outside. The last thing you needed right now was to keep doing couple activities. Every shared dinner, every walk along the beach, only made the line between co-parents. You were supposed to be keeping your distance.

You turned to him. “This is not what I agreed to, Robby.”

He looked almost sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I really did just ask for one massage. But… we’re here now. Might as well enjoy it?”

The masseuses were already moving, preparing the oils, laying out fresh towels, adjusting the temperature and lighting.

On of them smiled gently. “If you’d both like to remove your clothes to your comfort level and lie face down on the tables, we’ll begin with the back and shoulders. Take your time.”

Robby glanced at you, reading the hesitation in your posture. He gave a reassuring nod. “I’ll go first,” he said quietly, and stepped behind the simple privacy screen they had provided. 

You heard the rustle of fabric as he removed his shirt and trunks. You turned around quickly, facing the wall to avoid the sight of his fully naked body, one you knew far too well and that still had the exact same devastating effect on you. Definitely not the kind of reaction you needed when you were supposed to be relaxing. But even with your back to him, the knowledge that he was right there in the same room, completely bare, got your heart beating fast. 

When he emerged and lay face down on the right-hand table, he draped the sheet modestly over his lower half. You couldn’t help but notice the familiar lines of his back, his strong shoulders, the soft curve where his waist met his hips. Your turn came next, you stepped behind the screen, your fingers slightly unsteady as you untied the bikini top and stepped out of the bottoms. The cool air kissed your bare skin, you wrapped yourself quickly in one of the large, warmed towels and moved to the left table, lying face down.

You turned your head to the side, away from Robby, trying to steady your breathing. The masseuses worked in sync. Pouring warm oil first, spreading it with their fingers, starting at your shoulders and working downward in long strokes. The pressure was perfect — deep enough to melt the knots from endless shifts, gentle enough to feel indulgent. Beside you, Robby let out a low sound of relief as his own masseuse began. The sound sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine, you knew that voice too well, one you’d heard far too many times.

One of the masseuses, an older woman, spoke softly as she worked on your upper back. “You two make a lovely couple. Have you been together a long time?”

Robby answered before you could explain how you weren’t a couple, you two had ended here after a complicated series of events. “Five years.”

You opened your eyes, staring at the white sheet beneath you. “We’re not really together,” you corrected quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. 

Robby let out a soft chuckle from the next table. “It’s more like an on-and-off thing.”

You turned your head slightly toward him, the irritation mixing with the pleasure of the massage, an experience that was supposed to be relaxing, but now was irritating due to Robby’s presence. “It’s mostly off than on, really.”

The younger masseuse working on Robby smiled as she kneaded his shoulders. “Ah, but you are here together now. That counts for something, no?”

The older woman on your side pressed deeper into a knot between your shoulder blades, drawing a quiet sigh from you. “You make a good couple,” she said warmly. “I have seen many couples working here, but not many where the man looks at the woman the way he looks at you. It’s very special.”

You let out a small, skeptical laugh, the sound muffled against the face cradle. “I find that hard to believe.”

Robby’s voice came from beside you. “I look at her like she’s the second most precious thing in this entire world.”

The masseuses both made soft. The younger one asked curiously, “Why second?”

Robby didn’t hesitate. “Becuse the first one is the daughter she gave me five years ago.”

A soft chorus of “Awww” filled the room. You could practically feel the women melting at his words. The older masseuse patted your shoulder gently. “That is beautiful. A man who knows what he has.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, a confusing mix of embarrassment, irritation, and something warmer that his words always managed to make you feel. “He’s a flatterer,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice light. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s very good at saying the right things.”

Robby chuckled again. “Only when it’s true.”

The synchronized rhythm of the massage created an oddly intimate atmosphere. When your masseuse dug into a tight knot between your shoulder blades, Robby’s masseuse did the same at the exact same moment. The sensation of feeling your own body release tension while hearing his quiet groans of pleasure made the room feel smaller, more charged. Time stretched. You found yourself relaxing despite everything, the ocean view, the scent of the oils, the pressure, until the masseuse gently asked you to turn over. You hesitated for a second before complying, keeping the sheet carefully draped over your chest as you rolled onto your back. Robby turned at the same moment, and for a brief second, your eyes met across the small space between the tables. His gaze was dark, but you looked away quickly, focusing on the ceiling and the glow of the candles.

The front massage was somehow even more intimate, oil poured across your collarbones, your arms, your legs. The masseuse’s hands worked slowly up your thighs, careful and professional, but the proximity of Robby, who was lying there with his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes open and watching the ceiling, made every touch feel amplified. 

The older masseuse spoke again softly as she massaged your temples. “It is good to see a family taking time together. These moments are precious.”

You stayed silent this time, and Robby’s quiet reply came a moment later. “They are. It took me a while to realize there’s nothing more important than my family.”

When the massage ended, the masseuses quietly stepped out, leaving you and Robby alone in the treatment room. Robes had been provided, and two elegant flutes of champagne with fresh strawberries and raspberries waited on a small table between the two massage tables. You sat up slowly, wrapping the white robe tightly around yourself. Robby did the same on his table, the robe hanging open just enough to show his chest.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sounds were the distant waves. Robby reached for the champagne glasses and handed one to you. He clinked his glass gently against yours.

“To surviving the rest of this trip,” he said softly, a smile playing on his lips.

Robby leaned back against the edge of his table, watching you. The robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing more of his chest. “No matter how much you try to pretend you hate spending time with me… I know you secretly enjoy it. We get along. We have fun together. You know there’s this… connection between us.”

You stared into your glass, watching the bubbles rise. You took a sip before answering. “You’re wrong. The only reason we keep spending time together is because you pull this shit all the time. This wasn’t what I agreed to. I asked for separate rooms, no couple activities. You keep lying to me and manipulating everything because you have this fantasy that I’ll magically get back with you just because you paid for some expensive vacation.”

Robby set his glass down slowly. He didn’t look defensive. Instead, his expression was open, almost vulnerable. “I didn’t get a couple’s massage. I swear. I asked for one massage for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, the champagne making your cheeks feel warmer. “What about the hotel room mix-up?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe… I didn’t correct the receptionist when he gave me only one room.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Robby looked at you then. “I’m in love,” he said simply. “Crazy in love with you. And every single day, every second I spend with you it just gets bigger and bigger. I can’t help it.”

The confession hung between you. You wanted to push back, to stay angry, but the massage had stripped away too many defenses. You knew you could pack your suitcase right now. You knew you could call a taxi, get to the airport, and buy the fastest ticket back home. But part of you didn’t. Part of you longed to stay and see what the next thing Robby would do, how far he’d go to win you back, how much he was willing to risk this time, and whether he truly meant it. The worst part of it all was how little you actually wanted to run away from him.

“You can’t deny the massage was nice,” Robby added quietly.

You took another slow sip of champagne. The truth slipped out before you could stop it. “It felt good,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “Really good.”

The next day you woke to Hannah’s excited bouncing on the bed and Robby’s chuckle from the other side of the room. After a leisurely breakfast on the balcony while watching the ocean, the three of you headed to the resort’s massive water park, full of slides, lazy rivers, and splash zones. Hannah’s eyes were wide with wonder as she ran from one attraction to the next.

You spent hours in the shallow kids’ area first, where sprays of water misted over mushroom fountains. Hannah laughed uncontrollably as she darted through the sprays. Robby lifted her onto his shoulders so she could reach higher sprays, both of them soaked and beaming.

Later, you moved to the lazy river, the three of you floated together on a large raft, the current carrying you under bridges and past waterfalls. Hannah sat between you and Robby, chattering nonstop about the “big slides” she wanted to try next. Robby’s arm rested casually behind you on the raft, occasionally brushing his fingers over your shoulder. 

You braved a few bigger slides with Hannah while Robby waited at the bottom with open arms to catch her. He went down the steeper ones with her, their laughter echoing as they shot out into the splash pool. You watched from the side, smiling despite yourself at how good he was with her, patient and playful.

By late afternoon, you were all tired, but still decided to head to the open-air resort theater for the karaoke night. The tables were arranged in an arc around a central stage. You sat at a table near the front with Hannah comfortably settled on your lap. She wore her favorite sundress, her hair still slightly damp from the evening shower. In her small hands, she held a colorful fruity mocktail with a paper umbrella and a slice of pineapple on the rim. She watched performer after performer take the stage, clapping enthusiastically for every single one, whether they were hilariously off-key or surprisingly talented.

Robby sat right beside you, he had switched to margaritas after dinner and was now on his third or fourth. His cheeks were flushed a warm pink, and his smile came easier, the alcohol had softened the edges that usually existed between you, but you kept your guard firmly in place, hyper-aware of the weight of his arm behind you and the occasional brush of his fingers against your shoulder

The host, a charismatic man stepped up to the microphone scanning the crowd. “Alright, folks, next up we have Michael Robinavitch! Michael, the stage is all yours.”

Your stomach dropped instantly. You froze, asking yourself if you’d heard right, because karaoke was something Robby would never, ever, do. But then again, this wasn’t normal Robby, this was Robby after four margaritas that inhibited any level of self-awareness he had. “Robby… where are you going? What are you doing?”

He stood up with a bright, slightly tipsy smile that lit up his whole face. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Hannah’s head, then straightened. “You’ll see,” he said.

He walked toward the stage with confidence, the stage lights catching on the slight sway in his step from the margaritas. The crowd quieted with anticipation as he took the microphone. For a moment, he just stood there, looking out over the audience, until his eyes found yours across the tables. A heart-stopping smile spread across his face.

“Good evening, everyone,” he began. “My name is Michael Robinavitch.” He scanned the audience again until his gaze locked directly on you. “This song goes out to the love of my life.” He pointed straight at you, and heads turned. Dozens of eyes shifted your way all at once. Heat flooded your face in an instant, a deep and mortifying warmth that burned from your chest all the way to your ears. 

You wanted the sand beneath the theater to open up and swallow you whole. You sank lower in your seat, wishing you could disappear. Robby didn’t stop. “No, not only the love of my life. She’s the woman of my life. She’s the mother of my child. Look at them, aren’t they the most beautiful ladies in the world?”

The crowd let out a collective and heartfelt “Awww.” Some people clapped, a few whistled. Hannah waved happily at her dad from your lap, completely thrilled and oblivious to your embarrassment. “Daddy’s singing for us, Mommy!” she whispered excitedly, bouncing a little.

The opening notes of Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing began playing, and Robby’s voice came through the speakers, rough around the edges from the margaritas, but surprisingly in tune despite being a terrible singer. He sang directly to you, keeping his eyes locked on yours the entire time, as if no one else existed.

“I could stay awake just to hear you breathing

Watch you smile while you are sleeping

While you’re far away and dreaming…”

Embarrassment burned through every inch of you. Your cheeks were on fire, and you covered your face with one hand, peeking through your fingers. 

“I could spend my life in this sweet surrender

I could stay lost in this moment forever

Where a moment spent with you is a moment I treasure…”

Hannah bounced happily on your lap, clapping along. “Daddy sounds so good! He’s singing for you, Mommy!”

Robby poured everything into the chorus, his voice rising with emotion, and cracking slightly on the high notes but full of feeling.

“Don't wanna close my eyes

I don't wanna to fall asleep

'Cause I'd miss you baby

And I don't wanna miss a thing…”

He pointed at you and Hannah again during the song, his gaze never wavering. The crowd was completely swept up, some singing along, others watching the three of you with fond, smiling faces. You felt painfully exposed, seen in a way that terrified you, and yet terrifyingly wanted and loved in front of all these strangers. 

When the final notes faded, the audience erupted in loud applause and cheers. He gave a small, humble bow, grinning widely. He didn’t step off the stage immediately, instead, he raised the microphone again. “Thank you,” he said, smiling at the crowd. “I just want to say one more thing before I go. I was an idiot. I did some things I regret. I let fear and work, and my own stubbornness get in the way of the best things in my life.” He looked straight at you. “But this woman right here… and our beautiful daughter… they are the best thing that ever happened to me. All I want is another chance to fix it. To do it right this time.”

The crowd reacted instantly, followed by scattered cheers and shouts of encouragement. Someone near the back yelled, “Give the man another chance!” More voices joined in, “Yeah, go for it!” until it became a playful chant rippling across the theater. 

Robby finally stepped off the stage, making his way back to your table amid the lingering applause. Hannah launched herself into his arms the moment he sat down. “Daddy! You sang so good for Mommy!”

You stared at him, your heart still racing from the public love declaration and the serenade. You leaned in close so only he could hear. “You’re an idiot, Robby.”

He turned to you, so close that the scent of tequila and his cologne wrapped around you again. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot.” 

You wanted to push him away, to stay angry about the public spectacle and the way he kept blurring every boundary. But with Hannah happily chattering between you two about how “Daddy is the best singer ever,” and the crowd still occasionally glancing your way with fond smiles, it was impossible to ignore the pull.

 “Every single word was true.” He brushed your shoulder gently. “I lost so many years, so much time, so many memories I let go because of how I felt, and now the thought of missing one single moment with you kills me. I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not.”

You had to blink back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. For the first time, you believed every single word that left his lips, no doubting, no second-guessing, no walls left to hide behind. After days of fighting him, of pushing back against every word and lingering touch, all you wanted was to pull him close, to bury your face in his chest and tell him you wanted the same thing. That every second you’d wasted fighting him was a second the two of you could have been together, laughing, touching. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” you swallowed. “When you’re not four margaritas in.”

The next morning, you woke before Hannah. You glanced at Robby in the other queen bed. He was still asleep, lying on his back with one arm draped over his stomach, the sheet low on his hips. You moved quietly and sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. For a long moment you just watched him, the morning light highlighting the white hair on his jaw and the lines around his eyes. 

Then Robby stirred, fluttering his eyes open slowly, focusing on you with sleepy confusion that quickly shifted into something softer, almost disbelieving. “Am I dreaming?” he murmured as he blinked a few times, pushing himself up on one elbow. “Why are you in bed with me?”

You stayed seated on the edge with your hands in your lap. “Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

He rubbed his face with one hand, still half-asleep. “We went to the water park? Hannah loved the slides…”

“Not that, idiot,” you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Later. The karaoke.”

Robby froze. His eyes widened as the memories clearly flooded back. He let out a long groan and dropped back onto the pillow, covering his face with both hands. “Oh yeah… Jesus. I can’t believe I did that.”

“I bet you’re regretting it now.”

He lowered his hands slowly. “I might be deeply embarrassed. But I don’t regret it. I wanted to do something romantic for you. Something that showed you how I feel.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your tone light even as your pulse quickened. “Yeah? Nothing more romantic than singing off-key Aerosmith in front of a hundred strangers.”

Robby chuckled and pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. “Come on, it wasn’t that off-key.” His eyes met yours. “I meant every single word I said. About not wanting to miss another second without you. About you and Hannah being the best things that ever happened to me. About wanting another chance.”

You held his gaze for a long moment, the weight of his words settling heavily in your chest, breaking down your defences more and more each day. “I heard you loud and clear, Robby.”

Hannah stirred slightly in the other bed but didn’t wake. You stood up slowly, smoothing your sleep shirt. “I’m gonna head to the pools for a bit before she wakes up.”

Robby sat up straighter. “You can’t.”

You turned back to him, raising your eyebrow. “Why not?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish again. “Yesterday I… booked us dancing lessons on the beach. Salsa. For this morning.”

You stared at him. “And why the hell did you do that? Why didn’t you ask me first? I don’t wanna go.”

He let out a helpless laugh. “I don’t know. I was drunk and thought dancing salsa with you on the beach sounded like a great idea at the time.”

You crossed your arms. “Well, I’m not going.”

“Please go with me,” he said wofter now, almost pleading. He looked at you with those warm brown eyes that had always been able to weaken your resolve. “I’ll behave. I promise. Otherwise I’m gonna have to dance with the teacher, and that would be even more embarrassing than last night.”

You stood there in the quiet morning light, part of you still wanted to say no, to keep the boundaries firm, to protect the distance you’d fought so hard to maintain. But you knew if it wasn’t this, then he’d simply come up with another way of putting the two of you together in another situation. Being with him for these days had softened you more than you cared to admit, it had all worn down your defenses. And after every honest word he’d laid bare last night, combined with the way he was looking at you now with that sheepish, boyish smile and those earnest eyes that always saw straight through you, it made it very hard to keep saying no.

After dropping Hannah off at the resort’s supervised kids’ activities center, where she immediately ran off with a group of children to do crafts and play games, you and Robby walked the shaded pathways toward the beach.

The beach dancing area was set up in a beautiful, semi-private cove framed by gently curving palm trees and large rocks. The instructor, a local man, welcomed you both with open arms. “Perfect timing!. Come, come, partners, face each other. We start with the basic steps.”

Robby was a terrible dancer. He tried, God, he tried so hard, but his movements were initially stiff and awkward, his hips resisting the rhythm. He settled his hands on your bare waist with visible hesitation at first, but that hesitation quickly melted into something much hungrier. 

The first time the instructor called for a basic side step and Robby pulled you in, he pressed his palm firmly against the small of your back, splaying his fingers wide as if he needed to feel as much of you as possible. 

The heat of his touch burned straight through your skin, sending a spark racing up your spine. “Like this?” Robby asked the instructor as he attempted the next step.

His thigh accidentally slid between your legs for balance during a turn, pressing close for a second longer than necessary. You felt the warmth of him, the subtle shift of his hips, and heat pooled in your belly.

The instructor laughed good-naturedly. “Looser hips, my friend! Feel the music. Let it move you.”

Robby tried again, pulling you closer on the next basic. He brushed his chest against yours with every step, the thin fabric of his shirt and your bikini top did nothing to hide the heat of his body.

“This is harder than it looks,” he muttered close to your ear, his breath warm against your neck. He slid his hand a little lower on your back, digging his fingers in with hunger. “But I like having an excuse to hold you like this.”

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on the beat. “You’re terrible at this.”

He grinned as he dipped you slightly on the instructor’s cue. “But I’m trying. For you.” 

His body was pressed flush against yours, his hips rolling in what was supposed to be a salsa step but felt far more intimate. The subtle grind, the way his thigh stayed between yours for balance, the hungry way in which he dropped his to your mouth and lower, to the swell of your breasts, made your skin tingle everywhere he touched. 

Your pulse thundered in your ears, almost drowning out the music. Every turn, every close hold, every time his hands guided your hips, the tension built higher. He traced possessive circles on your lower back with his fingers. When the music slowed for a moment to practice a more sensual move, he looked down at you with heavy-lidded eyes, like he wanted to devour every inch of you right there on the sand in front of everyone.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You’d tried to fight every single advance he’d made since you both arrived. You’d tried to ignore the way he looked, more tan from the sun, those charming freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, his soft body on full display in nothing but swim trunks. You’d tried to pretend you weren’t affected by the flood of memories rushing back every time he got close, or by the fantasies of what life could look like if you finally let him in. And you were bone-tired of pretending you didn’t want the same thing. Exhausted from denying yourself what your body craved so much, his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pressing you down, the way only he could make you fel.

Mid-step, you grabbed Robby’s hand tightly and started walking, pulling him firmly away from the group and down the beach. The ocean breeze tried cooling the flush on your skin but did nothing to calm the fire in your belly.

Robby stumbled slightly to keep up, surprised but not resisting. “Where are we going?”

You didn’t slow down, already scanning the shoreline ahead. “We’re going to have sex.”

He let out a startled and deep laugh that sent another shiver racing through you. A second later the laugh faded into pure disbelief. “Wait… are you serious?”

You kept walking, your breath coming faster as the arousal intensified with every second that went by without feeling Robby’s touch. “Yes, Michael.”

Robby’s grip on your hand tightened. “Let’s go back to the room then. No risk of anyone seeing—”

“It’s too far,” you cut him off, your voice breathy with need. “And they’re probably cleaning it right now.”

He let out an incredulous laugh, half-aroused, half-amused. “So what? We’re doing it in the wild?”

You glanced back at him, the corner of your mouth twitching despite the heat flooding your body. “Michael, it’s the beach, not the wilderness.”

“Excuse me,” he said, still laughing softly but with clear hunger in his eyes, “But I really like this resort. I don’t want to get banned for life from this chain.”

You stopped for a second, turning to look at him fully. Your voice dropped to a more direct and impatient tone. “You wanna fuck or not?”

His expression shifted instantly, completely undone. “Yes please.”

“Good, then stop complaining.” You kept walking until you found a good spot: a small, semi-secluded cove partially shielded by large rocks and leaning palm trees. The sand here was softer, shaded in patches by the foliage, with a clear but private view of the ocean. You pulled him behind the largest rock formation and Robby followed without hesitation, his hands already sliding to your waist the moment you stopped. The hunger in his touch matched the fire burning in your veins. He pressed you back against the smooth, sun-warmed rock, his body crowding yours, mouth hovering just inches from yours, breath ragged. The tension that had been building since the massage, since the karaoke, since the entire trip finally snapped.

The moment you pulled Robby behind the large, sun-warmed rock, the rest of the world fell away, all that existed was the heat between you, the desperate need that had been simmering since the very beginning of this trip.

You surged forward and kissed him. Robby met you instantly, a hungry sound rumbling in his chest as his hands grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him. His mouth was hot and demanding, and his fingers dug into your hips with desperation. He kissed you like a man who had been starving ever since the last night you shared together, sweeping his tongue into your mouth, claiming, while he slid one up your back to tangle in your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your lips. “I’ve been dreaming about this. Every single night since we got here. I didn’t think it would actually happen.”

You smiled against his mouth, sliding your hands up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your palms. “All your stupid tricks finally worked.”

He groaned, pressing his forehead to yours as he roamed his hands restlessly over your body, down your sides, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against the growing hardness in his swim trunks. “All I did was to try and prove you how much I love you,” he murmured. “I want to be with you. Not just fuck you again. I want everything. You, Hannah, us as a family. That’s all it’s ever been about.”

Your hand slid down between you, palming the hard and thick outline of his cock through the fabric. He hissed sharply, jerking his hips forward into your touch. “It was torture,” he rasped, against your ear, “seeing you in that bikini every single day and not being able to touch you. Not being able to do this.”

You squeezed him gently, stroking the length of him through his trunks. “Maybe I wanted to touch your body too.”

He let out a shaky laugh that turned into a groan as you rubbed your thumb over the fat head. “I know. I could see the way you watched me. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

You couldn’t wait any longer. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of Robby’s swim trunks and pushed them down just enough to free him. His cock sprang out, the thick vein along the underside pulsed visibly as you wrapped your hand around the base, your fingers barely able to close fully around his girth. You stroked him slowly from base to tip, savoring the way he throbbed powerfully in your grip. “It’s your fault for having this fucking body,” you whispered. “It’s just my type.”

Robby let his head fall back against the rock with a moan, bucking his hips into your fist. “I was right,” he managed to say. “That guy the other day at the beach… he wasn’t your type, was he?”

You swept your thumb over the head on every upstroke, spreading the leaking precum and making him even wetter. Robby groaned deeply, jerking forward into your fist as you twisted your wrist just the way he liked, squeezing a little tighter on the way back down. “Please. That guy lacked everything I love in you.”

“Fuck… your hand feels so good,” he rasped. “Been dying to feel you touch me again.” He cursed under his breath, gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. 

You sank slowly to your knees in the sand, until Robby’s cock stood right in front of you, flushed a deep, needy red at the head and already leaking a steady bead of precum. You looked up at him through your lashes, taking in the sight of him towering above you. 

As you wrapped one hand around the thick base, the heat of him pulsed strongly against your palm, the weight and girth of him making your mouth water. You started slow, torturously slow. Leaning in, you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the leaking tip, tasting the salty, slightly bitter bead of precum that had gathered there. Robby’s hips jerked forward involuntarily as a whimper escaped from his chest. You kissed it again, slower this time, letting your lips linger as you savored the skin stretched tight over the swollen head. 

Then you dragged your tongue in a wet circle around it, tracing every ridge and vein, feeling the way he twitched and throbbed against your tongue with every pass. “Fuck… baby,” he groaned, already wrecked and sounding hoarse. One of his hands came down to gently grab your hair, trembling slightly as his fingers carded through the strands. “Come on… please… Take a little more, baby.”

You smiled against the slick head, barely parting your lips to take just the tip into the wet heat of your mouth. You sucked gently, swirling your tongue lazily around him, giving him only the lightest, teasing pressure. Robby’s moan was loud and needy, his thighs were trembling as he fought the powerful urge to thrust deeper into your mouth.

You pulled back just enough to speak, brushing your lips still against the glistening tip, a thin string of saliva connecting you. “You’ve been thinking about this the whole trip, haven’t you?” 

Robby closed his eyes for a second and nodded, almost like he was in pain. Then you took him deeper, sucking more of his length into your mouth. You hollowed our cheeks as you worked him with deliberate bobs of your head, savoring every inch. The taste of him, the salty skin that was so uniquely Robby, made you moan around his cock. The vibration drew another loud, desperate whimper from deep in his throat. 

You remembered every little trick he used to love from years ago, the way he liked the flat of your tongue pressing firmly along the sensitive underside, followed immediately by soothing suction, the way you hollowed your cheeks on the upstroke to create that perfect tight pressure. You did them all, eagerly and hungrily, losing yourself in the heavy weight of him on your tongue and the broken, needy sounds he couldn’t hold back no matter how hard he tried.

You slid your free hand between his spread legs, cupping and gently rolling his heavy balls, massaging them with careful pressure. Robby’s head fell back against the rock with a guttural groan that was almost too loud for the public setting. His hips stuttered forward, chasing the wet heat of your mouth as he fought for control.

“God… your mouth,” he panted, forcing his eyes to stay open. He couldn’t stop watching you, the way your lips stretched obscenely around his cock, the spit glistening on your chin and dripping down his shaft, the lust-drunk look in your eyes as you took him deeper with every bob of your head. “I can’t… fuck. You look so fucking good like this, on your knees for me.”

You moaned again around him, and took him as deep as you could, until your nose was brushing the dark, untrimmed hair at his base, holding him there for a long moment while your throat worked around him. You continued playing with his balls, gently tugging and rolling them, feeling them draw up tight as his pleasure built. 

Robby’s whimpers turned into full, unrestrained moans. He tightened his fingers almost painfully in your hair as he began rocking his hips shallowly, fucking your mouth with tiny movements. Spit dripped down your chin, coating your hand as you stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting your wrist on every upstroke just the way he liked.

You pulled off just enough to gasp for air, strings of thick spit connecting your swollen lips to his throbbing cock. “You gotta be quiet,” you whispered, “if you don’t want to attract an audience.”

Robby let out a shaky laugh that quickly dissolved into another deep moan as you licked a long stripe up the entire underside of his cock, tongue pressing firmly against the thick vein there.

“I can’t… I can’t be quiet when I’m finally feeling your mouth again. Fuck, I’ve missed this so much. Missed you so fucking much.”

You took him back in without warning, sucking harder and faster now. Robby’s moans grew louder, more needy, his body trembling as he fought the edge, his thighs shaking beside your head. “Baby… I’m close,” he warned, stuttering his hips forward. “So fucking close—”

You kept going, eager to push him over the edge, dying to feel his thick load flooding your mouth, but Robby suddenly pulled you off with a desperate groan. He hauled you up to your feet with strength. His cock, slick and throbbing and coated in your spit, pressed against your stomach. “Not yet,” he rasped. “Not like this. I want more. I want all of you.”

With a growl, he spun you around, pressing your front firmly against the rock. Your cheek rested against the stone as he yanked the ties of your bikini bottoms loose with impatient fingers until the fabric slid down your legs and pooled at your ankles. You kicked it aside impatiently, leaving yourself completely bare from the waist down. 

One of Robby’s large hands slid up your body from behind, slipping under the fabric of your bikini top. His palm was hot as it cupped your breast fully, squeezing the soft flesh with blatant hunger. He found your already hard nipple and rolled it slowly between thumb and forefinger, pinching just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure shooting straight down to your dripping core. You gasped, arching your back and pressing your breast harder into his hand, craving more of that delicious sting.

At the same time, he dipped his other hand between your legs from behind, dragging two thick fingers teasingly through your soaked folds, parting them and spreading your slick arousal everywhere. The wetness coated his fingers as he explored you, rubbing up and down your slit before finally finding your puffy clit. He circled it with the pad of his middle finger, pressing it just right, making your thighs tremble and your knees threaten to buckle against the rock. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” his voice was rough with lust. “This pussy is dripping for me already. You’ve been aching for my cock, huh?”

You moaned loudly and pushed back against his hand desperately. “Robby… I can’t wait anymore,” you gasped. “I need you inside me. Now. Please.”

He pressed a wet kiss to the back of your neck, grazing your skin with his teeth possessively. “Fuck, yes,” he groaned.

You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge against your entrance, sliding through your slick folds once, twice, teasing you both. Then, with one powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you.

The stretch was like something you never felt before, overwhelming and full, exactly what you’d been craving for days. Robby filled you completely, his cock dragged against every spot inside as he bottomed out with a satisfied groan. 

He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, both of you breathing hard together, his chest pressed flush against your back, one hand still massaging and kneading your breast, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.

Then he started moving, he was slow at first, giving you deep and rolling thrusts that let you feel every single inch of him. Robby snapped his hips forward deliberately, driving his cock so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach. The wet sound of skin meeting skin mixed beautifully with the waves and your shared, breathy moans. 

Robby’s grip on your hip tightened as he gradually picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper. “God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned right against your ear. One of his hands left your breast, sliding down your body until it reached your ass. He grabbed a full, greedy handful of the rounded flesh, squeezing hard enough to leave marks as he spread you open wider for him, pulling your cheeks apart so he could watch every inch of his cock as it disappeared inside your greedy pussy. Your arousal coated his shaft, strings of wetness connecting you every time he pulled back, only to slam in deeper. “So tight… so wet for me. Been thinking about this pussy every single day on this trip. You’re creaming all over me, baby. Can you feel how deep I am?”

You moaned loudly, pushing back to meet every powerful thrust. The rock was warm against your front, your breasts kept rubbing against it with every movement. He leaned over you more, changing the angle so he could fuck you even deeper, snapping his hips forward with raw purpose now. “You’re mine,” he growled against your ear. “This pussy is mine. You’re mine. Say it.”

You could only moan in response at first, lost in the overwhelming pleasure. “Y-yours.”

He grabbed your hips with both hands, digging his fingers in hard as he pulled you back onto his cock with every thrust. “Fuck, Robby… harder,” you gasped, still pushing back against him. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he growled, slamming into you deeper. “Not gonna stop until you’re coming all over my cock.”

You moaned louder, unable to hold back. Robby’s hand left your hip and slid up your body, pressing two fingers firmly against your lips. “Suck on them,” he growled hotly against your skin. “Before someone hears how well I’m fucking you. Be a good girl for me.”

You parted your lips obediently, taking his fingers deep into your mouth. You sucked on them eagerly, swirling your tongue around the digits just like you had around his cock earlier. Robby groaned deeply at the feeling of your muffled moans against his fingers, his hips slamming into you harder.

With his other hand, Robby found your swollen, aching clit. He pressed his digit firmly against the bundle of nerves, rubbing tight circles with exactly the pressure he knew drove you wild. He alternated between teasing strokes and faster, more insistent ones, never letting the rhythm become predictable. The dual sensation was devastating, not only his cock stretching and pounding into you from behind, but now his fingers working your clit relentlessly. 

“That’s it,” he rasped as he fucked you even deeper. “Suck my fingers while I ruin this pussy. You’re so fucking wet for me. Been thinking of it since the dance lesson, haven’t you? I could feel how soaked you were the whole time I was touching you.”

You moaned around his fingers, the sound vibrating against them as you sucked harder. Your legs shook uncontrollably. “Come for me,” he rubbed your clit faster and harder. “I want to feel you squeezing my cock when you cum. Let me feel how much you need this. How much you’ve been aching for me.”

The tension snapped, your orgasm crashing over you hard and suddenly. You cried out around his fingers, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his thick cock, fluttering and squeezing him tightly as waves of overwhelming pleasure rolled through your entire body. 

Robby’s thrusts grew erratic as he chased his own release. “Fuck… you feel so good when you cum. So tight. I’m so close, baby.” He kept fucking you through your orgasm, drawing it out with deep strokes, his fingers still rubbing your oversensitive clit in gentler circles. His voice was completely wrecked when he spoke again. “Can I finish inside? Please… I need to fill you up. I need to cum inside you.”

You pulled off his fingers just enough to gasp out. “Yes. Cum inside me. Fill me up, Robby. I want it so much.”

That was all he needed. Robby buried himself as deep as possible with a broken moan as he came. You felt every pulse as he emptied himself inside you, hot ropes of cum flooding your pussy in thick spurts. He kept thrusting through it, as if he wanted to push every single drop of his fat load as far inside you as possible. His body trembled against yours as he pressed his forehead to the back of your neck, breathing raggedly against your sweat-slicked skin.

Robby wrapped his arms around you from behind, holding you close as he softened inside you, placing lazy kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck. His cum slowly leaked down your thigh in sticky trails, mixing with your own wetness. 

Eventually, you shifted, feeling the pleasant ache between your legs and the reality of where you were. You reached down, picked up your discarded bikini bottoms from the sand, and slowly tied them back on with slightly shaky fingers. Robby stayed close, resting his hands on your hips, stroking circles with his thumbs as if he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.

“We should go pick up Hannah,” you said softly, still sounding a little hoarse.

Robby didn’t move right away, he turned you gently to face him, cupping your face with his hands. “Wait,” he murmured. “What does this mean? Just admit it and stop fooling yourself. Tell me you want this as much as I do. That you want to be with me too. That you never minded sharing a room, or getting a couple’s massage, or taking dancing lessons. Tell me you actually like spending time together like this.”

You looked up at him, the vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache, and after an intense orgasm like the one he’d just given you, you couldn’t even fool yourself. You took a slow breath. “Yes… I do,” you admitted. “I like being with you, Robby. I like the sex. I like how you make me laugh. I like talking to you. I like… all of it.” His eyes lit up with hope, but you continued before he could speak. “But what happens with me? What happens with Hannah if you change your mind? If the charm wears off once we’re back home, dealing with real life.”

Robby’s expression turned serious, almost pained. He cupped your face more firmly, brushing your cheeks. “I wouldn’t go through all of this if I weren’t a hundred percent sure of what I feel and what I want. Hannah is the most important thing in my life. I’d die before hurting her. Or you. I’m not going anywhere this time. I promise.”

You searched his eyes, tears pricking at the corners of yours. “How can I believe you?”

He smiled softly, a little sheepish. “I sang in front of a crowd for you. That has to count for something.”

You laughed despite yourself. “This whole trip has been so nice… but real life isn’t a beach resort with massages and dancing lessons.”

Robby pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I want you when you’re tired from work. Sweaty, your hair a mess, exhausted. I want the long nights when we’re both too drained to speak, and the fights when we’re frustrated and still choose each other every single day. I want all of it.” He kissed you softly, then pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “Please… I’ve missed so much already, don’t let me miss another thing.”

You smiled, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. You leaned in and kissed him again, slow and deep, full of everything you’d been holding back. When you pulled away, he searched your face with hopeful eyes. “Is that a yes?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You smiled wider. “It’s a maybe.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. “Say yes.”

You laughed softly against his lips. “Maybe.”

Another kiss, sweeter. “Yes?”

You melted into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yes.”

Your reblog doesn’t just support me as a writer, it also helps this reach the people who read the first part, so please consider taking 0.00001 second to click that button, it’s free!!💜

A/N: I feel like, the way it happens in a lot of media, second parts are never quite as good as the first one. But people wanted a second part, and I wanted to write one too, so here’s what I came up with. I hope it wasn’t too long or boring. I’m so thankful for all the love and support the first part got. It genuinely makes me so happy to see that people enjoyed it🥹

There’s honestly so much I could write about these two, but it already felt long as it is. I don’t think I’ll write a third part, to be honest.

@blacpiink @fallout-girl219 @tpwklizzie @tlc3802 @findthebeautyinbreakdowns

dividers by: @cafekitsune

[minswriting]

Only One Thing On My Mind - Frank Langdon

Part Two

About: After his divorce and getting clean, Frank finds himself incredibly horny all of the time. You, being the amazing roommate you are, offer to help your friend out on his problems.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, oral (m), kitchen sex, praise, use of good girl, banana bread boners, domestic vibes, unprotected sex, p in v, etc.

AO3 Link

Word Count: 3.0k

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Notes: If you see any typos, no you do not. I apologize for the delay in posting. I recently got engaged along with have been focusing on graduating college so it’s been a bit hectic but regardless, here it is! There is a moment (i will not spoil it) where i use a word for a body part that i would not usually use but @clarktologist and @brattyspence have convinced me to use it along with my roommate and i must admit im easily influenced. if it takes you out of the fic, i totally understand LMAO. Hope you guys enjoy part two of the series! Please like, comment, and reblog to support your writers!

Frank was entirely grateful towards you for many things. First and foremost, you helped him through such a tough time. Seeing him when he was at his lowest of lows, when he was his most vulnerable and ugly, as he went through rehab and weeks of withdrawal, and you stayed with him through it all. It meant far more to him than he could ever truly outwardly express. Secondly, you opened your home to Frank and expected nothing much in return other than a clean house and occasionally dinner while he was unemployed.

You were an amazing friend, offered so much more love and support than anyone could ever truly comprehend. And yet, you were also someone who never allowed anyone to take advantage of you.

And so, when Frank complained to you about his ongoing sexual frustrations, while he was surprised, he couldn't say it was entirely unlike you to offer your services. Your love language towards your friends was indeed acts of service and what better way to show you cared than to be the person Frank used when the desire hit him?

Frank knew from the moment he realized you had been serious about your offer, after reading the look on your face and the glint of your eyes, that he would do anything in his power to make it good for you too. You have done far too much for him, including this agreement, and the least he could do was take care of you as well.

Over the last week since that first night, the day you had offered yourself to him, Frank practically worshipped the ground you walked on. He had eaten you out that night and later on, fucked you soft and sweet into the mattress as part of his thank you before you went back to your room for the night. And throughout the week, Frank made sure to pleasure you more.

A rough twelve hour shift? Frank's fingers were buried in your cunt until you were completely spent. You had just gotten done showering and asked Frank if your legs were soft? Well, the only way for him to really find out were if they were on his shoulders while he ate you out. You were frustrated about a situation at work and needed stress relief? Frank was pounding you into the mattress until you were crying of pleasure from his cock.

Frank had been having a rough day. He accidentally spilled a cup of coffee onto himself, even though he had already showered and changed into scrubs. His car wouldn't start which was ridiculous since he had just brought it to the mechanic a week prior for an oil change so he had to borrow yours. And during the day at work, since you had the day off, his whole balance was just entirely thrown off. Especially when he had a patient pee on him in the middle of the day and he had to change into new scrubs. Not to mention the fact that Dr. Robby was still acting cold towards him, despite the fact that Frank had been showing time and time again that he was sober and more than capable of doing his job.

So really, Frank had been having a horrible day.

By the end of the day, luckily a rare eight hour shift rather than a full twelve hours or sometimes even a fifteen hour shift, Frank had come home in a terrible mood. His shoulders were tense, his jaw was clenched, and he overall was stressed out. As he made his way into the apartment, Frank heard the sounds of "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac playing from the kitchen.

He placed his bag by the door and kicked his shoes off, placing them right next to yours. The soft tone of your voice humming along to the music filled the kitchen as Frank approached. You were stood at the counter, mixing together ingredients in a bowl of what smelled to be bananas.

"Hello," You greeted Frank with a smile, looking up from the bowl. You were dressed in nothing more than one of Frank's Penguins shirts and a pair of your sweatpants. Frank licked his lips as he eyed you, his cock stirring in his pants.

"Hi," He replied.

"Rough day?" You asked as you poured the batter into a greased loaf pan. Definitely banana bread, Frank thought.

"You could say that," Frank sighed. "I'm going to go shower and get changed. I can practically feel the germs on my skin."

"Okay," You replied with a soft smile, your focus on the task in front of you.

Frank couldn't help the small quirk of his lips before walking out of the kitchen. The entire interaction felt domestic, as their interactions usually had even prior to their arrangement. He took a deep breath as he gathered his things from his bedroom and went to the bathroom to prepare for his shower.

Frank wasn't known for having extremely long showers but he did enjoy a good soak. Standing underneath the stream of the almost way too hot water, something he was beginning to see the perks of after surprising you in the shower yesterday to bend you over and fuck you, Frank could feel the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His lower back was still aching, it always did no matter what.

The sound of the door gently clicking filled Frank's ears causing a soft smirk to appear on his lips. "Do you have room for another?" You asked, popping your head to the side of the shower curtain. It looked as though you had already taken your clothes off, judging by the fact that you weren't wearing his Penguins shirt any longer.

"Of course," Frank replied softly. His cock, which was always half-hard around you now, twitched as you stepped into the shower. His suspicions were indeed confirmed, you had indeed already taken all of your clothes off. "I thought you were baking," He murmured as he placed his hands on your hips.

You only hummed in response and leaned in to kiss Frank's jaw. "Banana bread takes an hour to bake," You whispered into Frank's ear, your breath hot against his skin.

That sentence shouldn't have been hot whatsoever, it was banana bread for heavens sake. But with all of his blood rushing to his cock, Frank could hardly find himself caring. You were right there with him, water cascading down you both, naked, and touching his chest, nothing else mattered in this moment.

You kissed Frank's lips which he returned immediately. His hands roamed your body, going from your hips to you ass and massaging the flesh before trailing them along your back. You made a soft noise against Frank's lips, reaching between the both of you to grip Frank's cock. He gasped against your lips and pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against yours as he looked down at your hand gripping him.

"You had a bad day," You murmured, slowly pumping his length. Your thumb swiped over the tip which Frank involuntarily thrusted into your hand. "Let me take care of you."

Frank could only moaned in response. There was absolutely nothing going on his head when you were right there, touching him so good. He felt the water from the shower dripping down his nose but he didn't care, his eyes fixated on your hand wrapped around him.

It wasn't until you removed your hand that Frank finally processed what was happening. You dropped to your knees before him, as if you were a disciple praying to a god. Perhaps it was the fact that Frank had grown up as a devoted Catholic that the thought had occured to him. All that mattered was the manner in which you were staring up at him, water dripping onto your face and body.

You wordlessly gripped his cock once again, giving a few tentative strokes before guiding it to your mouth. You swirled your tongue across the tip, tasting the precum that had already accumulated. Frank felt a bit pathetic with how easily hot and bothered he had been since he got sober. But you never shamed him for it, especially when this arrangement began. In fact, Frank swore you got off on the fact he was horny all the time.

Maybe because you were too.

"Oh fuck," Frank groaned as your mouth eased onto Frank's length, all warm and welcoming. You stopped about halfway before moving your head upwards, slowly getting into a rhythm. Your hand moved to the based of his cock, stroking whatever couldn't fit in your mouth in sync with your movements.

Frank tilted his head back, allowing the water to cover his face entirely. He relished in the feeling of your lips wrapped around his cock. This was the first blowjob he had gotten in quite a long while and god, did it feel heavenly. If you were a disciple then your god was his cock with the way it felt as though you were worshipping it.

But with the emotions Frank felt, the reality of your dynamic was the fact that he worshipped the very ground you walked on much more than he'd ever admit to you or himself outwardly. The thoughts and feelings he felt for you were kept at bay, his very own secret to hopefully never be revealed. This was just sex, a means to an end, it didn't mean anything else.

Frank removed his face from being directly sprayed on by the water and looked down at you. You hallowed your cheeks, causing Frank to whimper at the added pleasure. With each movement upward, you swirled your tongue along the tip.

"Fuck, sweetheart," He groaned lowly, bringing a hand to your head. It was embarrassing how terribly close he was, ready to explode into your mouth. "I-" He cut himself off when your fingers brushed against his bean bags, a rather pathetic whine escaping his lips in response. Frank has always been quite sensitive. "God, baby, I'm gonna cum," He moaned, unable to help the subtle thrust of his hips in sync with your lips.

You simply hummed around Frank's length, encouraging his approaching orgasm. Frank cursed at the vibration, adding to his pleasure. Frank felt his abdomen tightening as he grew closer. And with a few more movements of your mouth, Frank was holding your head in place as he came, filling your mouth. All he could see was white as he moaned your name repeatedly.

When Frank finally came down from his high and loosened his grip on you, you pulled away and looked up at Frank with glossy eyes and swollen lips. You were always such a dream but in that moment, Frank found you to be ethereal, truly a blessing from God himself.

"Fuck," He breathed out as he tried to gain control of his breathing. The water of the shower was still spraying onto his back. He brought his hands to your shoulders and helped you stand up. "You're too good to me," He said roughly as he looked at you, placing his hands on your waist instead.

You only hummed in response as a smile appeared on your lips. "You had a rough day," You said softly. "I wanted to help."

Frank leaned in and kissed you gently on the lips. "Thank you," He whispered.

You kissed Frank in response, your lips moving gently against his. "Anytime," You whispered back.

After the two of you had finished showering, grateful that water was included when you got your apartment otherwise the water bill would be far too high for you alone to pay, you and Frank had gotten yourselves dried and changed. You had thrown on only one of Frank's shirts and nothing else while he had thrown on a pair of sweatpants.

You made your way to the kitchen to check on the timer you had set on the oven. There were still about fifteen minutes left on the timer. The whole apartment was filled with the sweet and beautiful aroma of banana bread.

"God it smells amazing," Frank said as he walked into the kitchen behind you.

"I'm glad," You replied. "Because I even added nutella to the batter."

Really, his cock should not have twitched at the revelation. It's chocolate hazelnut spread for god sake. But here he was, suddenly hard despite the amazing blowjob you had given him just a bit ago.

"Oh I could fuck you," He groaned out. The best way into a man's pants is through his stomach right? That was totally the saying. Or was it? Frank didn't really care, not when the blood was rushing to his cock. It would be embarasssing if you weren't biting your lip and looking at Frank as though you also desperately wanted him.

"Well there is fifteen minutes left on the timer…" You pointed out with a glance toward the oven. "Think we could finish in fifteen?"

"I think so," Frank nodded his head, glancing down at himself. The tent in his sweatpants was obvious and he couldn't help but palm himself through the material.

You let out a breath, your eyes fixated on Frank's movements for just a moment. You cleared your throat. "Let's get moving then," You said before you turned around and bent over for Frank, your forearms resting on the counter in front of you.

Frank allowed himself to just look at you as you bent over for him. You hadn't bothered with putting on underwear after the shower and had only thrown on one of Frank's shirts. Your ass was exposed and now so was your cunt. He licked his lips and dropped his pants to his thighs before making his way over to you.

He first places his hands on your ass, massaging the flesh. A small sigh left your lips in response. The sigh had quickly turned into a gasp as Frank placed a small smack on your left cheek. "You're so perfect," Frank said, his voice rough from being turned on.

"Only thirteen more minutes," You replied breathlessly.

Frank hummed in response as his fingers moved from your ass to your cunt, ellicting a soft noise from your lips. You were already so wet and he hadn't done anything yet. That was the one thing he had realized during this past week since the two of you began this arrangement, you were truly ready for him at any and all times.

His fingers spread around your wetness before he removed his fingers entirely. Frank wrapped a hand around his cock, guiding himself to your cunt. The tip grazed your clit, causing you to moan softly.

You were truly just a sight to behold. Bent over the counter with your cunt glistening for Frank, absolutely a vision. Without warning, Frank began pushing his cock into your entrance. "Oh fuck," You said, closing your eyes as you gripped the edge of the counter.

Frank groaned as he entered inside of you. Your pussy was so wet, so tight, and perfect. It took everything to not just instanteanously blow his load like he had almost done earlier in the shower. "God," He threw his head back as he eased all the way in.

"Please," You breathed out in a whimper, wanting so badly to simply be pounded into.

And who was Frank to deny you when you sounded like that?

He drew his hips back slowly, his cock easing out of you, before slamming himself back into you. A loud moan fell from your lips as the feeling. Your walls instinctively clenched around him, almost clinging to his cock as if to never let go. You felt almost as though you were desperate and perhaps in many ways, you were.

"Fuck, you feel so good, baby," Frank groaned as he continued that pace for a few moments, simply drawing his hips back slowly before slamming into you harshly. He began moving his hips a bit faster, gaining a nice rhythm. He had one hand on your hip while the other rested on your spine.

"Frank," You whined loudly as he thrusted his hips.

The kitchen was filled with the sweet scent of banana bread and the loud sound of skin clapping together as he fucked you hard and fast, uncaring of whether or not the neighbors may hear you guys. It didn't particularly matter, not when his cock felt heavenly inside of you.

"You're so fucking good to me," Frank grunted, his voice rough. "Letting me take you whenever I desire," He gripped your hip a bit tighter. "Such a good girl, aren't you?"

A shiver went down your spine at the praise as you audibly gasped. With a moan, you nodded your head in response, despite Frank being unable to see your face. "So good for you," You replied, keeping your grip on the counter.

Frank's hips adjusted slightly as he continued the pace. With the slightly knew angle, his cock began hitting your g-spot repeatedly, causing you to moan much louder than before. "God, I'm not gonna be able to last," Frank's other hand slid from your spine to your other hip. He held you tightly as he fucked you.

You reached a hand downward to your cunt, rubbing circles on your clit in sync with Frank's thrusts. That familiar heat inside of you was building quickly. "Oh my god," You mewled, meeting Frank's thrusts with your own movements as you began chasing that high.

And with a few more thrusts of Frank's cock and your fingers, you were moaning his name as you clamped down around him. Your body quivered with pleasure as your orgasm hit you hard. You felt Frank twitch before spilling deep inside of you, riding out his own release.

After a few moments, the world came back into perspective along with the beeping of the oven to signal that the banana bread was done. The two of you were breathing heavily, coming down from your highs. Frank pulled out of you and stepped back just enough to pull up his sweatpants. You stood back up, still breathing hard, and turned around to look at Frank.

He smiled at you and leaned in to press a soft kiss onto your lips. "Don't worry about pulling the bread out," He murmured softly. "I'll take care of it. You go get yourself situated," He said before pressing his lips against your forehead.

You couldn't help the small smile that appeared on your lips as the two of you pulled away. "I'll be right back," You whispered before walking away, all while you continued to ignore that clenching feeling in your chest.

[annsfics]

♡ you can't keep me away from her ♡

♡ pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader x michael robinavitch

♡ synopsis: during his time off for rehab, frank keeps in contact with you to keep up with the goings-on at ptmc. but when things go from bad to worse—abby threatening divorce & a custody battle over their children, him continually relapsing, & the worry that if he can't get & stay clean, then he may lose his license & job as a whole—he begins to lay his baggage at your feet when he believes you to be all he has left. what begins as you trying to be a good friend ends in you running to robby for help when you begin to fear for your safety due to langdon's obsession.

♡ content: mentions of drug addiction/being high, stalking, codependency, robby is protective, pining!robby, unprotected p in v sex, infidelity

Ding ding

With an exhausted sigh, you roll onto your side, despite already knowing who it is.

With a quiet huff, you throw your hand atop your bedside table and grip the plastic corners of your phone case before sliding the device into bed with you.

Peeking open blurry eyes, you squint at the illuminated glass screen and pull down on the text notification displayed.

You awake?

"God, Langdon, it's almost 2 a.m.," you mumble.

Everything okay?

typing. . .

typing. . .

Just thinking about you.

You groan while pinching the bridge of your nose.

Before Langdon's dismissal due to apparently smuggling patients' prescriptions out of the ED and back home for his own personal use, he, as well as the likes of Robby, Abbot, and McKay, were some of your favorite mentors. And when Frank was sent packing on the road to recovery, you became someone he regularly confided in.

You'd initially thought it was because he missed being at work and just wanted to keep up with the goings-on in the ED. Now, you wonder if it wasn't due to loneliness because things haven't exactly been going well for him.

Between the situation at work, trying and failing at rehab due to continually relapsing, and Abby threatening divorce, as well as taking full custody of their children... Some days, all he seems to do is spiral.

That's where you come in. It began as just the occasional text, then a random phone call, a request for a coffee meetup, and somewhere along the way, contact started bordering on obsessive.

You'll never forget the first morning you woke up to nearly a dozen texts from him—half being apologies for flying off the handle because he was in the middle of a manic episode.

That should've been the moment you blocked his number.

But instead... It's what women are always taught: you must be nice. Put their wellbeing above your own, even to your detriment. They have it so hard, after all. Their feelings are so fragile.

So you forgave him.

Now, here you lie sacrificing sleep for his benefit.

I need to go back to sleep for work tomorrow. Goodnight.

typing. . .

typing. . .

Sorry. Night.

You roll your eyes at his clipped, passive aggressive tone. All because you're not willing to stay up and entertain his feelings.

He shouldn't be talking to you like that anyway, especially given the hour.

Tossing your cell back on the nightstand, you roll onto your side facing away from it in the hopes of drifting off again soon.

You're in the midst of aiding Robby with prepping a patient for a thrombectomy before they're carted off to a specialized suite when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Frank—that's your first thought now anytime it buzzes or chimes or anything pops up on your screen. Like when a mouse trap snaps, and you're left to assume it's caught a pest in its metal hinges. You don't know until you've checked it

Another buzz and you grit your teeth.

You need to put it on do not disturb at your earliest convenience.

Once the elderly man is deemed fit for travel across the hospital, a team comes shortly after to retrieve and wheel him away. Snapping off your gloves with irritation, you toss them into a waste bin and slip your phone from your pocket with a quiet curse—a sound that surprises Robby when he glances in your direction.

He watches as your thumbs fly across the digital keyboard and a crease knots itself right between your furrowed brows. "Everything alright?"

"It's fine," you snap—still typing.

Crossing his arms, as well as the room itself to reach you, he waits with pursed lips. "Boyfriend problems?"

You snort. "He's married, so not likely." You glance straight ahead, then press the heel of your palm to your forehead in annoyance. "We're not... He's just a friend."

Robby's attempt to skim the tiny text on your screen is futile without his readers on. "Going out on a limb, but did this 'friend' used to work here until quite recently?"

You quickly lock the device before tucking it back away and turning to face him. "He's going through a hard time and just needs someone to talk to."

Robby takes a small step forward, closing the gap between you. "Some particular reason that person needs to be you? And during work hours?"

Vibrate.

You step past him. "It's not a big deal."

"Didn't realize you and Langdon were that close," Robby remarks while following along behind.

Once you've reached your destination of the nurses station, you lean your head back and study the board above. "Frank feels alone right now, and—"

"It's Frank now, huh?" he asks with a surprised, yet humorless chuckle.

You roll your eyes before doing the same with your head, but in his direction. "I feel like you're trying to imply something."

He shrugs before glancing away and watching idly as your coworkers bustle about. "Just seemed like a heated exchange is all."

Robby looks at you again.

You exhale a quite huff of air before stepping away. "I need to grab another patient."

"You need to be careful," he calls after you.

"Always am," you mumble.

It's well past the middle of the day before you get another chance to really check your phone. You did briefly in the restroom and it only had one text from Frank:

FaceTime me during your next break ☀️

You'd raised a brow at the emoji, but didn't respond, deciding to wait like he suggested before you reached out.

Now sitting outside in the sun and fresh air, you sigh, then hold your phone at a distance from atop your knees before calling.

It's on the second ring when he picks up.

"Hey," Frank says with a smile and sleek, tousled hair falling over his brow. With an arm resting beneath his chin, you get a glimpse of a bare shoulder.

"Are you in bed?" you ask nervously.

His brows furrow. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I had a meeting earlier so now I'm just kinda...lazing around."

You nod while glancing away and watch as a pair of birds take flight from a nearby sign.

"Your day okay so far?"

You return your attention to the screen. "So far," you reply. "You asked me to call you. What were you...wanting to talk about?"

Shifting positions, you get a flash of Frank's bare chest before he leans back against the headboard behind him. "Just wondering if you wanted to grab dinner after your shift." He smiles. "My treat. I can pick you up when you get off, take you out, then bring you back."

You blink a couple times. "And talk about what?" you ask warily, already feeling like this is a bad idea.

He smiles softly. "Whatever you want, sweetheart."

A frown tugs at your lips. "You shouldn't call me that."

He chuckles. "What if I told you that's what I have your name saved as in my phone?"

Your eyes flit between his. "I would say that that's inappropriate."

He huffs and rolls his eyes. "I'm kidding, Jesus."

You kick a pebble with the toe of your shoe. "After work I usually just like to go home and take a shower." Your eyes flit back to the screen. "Get something to eat, then—"

"Look, you're gonna eat anyway, so let me take care of dinner tonight. Less dishes for you to wash," he remarks with a grin.

You shift in your seat. "I don't know that your wife would like that."

He snorts flippantly. "Well, getting her opinion would require her actually talking to me." Frank looks at his phone again. "I could always call her? Ask what she thinks? Maybe give her your number. I mean, the two of you could compare notes about me and—"

You throw your head back and groan in irritation, which earns you a laugh.

"So what'd'ya say? I won't have you out long. Hour or less. Promise."

You chew the inside of your lip.

"C'mon," he insists softly. "It's the least I can do to repay how good you've been to me since all this crap started."

"Just trying to be a good friend," you mumble.

"So am I," Frank states quietly.

This is a chance for you to seize. Being face-to-face, you'll have a better chance of getting through to him that the late-night texts need to stop, as do the pet names. And that he needs to put just as much effort into maintaining meaningful contact with Abby. That while you have no problem being his friend, he needs to lean heavily on his sponsor instead. It isn't...right to put it all on you—fellow medical professional or not.

"Okay," you relent with a nod. "But just for a little while."

He practically beams. "I'll be waiting for you in the parking lot at the end of your shift."

"There she is," Frank says with a smile while popping open the passenger side door of his vehicle.

Unlocking the trunk of your own, you quickly toss your pack inside before slamming it shut again and relocking it.

Even as you're sinking inside, Frank can't help himself from sliding a palm down your arm.

"So," you begin while pulling your ice water toward you. "What were you wanting to talk about?"

Frank leans back and you watch as a small smile plays on his lips. "Whatever you want."

You release a quiet exhale through your nose. Ok, fine. Works for you anyway. Just when you go to open your mouth, however, the waitress returns with your respective meals: a cheeseburger with all the fixings for him and grilled cheese sandwiches with creamy tomato soup for you.

You grant the woman a quiet thanks and a sweet smile, then take a bite of one of your buttery sandwiches before speaking. "I'd like for the late night texts to stop," you say gently.

Frank's brows knit together and he plops his burger back onto his plate before wiping his hands with a few cheap brown napkins.

"Just...nothing after 9 p.m., okay? It doesn't feel appropriate."

He crosses his arms. "That a rule for all your friends, or just me?"

Him getting defensive took a shorter amount of time than you thought it would. "Frank, I'm not trying to hurt you. It means something to me that I'm someone you feel safe in confiding in, but boundaries have to start being set. The same goes for my breaks. I only get a couple small chances during my workday to decompress for a moment before going back to it, and I prefer not to spend it on the phone. The ED is hectic enough as it is, and not being able to get a breather in because I'm FaceTiming or on a call doesn't help the matter."

A muscle in his jaw ticks. "Anything else?"

"No more pet names." You debate tacking on something about no more in-person meetups as well, but are unsure about it. Ones that're late like this one feel more akin to dates, which you're absolutely not alright with, but being on dayshift... Eating a late meal is really your only option, in terms of going out for food.

Frank rolls his eyes and shakes his head before taking a sip of his Coke.

"I want to be your friend. One who's there for you to confide in, but this is starting to feel like dependency at times. I mean, the night that you spammed me with texts—"

He suddenly slams his hand off the table and it causes the dishes to rattle and you to jump, as well as other customers to glance in your direction.

You sink down in your seat from embarrassment.

"I wasn't myself that night, alright? I was—"

"Using?" you interrupt. "I have to be able to rest for work."

He snorts. "Work, work, work." He deadpans. "Because you really think that place gives a shit about you? That Robby does?"

"Robby is the only reason you were put on leave to get clean instead of having your license revoked as a whole," you say while doing your utmost to keep your tone level. "So, yes, I think it's safe to say that he does indeed care."

He blows a raspberry and your temper climbs another notch from the immature gesture.

"You need to talk to Abby," you say quietly. "She's not the one who did wrong, so the obligation is on you to reach out to her. She's your wife. You have two little ones together. You need to fight for your family. For yourself."

He glares at you for a moment, then picks up his burger again, signaling that the conversation has clearly come to an end.

The remainder of dinner was a silent affair, with you replaying every word you spoke to him on repeat in your head, wondering if maybe you'd been too hard, or had overthought things he's done, and thus had an overreaction. He's delicate right now, isn't he? What if tonight only makes him worse; sends him spiraling? Gives him cause to feel all alone again?

"I really do care about you," you tell him with care. "But I'm not a sponsor—someone who's equipped to know how to handle the throws of addiction. I just...feel overwhelmed at times. I'm terrified I'm going to do or say something, and then you'll get worse and it'll be my fault."

His shoulders loosen, as well as his grip on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry if contact from me has felt excessive. I just... I don't really have anybody else to lean on." Reaching over, he settles a hand atop your knee and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Which is why I need you right now."

You speak once he's returned his hand to the wheel. "The people in NA—"

"They don't know me like you do," he states with a shake of his head. "I mean, how many of them, if I shot them a text at 2 a.m., would've answered right away?"

You knew you made a mistake in doing so.

"You're all I have for the time being. And if Abby follows through with divorce—"

"She won't," you interrupt. "I'm sure she's just saying that because she wants to know that you'll do everything you can to fight for her and the family you've created together."

He shrugs. "Or they'd be better off."

You frown. "None of them will. Tanner and Penny need their father. Abby needs her husband. And PTMC needs its doctor back. Frank, I want to see you succeed in every way possible. But you have to want it for yourself for it to happen."

He clicks on his turn signal and makes a right into PTMC's parking lot. "I just don't know if I can get through the first year, which everyone keeps telling me is the hardest. Just one week is bad enough."

"You're going to fall off the wagon," you say while unbuckling your seatbelt as he pulls up next to your car. "But what counts is whether you make the effort to get back on it."

Once he's parked and switched off the engine, he unbuckles as well, so you stay rooted to the spot incase there's something else he wishes to discuss.

"I just... I need to know that you're not going anywhere. Because some days," he says while turning toward you. "It feels like you're all I have left. I can't..." he extends a trembling hand toward you and cups your cheek tenderly. "Sweetheart, I can't lose you, too."

You swallow thickly, then swipe your bag from between your feet. "Okay, I think I need to get out now."

Dropping his hand, Frank turns and quickly locks your door from his side. "I just need you to listen to me. Five minutes, that's all I need," he explains in a rush of words while leaning over the center console.

You keep your eyes trained on him while sliding your hand along the door behind you in desperate search of the handle. "Frank—"

"Baby, just listen to me."

"H-Have you been using tonight?" you question while reeling back.

"I took a little something before I left the house." He shakes his head while taking your face between his hands. "It's not a big deal. If you just kiss me, you'll know. You'll feel what I do. It's not all in my fucking head, I know it."

You shove against his chest, but it's futile as he continues to lean in closer and closer.

And then you decide to scream. "Let me out! Now! Let me out of the fucking car!" you shout while slamming your bag against his dash. "Unlock the doors, Frank!"

"Fine! Fine! Jesus!"

Turning swiftly around, he clicks to release the locks, and you stumble out of the car a moment later.

He throws himself across the seat you've just vacated. "Listen, I'm sor—"

His apologies are cut short when you slam the door in his face and unlock your own vehicle with violently trembling hands before sinking inside and immediately locking the door behind you.

You don't even bother with your seatbelt before tearing out of the parking lot to race home.

"Hey," a familiar voice croons from behind you while a large palm is pressed to the small of your back.

You shriek and drop everything which was previously cradled in your arms and ready to be stored away in your employee locker and watch as it clatters to the floor. Swinging around with wide, searching eyes, you sigh when you see that it's only Robby.

"You alright?" he asks while kneeling with a groan before scooping up your personal belongings and handing them up to you.

You nod feebly. "Yes. Fine," you reply while hanging up a thin jacket, followed by a small backpack.

Standing again, he crosses his arms, watching as you wrap your stethoscope around your neck. "I come and find you every morning and that's never been your reaction. Hardly seem fine. Somethin' happen last night, or on your way here?"

Him showing concern is enough to open the floodgates you otherwise thought you'd put a pretty solid barricade over last night before going to sleep, which took you rather long to find as you tossed and turned—trying your very best, and subsequently failing, to calm your body's panicked response after earlier events in the evening.

You click your locker shut and shake your head while blinking away tears, because if you open your mouth, all he's getting in response is an ugly cry.

You go to step past, until Robby grabs you gently by the forearm. "Hey, talk to me."

So much for trying.

Burying your face in your hands, you start to cry. Full-on sobbing which wracks through your body and leaves you gasping for air.

Taking you gently into his arms, Robby winds them around you while you burrow into the safety his chest provides.

He presses his lips to the crown of your head and murmurs against it. "What happened, honey? Tell me what's got you so tore up this morning."

You shake your head. "Not here," you mumble while fisting his black scrub shirt in your fists.

"Let me take you somewhere that we can talk privately, then."

Now standing under the bright sun, which is covered only by a few fluffy clouds that float lazily past, you gaze across the city of Pittsburgh in all its bustling glory.

Robby is meanwhile busy watching a video on your phone which was recorded last night on your outdoor camera.

"He was out there for two fucking hours?" he hisses in disbelief before glancing up to you.

You nod. "Maybe he... Maybe he meant to scare me because I jilted him." You shake your head. "I don't know. Like I told you about all the texts and calls, it's not the first time his behavior has bordered on obsessive—"

Robby pushes off the railing. "Sweetheart, we're far past that. This?" He says while shaking your phone before planting it in your palm. "Is stalking."

You pocket the device.

"He tried to force himself on you after you made clear how uncomfortable he's made you, and then he sat outside your house for hours in the middle of the night. I think you have more than enough cause to file a police report at this point."

You shake your head so hard that it makes you dizzy. "No, Robby, I-I can't do that. This isn't him. He's not himself right now, and you know that. It's why you didn't report him yourself." You wave your hand. "Me doing something so drastic and reactionary could jeopardize not just his recovery, but his entire life: his marriage, custody—"

"Well," Robby says with a dramatic shrug. "Maybe he should've considered that before he locked you in his car, and, now, made you fear for your safety in your own home."

You sigh and throw your head back. "I didn't tell you because I wanted to give him a criminal record." You lower your chin. "I just...wanted to confide in someone."

He takes a few small steps forward.

"I want to believe that he's going to beat his addiction and get his life back on track. I have no interest in preventing it. Not when—when he was here—he was so helpful toward me and my education."

"I think you've more than repaid that kindness," he states while crossing his arms. "Don't you?"

Worried that he won't stop until he's pressured you into making a trip down to the local precinct, or at least into talking to Ahmad, you turn on your heel to head in the other direction.

"Alright," he says, yielding to your refusal. "We let it go for now. But if he does it again, then you really need to consider going a step further by filing a report. Otherwise, it's not going to stop. If anything, you'd be putting yourself at risk of things getting worse by allowing him to get away with it."

You shift from one foot to the other. "I'll think about it. In the meantime," you say while turning to head back down. "I packed a bag for a couple nights. I plan to wait a few hours before I book a room because I'm not sure yet, but I may stay at a hotel tonight, just to be safe."

"You shouldn't have to do that," Robby comments while following along behind you.

"Just for a night or two," you reassure.

Once you've opened the door to the stairwell, he holds it in place. "I have a guest room."

You pause, then turn back to him.

"You're more than welcome to use it."

A smile of thanks graces your lips. "I appreciate that, Robby. A lot. But—"

He shakes his head. "No 'buts'. It'll save you a few hundred, and make me feel better by knowing where you are. It's why I have it in the first place. I thought..." he nervously scratches the back of his head. "I thought I'd get use out of it when I got married someday. In-laws, or a bedroom for one my kids. Some place friends could stay if they visited during the holidays."

He doesn't look at you when he attempts a shrug of indifference. Attempts, because you know it bothers him, even if he's trying to pretend otherwise.

His eyes flit to yours. "Tonight after your shift, follow me home and you can crash there. For however long you need."

"This is important to you?" you question, wanting to make sure he doesn't feel somehow obligated to do this. You obviously understand a desire for privacy, especially in the moment, and you don't want to interrupt his.

He cups your cheek while nodding. "This is important to me."

Never ever ever, in your wildest dreams, did you think you'd so much as visit your attending's house, and now here you stand in the guest room right next to his own, turning down the bed after a shower.

You've expended effort to memorize every moment that you've been alone with him tonight. From standing at his back while he unlocked the front door, to taking inventory of his personal living space—which includes a considerable record collection that you pointed out, which he replied to with a humble shrug and a mumbled "Just wish I had more time to listen to 'em"—and even curiously sorting through his soaps in the shower.

It'd felt so intimate holding his razor in your hand before setting it back down and lathering yourself with a washcloth that you couldn't help but think about Robby using on himself.

Now washed and brushed and ready for bed, you're dressed only in panties, socks, and an over-sized t-shirt as you turn down the queen-size bed provided.

You're unaware, but there he stands behind you, leaning against the doorway with a small, satisfied smile which quickly morphs into pursued lips as you bend over to throw the covers back, thus granting him a generous view of your backside before your shirt slips back into place.

"Anything else you need before we both turn in for the night?" he asks quietly.

You turn back to Robby with a smile and a shake of your head. "I think I'm okay. I don't imagine I'll be doing much sleeping, anyway."

He raises a brow of interest. "Oh?"

"I'll probably spend the next few hours battling racing thoughts," you explain. As well as continually checking security cameras on your phone...

Robby considers, but fleetingly. "Would it make you feel safer to sleep next to me instead?"

Just as you're about to slip into bed, you turn back to him. A barrage of thoughts journey through your head in the blink of an eye.

Does he want that for reasons other than just making you feel safe? Why does your safety mean so much to him, anyway? Is he truly hoping you'll say yes? What is this dynamic between you, exactly? Does he see you more like a child, or a woman needing a man's protection? Is sleeping all Robby would intend for the two of you to do?

Of course it is! He doesn't adore you the way you have him since the first day you met. Shameful truth admitted? If roles were shifted, and it was him stalking you, the advances wouldn't be quite so unwanted... But you can't say such a terrible thing. No, it must remain strictly in your head.

"I wouldn't want to keep you up," is your expertly planned reply, whereas your heart and mind are both enthusiastically screaming 'Yes, now's your chance! Screw his brains out! Make him yours at last!'

You busy yourself with fluffing a pillow. "I'd ruin your sleep by tossing and turning all night."

Robby takes a small step forward, causing wooden floorboards to creak beneath his weight. "Rather you do it beside me."

Tossing the pillow back down, you go to speak again to refuse one last time, knowing he's just trying to be kind, until he twines his fingers between your own and tugs you along to his room. "C'mon, you'll feel safer with me sleeping next to you."

He keeps staring at you. Maybe he thinks you don't notice because you're turned onto your back while he's otherwise turned onto his side, but you do. You're aware of everything he does. Constantly.

Even just the whisper of his voice sends your mind afloat and your body abuzz.

Does that make you a stalker? You roll your eyes at the ridiculous thought.

You only spy on him in various trauma bays...sometimes.

"What're you thinking about?" he rumbles.

The fact that you're lying beside me entirely naked, save for a pair of briefs which I wish you'd take off, too.

With an arm thrown over your forehead, you shrug. "Everything."

He chuckles, then slides a hand all the way up your arm that's resting at your side until it's come to settle just under the cuff of your t-shirt. "Sounds like you've got a lot going on in there." A pause. "Any of it about Langdon?"

You nod.

He brushes his thumb over your skin. "You think about him a lot?"

Your brow twitches. "All the time."

His lips tug into a frown. "Is that why, then? That you're trying so hard to protect him? Because you have feelings for him?"

You smile at such a silly thought and shake your head. "No, I don't. I just want to see him succeed as a friend and coworker. He's someone I greatly admired in the ED, and I thought he, Abby, and their children made such a sweet family." You roll your head to the side to look at Robby. "Him, the prestigious doctor, and she the sweet stay-at-home mother with two little ones, a pretty house, and a dog."

"You're a good friend," he whispers.

"Maybe too good," you reply.

"That something you want? A family?"

You nod slowly. "I do. But with our schedules... How our lives revolve around work makes even attempting to find someone difficult. On my days off, the last thing I want to waste my time with is a dead-end first date. So I do literally anything else while telling myself that the right one will come along when he's meant to."

"I thought I'd have one by now," he murmurs. "A wife to come home to. Kids grown up and off to college—living their own lives. Hell, maybe even a grandkid or two... At least on the way."

You turn fully onto your side and he lies his hand between the two of you, which you rest your own atop of. "You could live another fifty years, Robby. You could still have that. I know people think otherwise, but so long as people try to take care of themselves, seventy doesn't have to be that old. You can still have a family; children you get to watch grow up."

He forces a smile, then cups your cheek while brushing the pad of his thumb over the apple of it. "I was jealous, y'know? Of the attention you'd been giving Langdon."

Your brows furrow. "What? Why?"

His smile slowly falters, but the way he's touching you doesn't. "Maybe I thought..." He sighs. "I'm sorry. I don't want to be another superior who crosses a line. That's the reason you're here in the first place."

Is he... Is he coming onto you? You've spent so long continually beating yourself over the head with the thought that he would never so much as glance twice in your direction, and yet here you lie in his bed where he seems unable to not touch you.

"Tell me," you whisper. "Please."

"You're in my house, sweetheart. My bed. What does that tell you about how I feel?"

You're practically buzzing with excitement and eagerness to climb atop him and shower him in affectionate kisses, all while telling him that you'd be more than willing to give him all those things he's seemingly convinced himself that it's too late for him to have now.

You're crazy about him, but if you go off the deep end, you'll scare him away by morphing into Langdon 2.0.

You scoot closer and press your palms against his belly while gently kneading the soft swell of it. "Do you have any idea," you begin breathlessly, since your heart is now pounding. "How elated I was when you invited me to come stay with you?"

A look of surprise paints his aging features. "Really?"

You grin while nodding. You cautiously slide your hand upward, through the smattering of dark hair that covers the planes of his stomach and chest. "All I ever wanted was your attention."

Robby moves his hand to the crown of your shoulder, then down your waist. "You've had it, sweetheart. The whole time."

Sliding your fingers into the coarse, scratchy trimmings of his beard, you can't stop yourself from giggling in exhilaration.

"You're far more interested than I thought," he states while carefully repositioning himself atop you, ready for you to withdraw.

Instead, you spread your legs to grant him plentiful room between them.

You throw an arm around the back of his neck while cupping his cheek in your other hand. "You have no idea," you sigh while lifting your hips, wanting him to undress you.

He leans down and fully settles his weight atop you, and you moan when his belly pushes you further into the mattress. Kissing your cheek, you can't keep yourself from smiling like a love-crazed teenager who's hot for teacher.

"You asked me to tell you," he groans against your ear. "So now it's your turn."

You shudder when he slips a calloused hand beneath your shirt. "What if I ruin it?" you sigh while throwing your calves over his own.

He finally presses his lips to yours. "You won't."

He says that now...

It'll scare him off, and then this perfect moment will be over. You'll lose him before you even have him. Just the thought makes you want to burst into tears.

"I'm scared," you whisper before kissing him back.

"Of?" he inquires while pushing your shirt to just beneath your chin so he can suckle at your nipples.

God, you're in Heaven.

"You stopping. Or...losing you."

He plants a kiss between your breasts. "You won't. So, tell me."

He moves his palm up your forearm before twining his fingers between your own.

Throwing your head back, your eyes flutter closed. "I think I'm in love with you."

His cock stirs, so he hooks a thumb under the waistband of his briefs. "Say that again if you want me inside of you," he rasps.

"I love you," you cry while holding tightly to him.

Robby doesn't even consider protection before sinking between your thighs.

The following morning comes far too early for you both. One time hadn't been nearly enough, so he insisted the two of you keep going until he could no longer maintain an erection. Three orgasms later, and he was finally spent while you lied there crying tears of joy as he leaked out of you and down your thighs.

You'd curled up against his body—literally trying to get as close to him as you possibly could—before drifting into a deep and peaceful slumber.

You had felt so, so safe in his arms and against his brawny chest.

And just as you slipped off to sleep, you could've swore you heard the sentiment returned: I've loved you from the first.

First what you didn't catch. Time you met? Time he looked at you? Spoke to you? All those were on the same day.

You suppose all that matters is that the feeling is returned.

When Robby's alarm sounds, you stir quietly, but don't rise. Neither does he, instead choosing to savor the moment of your limbs twined tightly around his like you're afraid of letting go. When he wakes you, it's with a kiss and an offer of a shared shower. Something you easily accept. Before washing, you stand beneath the hot, steamy water, merely holding yourself to him while telling him over and over again how happy you are.

At least with the water running, you can't make out the tears he sheds.

The two of you manage a discussion on the way to work—in his truck, no less, as he insisted on driving. You had nervously started it by already trying to roll back last night incase he felt regretful because it'd just been the heat of the moment for him. Until he reached across the center console and took your hand while reassuring you that while this may be brand new, and that you may each be unaware of the exact direction that it'll lead, he wants nothing more than to find out along with you.

So you'd held quietly to his hand for the remainder of the ride while your skin tingled from the lingering effects of his touch, including a pleasant ache between your thighs where you'd held him.

A handful of people seem to notice that something is different. At one point, Dana even makes a comment that you seem to be glowing, coupled with a knowing look in Robby's direction, but you had merely smiled and said that maybe it was the good weather.

When Cassie finds Robby staring at you for a moment longer than usual—which is truly saying something—she simply walks away with an amused grin and a playful shake of her head.

Your walking on air is cut short during your afternoon break, however, when you go outside for a bit of respite, only to run smackdab into the unexpected presence of Frank.

"I need to talk to you," he insists while holding tightly to your arms.

You stutter for a reply, but because he's taken you entirely by surprise, your mind is lagging the least bit behind as you pulls you further from the ambulance bay's sliding doors.

"F-Frank, what're you—"

He takes your face between his hands and when your eyes stare into his, which are glossed over with pinned pupils, your heart sinks. "Are you high?" you ask in disbelief.

"Doesn't matter," he mutters with a shake of his head. "I need you and I cannot lose you, okay? You are the only one who sees me. Who gets me. Sweetheart, I love y—"

"Hey!" Robby shouts before gripping him by the back of his t-shirt and tossing him to the side. "You get the hell away from her!"

Shoving you behind him, Robby stations himself squarely between the two of you.

Frank goes to advance toward you again, until Robby shoves him back once again, causing him to stumble. "I cannot believe that you would show up here of all places in this kind of fucking shape, Langdon."

Frank seethes. "Get out of my way. This doesn't concern you, Robby."

You consider making a run for it to get Ahmad to come outside and stop this before something terrible happens.

"You're damn right it does. She told me what you've been up to. Calling at all hours, coming onto her, sitting outside her goddamn house at night?" he asks incredulously. "You can't be that far gone that you think what you're doing is appropriate."

"She's the only thing I have fucking left!" Frank yells while gesturing toward you. "What's the problem, Robby? I have something that you never will? Huh? That it?"

If only he knew...

"Yeah," he says while coming closer with a malicious grin. "I've seen the way you look at her. Pulling her off other cases so she can be with you all day. You just couldn't wait to get me out of the way, could you?"

Keeping one arm behind himself and around your waist, you press yourself against Robby's back in fright.

"If I wanted you gone, Frank, I would've gone to the medical board. But I didn't, did I? Instead, I gave you a second chance. Seeing how that's going, maybe I made a mistake."

He leans in toward him. "You need to think about what means more to you: your family, job, and right to practice medicine, or her. Because you only get to choose one."

Frank's eyes flit to his. "Because if somebody posed the same choice to you, you'd have such an easy time picking. Then again, I guess you don't have to worry about the family part, given that you don't have any to lose." He sneers. "You can't keep me away from her."

"Watch me," Robby spits. "You ever come near her again—you ever put your fucking hands on her again—and I'll destroy what's left of your pathetic life. I'll go to the Medical Board, help her file a protective order, and testify in court on her behalf of how you've given her cause to fear for her safety. That'll put one hell of a wrench in staving off losing custody of your kids, won't it?"

You peek from around him while clutching at his hoody.

Frank tries to reach out to you, but Robby bats his hand away. "Go home, Frank. Get the hell out of here before I call security to have you arrested. Now!"

He takes a small step back, knowing that he's on the losing side. "I'm not giving up on us, baby. I know what I want."

Frank makes a reluctant turn and stumbles his way back to the parking lot.

Once he's out of sight, you collapse in Robby's arms in a heap of regretful sobs, feeling like this is your fault.

After the day of the confrontation, you were forced to change your number because Frank's constant contact became so excessive. He never showed up outside of your house again, at least, nor did he appear at work, much to your relief. So, for awhile you were left in the dark as to what was occurring in his life you'd once been so enmeshed in.

Things become easier before long without the stresses of his sobriety resting upon your shoulders.

With your mind back to focusing strictly on work, the only difficult part of your days becomes unruly patients, and your evenings center wholly around Robby—the center of your world.

You begin spending most nights at his place, until he finally poses the offer you had thought too good for you to ever hear: he wanted you to share his home; his bed; his life.

And you continue lovemaking without the hindrance of prophylactics. You never have a discussion about it, as it's just an unspoken agreement between you.

You're both teased about your longing looks, and lingering touches—by Jack most of all—but...you're both so very happy, so you're willing to take it in stride.

And then there's the inevitable: talk of Langdon returning so many months later.

Robby makes clear to you that he wants to you maintain a healthy distance from him, at least initially until he proves himself worth trusting again, and that if he ever touches you or makes unwanted advances again, you are to report straight to him and he'll take every step necessary to make it stop.

But to Langdon's credit, his return is rather unremarkable. There's awkwardly exchanged glances, but he doesn't trail after you or corner you by the lockers or in the restroom like you worried about the first few days.

The first time he speaks to you is almost two weeks later, in the employee lounge.

"Hey," he says weakly from the table shoved against the left wall.

With a protein shake now in-hand, you turn back to him while nervously eyeing the door. "Hey..."

Flashing his palms, he gestures that he means you no harm. "I wanted to apologize. I mean, I wanted to the first day I got back, but thought maybe I should give it a little while. Let you have your space."

You finger the plastic wrap around the bottle you hold.

"I wasn't myself. Yes, I knew what I was doing, and I knew that it was wrong, but the benzos..." he sighs and shakes his head. "I've been clean for awhile now. Every day is an uphill battle, but that day out in the ambulance bay... It was a wake-up call. I hope you know that it wasn't entirely about you. It was about me being selfish."

You toy with the twist-off cap on the bottle.

"I'm so sorry that I ever scared you. I hate myself for it. For that, for the way I hurt my wife, disrespected my family and myself..."

He glances up to you after studying his hands for a moment. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't know that I'm even asking for it. I just wanted to apologize. Try and make amends if I even can at this point. You were there for me at my lowest point and instead of being grateful, I took advantage. I'm so sorry that I did."

You take a small step forward. "Maybe I will in time." You twist the cap all the way off, then tighten it again. "Did you tell Abby?"

He nods. "Everything. I came so close to losing her because of it. But if I'm going to hold myself accountable, then no more lies. Y'know?"

You nod. "I'm glad that it seems like things are on the mend for you."

He nods toward the doorway, where the ED lies. "You, too. I mean about you and Robby." He hangs his head. "I drove you right into his arms, didn't I?"

You chew your lip. "Sorta. It might've happened anyway. At least something good came out of it," you say with a light chuckle.

He lifts his head again and forces a smile. "The two of you seem happy."

"We are," you confirm. "We... We live together now. And we're trying."

His brows furrow. "Trying for..." he nods. "Ah. That."

You turn toward the doorway. "Well, I should probably..."

Just as you're about to step over the threshold, he rises. "Just so you know—"

You turn around.

"It wasn't... The way I felt wasn't entirely due to the drugs."

You frown slightly. "Have you told that to—"

He runs a hand through his black tresses. "She wasn't happy to hear it, I can tell you that much."

You waver on your feet, unsure of how to craft a response.

"I don't know if that makes things better or worse, but it was something I felt like I should let you know."

You force a smile. "Thank you for being honest."

He sits again. "I'll let you get back to it, then."

"See you around," you say with an awkward wave before finally turning to leave.

He watches you go.

[bleghbarbie]

your rabbot fauxcest is so good sweetums… i always end up in ur ask box bc u make Jack so sweet

dad Jack letting u ride him in the confides of his backyard, whispering to u how ur so dirty n how you’re lucky the fences are high. all bc u got excited watching Robby while he’s doing yard work

꣖ mdni! ꣓ 💬 .. ꕤ * .ﾟ summer themed fics have officially begun. luvie this idea is so .. ໒꒰ྀི ∩⸝⸝∩ ꒱ྀི১

fauxcest. bit of a longer one.. icky

’s when ure standing at the wooden fence, hands pressed against it, watching eagerly through the tiny gap. jack had been calling for u, wondering what ud like for lunch.. but didnt expect to find u, pressed against the fence like an eager kid at an exhibit, wearing his bigger shirt nd nothing else, doing nothing to hide the motion of u rubbing ur thighs together, stumbling over ur feet in place.

he steps closer, wondering what could be so interesting behind the fence. then he hears it.. the sound of tools hitting pavement. tiny grunts of labor. ure so entranced u dont notice jack coming to stand behind u, flinching when he grabs u at the waist. u turn like uve been caught red handed. jack isnt even mad, but u jump to conclusions and ur face morphs into a frown, lip already on a wobble, “’m sorry, i wasnt.. our neighbor is jus’..” u can barely keep eye contact.

jack shushed u, leaning down to ur height, trying to glance at what u see. “yeah..? what’s he doing?” he coos softly, finally seeing for himself. u stand nervously, his chest pressed against ur back, steadying u to face the fence. “oh, some yard work.. shirtless, huh? my baby likes what she sees? you like that?” he nudges his face against urs, tilting ur head up with a finger, making u stare back into the gap.

u stutter, “i dunno.. he just looks.. big ’nd manly, i got distracted.. is that bad? did i do a bad thing?” u whimper. jack softly shakes his head, lifting up the hem of ur shirt, glancing down over u. “no, baby, u did a good thing. u liked something u saw.. u felt good. ’s nothing wrong with that..” he gently cups u, other arm bracketing u to his chest. “did he make u feel wet? like how i do?”

u mewled, hips bunching up into jack’s hand as u watched ur neighbor stretch, letting out a heavy groan. “yeah.. dad, are u sure thats not bad? it feels bad..” u worried.

jack smiled against u, letting a finger slip over your folds, hardening in his own pants at the sight. “sweet babies cant help it, nothing bad about it. do u wanna tell me more? be honest.. tell me what u like..” jack carefully lowered u nd himself to the ground, placing u over his bulge, eyes still able to see the man through the fence.

he rubbed u over his cock, ur hands pressing against his thighs, moaning at the feeling. the overstimulation.. “hes.. hes big like you.. ’nd older.. like a dad’s age.” u started shifting urself over jack, grinding on the poky spot in his lap.

jack placed his head on ur shoulder, watching u two below. “’s that what u want? another old man..? i thought i was the creepy perv with my little girl, but no, she likes ’er men with decades behind ’em..” jack teased, smirking at ur whining.

“dad, stopp,” u whined, hips still pressing down on him, chasing pressure against ur achy pussy. “’m sorry.. dad’s just messing. what else do u like? tell me what u want, sweetheart..”

u brought ur fingers up to your mouth, nervously fiddling, other hand still gripping at jack’s thigh, “um.. i think id like you both.. like, if he was interested.. id wanna see if you both can fit..” jack groaned, accidentally bunching up too hard against you.

you squealed at the movement, softly giggling, “would that work..? weve never..” jack was nodding, fiddling at his pants buttons, “it would work, baby.. up, up, let dad out.” he rushed out, lifting u slightly so he could take his cock out, rubbing it against ur exposed lips. “u want us both? wan’ him? one dad’s not enough, u need two to stuff ur pretty pussy? shes so greedy, huh? i have a little greedy girl on my hands..” jack slipped in, hands steady on ur waist, watching the intrusion as u watched the man..

u let jack bunch u up nd down on his cock, eyes focused in front of you. “would u mind..? i promise i still like u the most, but i like him too.. id be so good for both of u, wont make u guys feel left out..”

jack huffed out, pressing u fully down against him, “ure so sweet, baby.. ud be good for us? i bet thatd make him so happy..” he gently swatted ur ass cheek, “keep going baby.. creep on ur old neighbor while u ride ur dad, ure so nasty, baby..”

u fucked urself on jack, whimpering at his words, hand coming up to smother the sounds. “uh, uh..” jack lowered ur hand, “’s okay.. he cant see, doesnt know what were up to.. do u wanna tell him? wanna go over there in your little shirt, all wobbly ’nd ur juices leaking down ur leg? hell be so happy to see u, baby, trust me..”

u nodded, softly sniffling, trying to keep a steady pace on jack, but getting whiny nd resorting to rocking back nd forth on him, “please.. can i tell him? i think i need.. i need both of u.. i wanna be full..”

jack nearly emptied himself in you at how desperate u sounded.. “go ahead, baby. tell ur neighbor the dad ’nd daughter next door want him.. make sure u tell him dad gave u permission.”

[ceriseangels]

𝗠𝘆 𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝗦𝘂𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁- 𝗝.𝗔.

Pairing: Roommate!Jack Abbot x Princess!Nurse!Reader

WC: 4.3k

Summary: Jack’s resolve finally breaks, and his bed frame suffers the consequences.

Contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v sex, fingering (f receiving), blowjob (m receiving), reader on top, r helps jack take off his leg, idiots in love jack with an in-ground pool supremacy, not proofread like even a little

A/N: divider from @angeliicide ! this is part three of my roommate!jack series, check out the last part here :)

The days following your last conversation with Jack have been…tough, to say the least. It's silent, it's tense, almost awkward. It sucks.

Despite your growing feelings for him, you're missing his friendship most of all. You've relished in the camaraderie built between the two of you, the comfort of being together.

Now, you're ships, passing in the night, rummaging through cabinets before and after work, quiet bodies avoiding even a graze of forearms.

It's led you here, soft, flowy pajamas resting against the gritty fabric of the chaise lounge on the pool deck. It's the first time you've been able to use it since you've moved in, something you've been anticipating for weeks.

When you saw he'd uncovered the pool before leaving last night, your heart swelled. Despite his cold exterior, his actions show you there's something warmer inside, you just haven't cracked it open yet.

You take in a deep breath of fresh morning air, reveling in the way the early morning sun glints off the perfectly blue chlorine, the soft morning breeze sparking goosebumps along your arms.

Your book sits in the plush of your thighs, feet laying flat on the chair. The book is debaucherous, smutty in a way that's most definitely corny, and it's all a desperate attempt to fill your brain with anything other than Jack Abbot.

You fail, of course. Because you're his fucking roommate, sitting on his chaise lounge, looking out at his pool, at his fucking house.

Heat rumbles low in your belly, cheeks burning as the knight in your medieval fantasy slowly unravels the maiden's corset. This knight, in your brain, at least, is strong, thick, lean arms wrapping around the maiden, curls poking out of his helmet.

You drop the book like it's on fire as you realize where your mind has led you, your dirty, filthy, unethical mind. Foolishness burns deep in your stomach, head hanging low. Of course the knight is Jack. There's not a world in which it wouldn't be.

As angry as you've been with him, you can't say he doesn't have a point. You absolutely hate the way he's going about this, but you can understand why he's doing it.

It's an awkward situation, your status in the hospital beneath his, though you can't help but think you could find a loophole since you work different shifts. You can't blame him for being so wishy-washy.

But then, why ask you to move in the first place?

You recall what he'd told you a week or so ago, when he had himself propped up against your doorframe.

"It's the only way I can have you."

The memory lurches your nauseous stomach, and you flop back against the back of your chair. You fold your forearm over your eyes, absorbing the morning sun.

Your book lies limp in your hand, nearly on the cement as you decide that dramatically sprawling like a sickly Victorian woman feels better than ruminating on Jack Abbot.

The more time passes, the warmer the sun feels against your skin, the morning dew disappearing. It's peaceful, birds chirping, cicadas buzzing, rustling wind through the trees- it's enough to drown out your insatiable thoughts, if only for a little.

A shiver unzips your spine at the late spring breeze, the chiffon of your pajama top flowing in the wind. It makes you feel pretty, it makes you feel peaceful.

Your zen is interrupted by the whoosh of the sliding glass door, your immediate instinct to whip up and around. Your hand lays flat over your squinty eyes, trying to make out who's slowly approaching.

Your shoulders drop, then tense, when you realize it's just Jack. Just Jack.

"Hey," you mutter, pouting a little. "You scared me."

"Sorry, doll," he remarks, and you squeeze your thighs together. "Just wanted to come see ya."

"How was it?" You ask, a grimacing smile on your face.

"Meh," he moves his head side to side. "Same old, same old."

"So, horrible?" You ask pointedly, and he chuckles.

"Yeah," he says, fisting his hands in his pockets. "About right."

He comes to sit on the chair next to you, lowering his achy body down with an old-man groan.

You roll your eyes.

"I'm going to start calling you Snap Crackle Pop until you get your knees fixed," you chirp, bringing your book to your lap again.

"You're such a brat, y'know that?" He tuts, swatting your thigh playfully.

You scoff at the contact, trying desperately to ignore the way your skin burns at his fingertips.

"What're you reading?" He asks softly.

You look up at him, heart stopping at the sight. His eyes are soft, tired, shoulders hunched in exhaustion. On days off, it's rare you see him when he gets home. Your mornings, for the most part, are rushed and distant as can be.

This morning, though, it's different. Intimate. The quiet morning provides a cozy backdrop to the moment, wrapping it up in a soft blanket, just for you and Jack to know.

The sun gleaming down on Jack illuminates his angelic features, and your heart clutches at the glint in his hazel eyes. They're boring right into yours, his gaze playful despite the intensity.

"None of your business," you play coy, turning your bent legs away from him. He doesn't fall for it.

"C'mon, let me see," he reaches for it, and snatches it out of your loose grip before you could do anything about it.

"Oh God, Jack," you cover your burning face with your hands.

"At last, Henry finally undid the laces of Victoria's corset," he starts, and you can't stop the muffled groan tumbling from your lips.

"Jack, I'm serious, give it to me," you snap, leaning forward toward his chair and reaching for the paperback.

He holds it up over his head, and you lurch your body over his. You plant your hand on his chair, next to his thigh, your knee resting on the edge.

"Jack! Seriously, this isn't funny!" You squeal, but he just holds it open, high above his head in an iron grip.

"Her quiet moans slip from her lips as he touches her bare skin," he continues, and you plop down on the side of his chair, the plush of your thigh hitting the solid rock of his.

"Jaaaack!" You whine out, pressing your fingers into your temples. "Stop embarrassing me!"

He relents at that, lowering the book, and handing it back to you.

"'M sorry sweet pea," he mutters. "It's sweet, sitting here all by yourself, squeezing these pretty thighs together," his hand spreads wide over your leg, a light squeeze pinching you. "I almost feel bad for you. Guys your age really aren't doing it, huh?"

You shake your head no, rendered speechless, breathless by his sensual words.

"Jack," you whisper, scooching into him. "Stop."

"Stop what? 'M just being nice, just like we talked about, hm?" He coos, and goosebumps arise on your skin.

The wind rustles through your hair, your pajama top fluttering in the breeze. His eyes fall towards the movement, darkening at your soft skin beneath the sheer cloth.

"This is pretty," he says, pinching the flowy fabric of your top between his thumb and forefinger.

His gaze is heavy, and scans down your frame greedily. Your cheeks burn at the compliment, heat pooling between your legs.

"Thank you," you mutter.

He inhales, sharp and deep, and sits up, leaning in towards you.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. "You're sitting here, reading smut, when I'm right here? I can't let that happen, I'm sorry, sweetie. I know it's not fair, I know it's on me," his hands run as quick as his mouth, traveling up the smooth expanse of your arms. "But I need to have you. Please, let me have you."

You crash your lips to his with a frightening immediacy. His large hands cover the expanse of your face, pulling you deeper into him. He's an incredible kisser, which is just as amazing as it is life ruining.

Fuzz starts to cloud your brain as you take him in, his scent, his taste, the feel of his strong body under yours. He scoops his arms under your thighs, pulling you on top of him.

You spread your thighs around his lap, knees landing on either side of his hips. You plant your core into his, the friction sending an burning jolt through your sensitive clit.

You wiggle your hips, grinding deeper into him and feeling him thicken in his scrubs. He grips your hips, feet planting firmly on the chair, grinding up into you, making you squirm and whine.

"Jackie…" you whine, throwing your head back.

His lips attach to your neck, sucking and licking and biting. Goosebumps erupt on the gentle skin there, heat rushing through you as he sinks his teeth in.

"Did you get wet reading that book, honey?" He asks softly, lips grazing over your ear.

His fingers tease you, skimming down your arms to your thighs, snapping the waistband of your bloomers against your tummy. You gasp, and he licks into your mouth.

Your pussy pulses against his hard length, and he bucks up into you again. Too embarrassed to answer, you bury your face in his neck and whine.

"Sweet girl," he drawls, and your hips are wild, wiggling and grinding against him. "Can I feel?" He asks, lips resting above your ear. "Can I feel how wet you got reading about some fictional dick?"

You nod profusely against him, completely unable to control the lust that pulses through your veins. His thick fingers slip underneath your shorts, dipping beneath your panties.

They skim past your clit, and you jolt in his arms, a whine wrangling from your throat. Dipping into your core, he coos at how wet you are, your slickness smacking against his fingers.

"Oh my God," he scoffs, condescendingly, and a fresh wave of dampness slides out of you.

"Jackie," you whine against him, winding your hips into his touch.

He's receptive, responding with the movement of his fingers against you.

"All this over a fuckin' book?" He teases, and you shake your head no. "No?" He asks, brows raising.

"Not the book," you whine, breathless. "You, thinking about you."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes out, slipping a finger inside you.

You gasp at the intrusion, your tightness stretching around his thick digit.

"Jack!" You exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck.

He adds another finger, turning you to goo in a 'come hither' motion. You bounce your hips slightly, desperate for him to get deeper, to hit that sweet spot inside you.

"God, you're desperate for it, huh? This whole time, coulda had you bouncing on me? Had this horny little thing down the hall reading smut?" He asks, thumb coming up to rub your clit.

You squeal, body shaking above him as he finds it, your most sensitive spot, pressing over and over and over again. Your belly burns at the pleasure, white hot and nearly blinding.

"Yes," you groan, bringing his face to yours in a deep kiss. "Need you so bad," you moan against his lips, slipping your tongue against his.

"Me fuckin' too, baby. You gonna come? Want to taste you so bad, come on my fingers, baby," he gruffs, and the rubber band snaps.

Waves of pleasure roll over you as he coaxes out your first orgasm. You throw your head back, whines echoing in the open space, body shaking in his grip.

It's a burning, hot pleasure that seeps through your hips to your belly, bliss ebbing and flowing as he continues to work you out on his fingers.

You gasp as you come down, twitching around him and falling into his chest. He brings his free hand to his back, rubbing up and down your shaking frame. He shushes you, lips pressed against your temples as he brings you down.

He pulls his fingers out of you, bringing them to his lips. They wrap around his fingers greedily, licking and sucking the taste of you off of him.

"So fucking delicious, baby," he whispers, planting a wet, salty kiss on your lips.

You whine against him, his arms scooping under your ass to lift you against him. He carries you inside the sliding glass door, walking all the way to his room.

It's the first time you've ever been in there, the masculine simplicity of the space wholly unsurprising. Before he sets you down, he looks at you with complete and utter seriousness.

"Is this okay?" He asks, quiet and rough. "Once I lay you down, baby, I'm not going to be able to hold back. Just wanna make sure you're okay with this."

Your heart pounds at his question, nodding your head profusely.

"I want it, trust me, I'm okay," you whisper, lust clouding all of your senses as you plop onto Jack's sheets.

You sprawl out, your legs immediately spreading, knees hitting the bed.

"These fucking pajamas…" he whispers, kneeling onto the bed and pressing his hands into your legs.

He runs them up your thighs, circling around to cup your ass, moving to your tummy, lifting the sheer fabric up your torso. He exposes your tits, gripping and cupping them.

His brows furrow in devotion as he works your sensitive skin, your back arching into his touch. His lips part into an 'o', heavy breaths shaking his chest.

"You're so fucking beautiful, perfect fucking tits, baby," he coos, massaging and kneading you.

You whine, fingertips digging into his forearms as he teases you. You're dripping onto his mattress, familiar heat once again brewing deep in your belly.

"Thank you, Jackie," you whisper sweetly, giving him your biggest, sweetest eyes.

His fingers close around your nipples, pinching and tugging just enough to have you whining, writhing beneath him. You squeeze your eyes shut, attempting to escape his burning gaze. He releases your left breast, hand coming up to grip your jaw.

"Look at me, baby," he mutters against your lips. "Don't stop looking at me, don't hide from me, hm?"

You nod vigorously, eyes glossy with lust.

"Just feels so good, Jackie," you whisper into his mouth, planting open-mouthed kisses into him.

"I know, poor baby. Needed someone to take care of you, hm?" He asks, and you nod against him once again, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders.

You cling to him, pressing your tits into his own perky chest. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, the need for his lips on yours insatiable, burning through you at a rapid speed.

He takes advantage of the new position to slide your shorts down your legs, lifting your knees up to get the fabric around them. As he flings them off your ankles, your own hands get to work.

You maneuver them underneath his scrubs, the thin top underneath. Scraping your nails against his abs, you work your way up his body, moving the fabric with it.

The sight of him shirtless renders you breathless, jaw slack and eyes wide.

"So pretty, Jackie," you whine, flopping back down onto your back.

He takes off his own bottoms, sliding them off until he's left in his boxer briefs. His bulge is prominent, thick and proud in his underwear.

Your hand latches to it with an embarrassment ferocity, nails scraping along the thin fabric. He shudders, and the newfound power unlocks something within you.

You flip onto your stomach, pressing your face into his crotch. He's still sweaty from after his shift, the musk clouding your senses as you attach your mouth to his balls, sucking them through the fabric.

"Jesus Christ, baby, y'wanna suck me off?" He asks breathlessly, and you nod against him.

Your fingers peel at his waistband, lowering them and allowing his cock to spring free. You swallow deeply at his hard, impressive length, bobbing against his stomach.

Your mouth waters, wrapping your lips around him greedily. You hollow your cheeks around him, sucking him in to the back of your throat.

"Fuck! Baby," he lifts you off of him with a grunt. "Gonna fucking come if you're not careful," he runs his hands over your face, looking down at you while you remain eye level with his cock.

You maintain eye contact with him, kissing his tip and darting your tongue out to run along his head, his seam. He presses his eyes shut, and you reach your hand up to squeeze his dick.

He jumps at that, eyes shooting open.

"Eyes on me, baby," you say, repeating his earlier words. He darts his eyes back down at you, and you take him in your mouth once again.

He winces, throwing his head back the deeper you went. You go slower this time, savoring each moment of sliding down his generous length. There's still a few inches leftover when he hits the back of your throat again, and your hand wraps around the exposed skin.

Your spit allows your hand to move easily, lifting your mouth off of him to breathe, pumping your hand all the way from base to tip. He thrusts his hips through your hands, and you direct his cock back into your mouth.

He continues to thrust into you, hitting the back of your throat with abandon. You choke and sputter around him, eyes watering, but never leaving his.

"God, you're so fucking pretty like this," he whispers, and you preen messily under his praise. "So fucked out from sucking my dick, all sloppy and messy."

You pull off, gasping and breathing heavily. A line of spit tracks from your mouth to his head, breaking when you finally sit up, pulling him on top of you in a sloppy kiss.

His tongue licks up the mess you made around him, tracking along your face, kissing you with an open mouth.

You pant into him, kissing him back with a ferocity that should be scary, but is only met by Jack's hungry mouth. He falls onto you, pressing his hard length into your folds, rocking back and forth until his tip meets your clit.

He looks up at you, eyes needy and desperate, a final nod of his head before he pushes inside of you. His tip breaches your entrance, still so tight even after being worked open by his fingers.

Your breath catches, along with his as he pushes himself into you. He sits deep inside you, his hips flush against yours as he lets you get used to him.

You gasp, eyes glassy from the deep breach. He kisses your cheek, your nose, your forehead. Butterflies erupt in your tummy, the sweetness of his lips mixed with the depravity of his hips making you dizzy.

"Jackie, so big," you sob, wrapping your arms around his neck. He shivers against you, starting to rock his hips in a delectable, achingly slow rhythm.

He winces as he tries to pick up speed, brows furrowing in discomfort. Your hands reach up to grab his cheeks, forcing his eyes into yours.

"Hey, you okay?" You ask him, and he laughs, a pitying sound to match the blush on his cheeks.

"Yeah, uh- it's just, my leg. It's killing me," he admits sheepishly, and your heart drops.

Of course it would feel uncomfortable, and you feel silly for not thinking of it first.

"Oh, Jackie!" You coo, sitting up and pushing against his chest. "Thank you for telling me," you press a kiss to his lips as you maneuver him onto his back.

You whimper as he pulls out of you, and you're eager to have him back inside you. The way it bobs against him as he lays on his back nearly makes you delirious, slick sliding out of you at your sudden emptiness.

"This better?" You ask, your naked frame arching over his, stroking his chest and abs as he settles in.

You can physically see the relief wash over him as he relaxes into his bed.

"There you go," you whisper, continuing to run your hands along his sculpted body.

Your eyes glance toward his leg, the prosthetic that must have been rubbing him raw laying limp against the bed. Guilt settles deep in your stomach at his presumed discomfort, and you bring your pouty face close to his.

"Can I help you, baby?" You whisper against him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "Can I take your leg off? Is that okay?"

The question hangs heavy in the air between you for a moment, and sudden regret rushes through you. Too much, of course it's too much. Embarrassment burns your cheeks as you wrangle yourself out of his grip.

"Nonononono, baby hold on," he tightens his grip around you. "You can, I'd actually love it if you did. Just surprised me, is all," he says, and you can see pink tinting his cheeks.

"Okay," you say, pressing a kiss to his lips before moving down his body.

Your heart pounds as you take him in like this. Flat on his back, completely naked and at your disposal. The intimacy pounds through your veins, brain fuzzy at the soft touch of his skin.

Your fingers maneuver the prosthetic, releasing the suspension system and lifting it off him. He audibly groans in relief as you remove the device, setting it down gently at the end of the bed.

His hands grip your waist, sinking his fingertips in, but holding you in place. You look at him, vulnerability shining in his eyes. Your lips twist in a sweet smile, a gentle hand reaching for his cheek.

You lean over him, pressing your lips into his. It's slower this time, sweet and lingering. He teases your tongue with his, and your lips close around it and suck.

He grabs your ass, kneading the plush skin there, slapping it while deepening the kiss. You whine at the sharp contact, swinging your leg over his hips. You hover over him, taking his cock in your hand and running the tip along your folds.

His hands never leave your ass.

You sink yourself down onto him, and he lets out a guttural groan. He feels even deeper at this angle, and you take a minute to catch your breath before you start bouncing on it.

Your ass slaps against his hips, his hands continuing to manipulate your motions. He presses into your sensitive spot relentlessly, your body shaking on top of him.

You press your fingertips into his chest, leaning into him and arching your back. You swirl your hips against his, and your fullness shocks you, butterflying your belly.

"Jackie!" You whine, picking up the speed of your hips. "Feels so fucking good, wanted this for so long."

Your confession rocks, him, and he tightens his grip against you, taking control of your movements with his strong arms.

"Me too, baby," he whispers, slapping your ass once more. "Wanted this since your first fucking day, baby," he says, and you whine. "So fucking gorgeous, kindest smile and sweetest heart, makes me fucking crazy."

You laugh at this, traits that typically made you 'too sensitive' for most guys, are the ones that have Jack Abbot slapping your ass and fucking you on his dick. Who would've thought?

"I have the stupidest crush on you," he admits, and your racing heart stops abruptly. He goes on. "When I asked you to move in, it just came out. 'S like I had no control over my mouth, just had to have you near me."

He speeds up your movements, now pounding you down on him relentlessly. You cry out, tears slipping out of your eyes, heart pounding in your ears at his confessions.

"Make me so fucking crazy, you have no fucking clue," he breathes. bringing you down to kiss him.

Your stomach burns white hot at this new position, laying flat against his chest. His hands grip and knead your ass, spreading it apart in his cool bedroom. You gasp at the air hitting your skin, the vulnerability rendering you nearly useless.

You're nearly limp against your roommate, moving your hips as much as you can against him, Jack's hands doing most of the work for you.

He presses a kiss to your temple, and you're frighteningly close.

"Gonna come, want you to do it with me, baby," he groans, and you nod against his neck, wrapping your arms around him.

"Fuck!" He nearly shouts, his thick cock twitching in your pussy.

His release triggers yours, and you clamp down on his cock. He winces and squeezes his eyes shut, muttering something about how fucking tight you are.

You press a messy kiss on his lips as you ride out both of your highs, wiggling your hips down on his. One last shiver runs through you as you come down, resting your limp frame against his.

He rocks your hips against his once, twice, thrice more before setting you down on him. You let him stay inside you for a moment before he pulls out, snuggling into his broad chest.

He reaches up, pushing your ass up slightly so he can pull out, the emptiness sore and achy. You feel liquid gush out of you on to his lap, and you revel in the sight of your juices coating his softening cock.

You flop onto your back, both of you staring up at the ceiling. The weight of your previous actions settles over you, hanging low and heavy like a storm cloud.

The room is silent except for yours' and Jack's heavy breaths, hand reaching down to hold his. He laces his fingers with yours, giving you a soft squeeze.

"So," you whisper, turning your head to his. "What do we do now?"

He shakes his head in disbelief, running a hand down his face.

"No idea," he responds, and your tummy turns.

"We're really in it now, huh?" You ask, and he breaks.

A soft laugh escaping his lips, he wraps himself around you, pulling you close to him and kissing you softly. The kiss is sweet, sloppy, messy. Spit connects your lips as you pull away, your mouth moving against his neck.

"Worth it, I'd say," he mutters, and you nod against him.

"Hard agree."

[drjohncarters]

Sergeant, M.D.

pairing: jack abbot x camgirl!resident!reader

wc: 6.6k

summary: you stop providing camgirl services to your clients when you start your residency. except you can't let go of your favorite client, who, as you quickly find out, is your new attending physician for the next four years. he recognizes you immediately and is ready to stake his claim.

warnings: 18+! camgirl reader obvi, sex work, fear of sex work revealed to hospital coworkers, pushy patient (tries to set up reader w her son), mentions of clientele as a camgirl, possessive jack, jealous jack, inappropriate workplace relationship SUE ME!!!

notes: erg this has been in my drafts for so long and the "i'll pay for it" scene last week was the inspo i needed to finally finish! i don't get much into camgirl smut but trust its on the way. also jack's screen name "SgtMD" is pronounced "Sergeant, M.D."

masterlist 𓊔 request 𓊔 tag list

find smutty pt 2 here! part 3 here!

Two jobs would keep anyone busy. Juggling another job during your first year of residency? 

Forget about it.

All throughout medical school, you balanced clinicals and classes with your camgirl gig. Study sessions were interrupted by scheduled video calls. You’d set up your laptop on your dresser, aim it toward your bed, and shrug your hoodie off before dialing whichever gentleman requested your services that night. 

There were nearly two dozen clients who you met with regularly over the past three years.

Some showed their faces. Some just showed their lap. Some only spoke, urging you on verbally with no other input. Some wanted a show from you and nothing more. Some of them gave you too much information-- full names, jobs, routing numbers, and home addresses. 

None of which you ever used. You were strictly providing online services: Video chats only. Other forms of communication, like your business email, were very explicitly limited to scheduling inquiries only. Any client who refused those boundaries was nixed and replaced with someone from your waiting list.

Since graduating with your doctorate in May, you’ve phased clients out. There wouldn’t be enough time to balance all of them with the demands of your intern year.

So, you let your clients know that you’re no longer in service due to a career change. You offer one more call for each of them as a last hoorah (final paycheck) and go your separate ways. 

But there was one client that you can’t bring yourself to let go. 

SgtMD

He was your third client ever. You’d seen him at least three times a week for the last three years, and looked forward to each meeting with a pounding heart and heated cheeks. 

Each time SgtMD booked a call, he showed his torso. Always clad in a plain, black shirt with large biceps and broad shoulders, never anything else. There was a hint of silver stubble that trickled down his neck sometimes, usually on your first call of each week. A tuft of dark armpit hair you saw once when he stretched his arms above his head. 

And SgtMD likes to talk. 

He likes to tell you how beautiful you are. Likes to ask you to twirl around in the new lingerie he sent to you and then laugh darkly each time you obey. He likes telling you to “Take it slow, sweetheart. Just like that, yeah. Don’t worry about the extra time, I’ll pay for it.”

And you like him. 

Most clients don’t make you finish. They want you to shake your ass or flash your tits or tell them they’re “such a good boy”. Nobody wants to see you come apart like SgtMD. 

So, when you move to Pittsburgh to start your residency, you dropped them all... Except SgtMD. To him, you sent:

You: Hi, Sarge. I’m about to start a new job and my hours will be a little different. I want to see you as often as I can. I will email as soon as I have a fixed schedule so that we can plan to call. Remember you can always ask. Please don’t be shy. Your next few sessions are free since I’m changing things up on you. I hope I can see you soon. 

His returning email came within two minutes.

SgtMD: Hey, Sweetheart. I’ll pay. Are you free at 5? I know it’s last minute, but it’s my birthday. I want to see you.

You: Happy birthday, Sarge. 5 o’clock is perfect. Am I invited to the birthday party?

SgtMD: It’s a date, then. No party, I’m working tonight.

So, the afternoon before your first shift as a resident, you find yourself baking a cake for him. It’s silly. It’s inappropriate. It’s crossing every boundary that you’ve ever established as a sex worker. And, really, there’s no point in making it, because you’ll end up eating it alone when you get off your shift at 8 a.m., anyway. 

Yet still, here you are, logged onto the call at 5 p.m. on the dot with a lit candle. Your black scrubs are folded outside of the frame, ready for you to throw on once you’re off camera. 

Now, you’re wearing a pretty white lace set that SgtMD bought you for your birthday last year. You’re not sure he remembers, but something tells you he just might. He’s thoughtful, in the unconventional ways that a man can be thoughtful with a sex worker. 

He remembers your birthday every year. He sends you flowers each time he orders a new lingerie set for you. Every holiday there’s a bouquet waiting for you at the post office with a sweet, hand-written note. 

You keep them all posted to a corkboard in your bedroom next to other keepsakes like photos with your friends and concert tickets.

The screen dings, and you see his image pop up. His broad, thick shoulders taking up the whole frame. Black shirt tugging between his large pecs, and the typical trail of grey stubble down his Adam’s apple.

“Happy birthday.” You grin into the camera. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. Always so thoughtful, so good for me.” His voice is as rough and deep as always. It winds a knot in your stomach. “Blow that out for me.”

You purse your lips and blow a gentle puff of air onto the cake, the warm illumination leaving your face. 

“What does the candle say?” He asks. You catch a glimpse of the ends of his hair as he tilts his head. Auburn and grey. Fucking hot. 

“It’s just a 1.” The temperature is warmer under your embarrassment than it was with the open flame of the candle. “I thought it’d be a nice gift if I told you that you’re the only client I see now. The only one.”

He leans back slightly as if your words have physically stunned him. Running a big hand over his neck, he exhales slowly. 

“Wait, sweetheart. Are you just saying that? Or is it really just me?” You wish you could see his face. Usually, his lack of personal identifiers isn’t something that bothers you. It’s easy to understand why someone wouldn’t want to stare at themselves while they were on a call of this nature. 

But here, now, you wanted to see if there was a blush on his cheeks. You wanted to know if he looked excited or concerned. 

“It’s just you, Sarge.”

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

Two hours and three orgasms later, you're walking through the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your first shift. It’s the most he’s ever gotten out of you, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t ready to fall asleep after so much stimulation. 

But it’s only 7 p.m.. Night shifts have always been your preference. Even before getting a job in medicine, you preferred the overnight stocking gigs or the late night video chats. 

You like the dark. The night is gentle and unpredictable.

“Hi,” you greet the charge nurse at the hub with a small smile, tucking your bag into one of the cubbies under the desk. “It’s my first day. Do you have any idea where I can find Dr. Gloria Underwood?”

The blonde woman nods once, and you look over your shoulder to find her already walking toward you. You’d met Gloria once previously over the summer when you had a virtual interview for the resident position. It was a panel of her, one of the day-shift attendings, and a few of the hospital board members.

“Welcome!” She greets cheerfully, but there’s a franticness in her wide eyes. “My gosh, it’s a bit hectic around here today. Usually I’d be the one showing you the ropes, but I’ve got a meeting with corporate and-”

“No worries,” you excuse, waving your palm. “Things get busy, I understand.”

“I like you already.” Her gaze trails to the other side of the nurses’ station. There’s two men, both in black, both looking at the screen of a tablet. “These are your attending physicians, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. John Shen. I’ll introduce you and they’ll walk you through everything you need to know.”

One of them is older, a stubble across his jaw and neck that glints under these harsh lights. He’s handsome, with light grey curls and dark eyes. Freckles smatter over his entire body as far as you can see. Face, neck, arms, hands, all covered in evidence of long summer days.

Next to him is the younger doctor, with a head of full, dark hair that matches his deep brown eyes. He’s also sporting stubble, though his is darker and shorter, closer to a shadow than anything else. 

Before you can respond to Gloria, she’s already sweeping you over to the two men. As you get closer, you realize that Dr. Abbot isn’t wearing a black scrub top like Dr. Shen. Instead, he dons a plain black tee that reminds you all too much of SgtMD and the meeting you had before this. 

It’s bad that you miss him. You know it’s wrong. It’s inappropriate. It’s probably unhealthy on some level. 

But nobody has ever made you feel the way he does. Nobody has taken care of you so well. Nobody has ever shown you so much affection in their words and actions. And you’ve never wanted to return that care and affection before.

You shake your head as if it will manually remove the thought from your brain. 

“Jack, John, this is your new resident,” Gloria introduces you. 

“Only one this year?” Dr. Shen raises his thick eyebrows. “Are we broke?”

You snort, but quickly cover it up with a cough when Gloria’s sharp eyes dart to where you’re still standing at her side.

“Nobody wants to work nights,” she huffs. “Would the two of you please show her the ropes? I’m late for a budget meeting.”

Again, she’s halfway down the hallway before she gets a response. 

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you both,” you say with a soft smile. Your eyes catch on Dr. Abbot’s slack-jawed face.

Your heart drops, realizing you’ve already made a bad first impression on one of the only people that matters here. 

“I’m sorry about the inconvenience. I’m sure you’ve both already got enough to do without babysitting me through your shift.” A wince threatens to pinch your face in apology, but you try to remain confident.

“No need! Happy to help our residents.” Shen hands you the tablet they were both reading. “I’m going to do hand-off with Robby. Read over this chart and tell Abbot what your next steps would be.” 

“Is everything ok?” You ask Abbot quietly once Shen is out of hearing range. “I’m sure the having-me-shadow-you thing is annoying. I promise you won’t even know I’m there.”

His head snaps to you, heated eyes meeting yours. His short curls have dashes of auburn throughout them that you can see now up close. His eyes are dark, pupils blown as he stares at your face. 

“I’ll know you’re there.” There’s an edge to his voice that sends a shiver up your spine. 

“What?” Your brows meet in the middle of your forehead at that. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Abbot, I don’t understa-”

You’re cut off by another doctor slinging an arm around Abbot’s shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. 

“Happy birthday, brother.” He smacks his back hard. 

Your heart sinks to your stomach as you piece it together. The black tee shirt, the auburn hair, the broad shoulders, your reaction to his voice. The birthday.

Holy fucking shit.

Dr. Jack Abbot is SgtMD. 

Your new attending physician is the faceless man you’ve pined after for the last three years. He’s the man who sent you the earrings you’re currently wearing. Small, modest studs with a little emerald stone that he said was his favorite color.

Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Quickly, you snatch the tablet close to your chest, as if the secret truth is announcing itself on the screen, and move a few feet away. You try to tune out the waves of anxiety wracking through your body at the realization that he’s here and he’s hot and he’s staring at you while having an entire conversation with the attending you recognize from your interview.

The chart. 

The thing you just spent the last 8 years of your life working for is here in front of you. You cannot let your personal life get in the way of accomplishing this.

The air you inhale is sterile. You breathe it out and let your eyes scan the chart.

13 y/o female ℅ SOB at rest. Sats 90. No hx of asthma. Sudden onset after tackle injury in lacrosse game Friday. PCP prescribed inhaler, no improvement. 

The possible diagnoses flit through your head, overriding the anxiety of your personal life catching fire between these walls. 

This is what you’re here for. To practice medicine. To be a doctor. 

“You look at the chart?” Shen comes next to you. He makes a slurping sound as he pulls coffee through his already-empty cup. The clock just struck 7:01 p.m.. One minute into the shift. How is his drink gone already?

“I did. My first thought was a fractured rib that punctured the lung, but I don’t see any symptoms other than shortness of breath. Surely she’d complain of pain if there were a rib injury. My next thought is a respiratory illness unrelated to the injury-- still, sats are really low for a young, active girl. Hard to find a bullseye here,” you relay your thought process to him. He takes the chart, nodding as he reads through it again. 

“I agree. So what should we order?” His dark eyes are much softer and sweeter than Abbot’s. You blink the thought of him away quickly, refocusing on the question. 

“CBC, BMP, ABG, ECG, and BNP.” Your answer comes quickly. “ And maybe a D-dimer depending on what medications she’s taking. I didn’t any listed in the chart.”

He smiles widely and nods, revealing the stereotypical adrenaline-junkie smile that all emergency doctors seem to possess. 

“Right on. Let’s go get her from intake.” He claps your shoulder and leads the way.

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

Shen takes you under his wing for the first half of the shift. He walks you through how to read and work the board, introduces you to every staff member that walks by, and shares plenty of stories-- comedy and horror-- of his time spent at PTMC. 

When 1 a.m. rolls around and you’ve shadowed him through most types of cases, he cuts you loose. 

“I need a coffee, and you need a patient,” he sighs, looking up at the board. “What do you see?”

“I can do the debridement in Central 9,” you suggest, turning to face him. 

“Perfect. Go get ‘em, tiger.” Another clap on the shoulder and he’s leaving you. 

You review the patient chart on the tablet before you enter the room. No matter how many patients you treated as a student doctor, it’s still nervewracking to go into a room alone. After rereading the chart, taking a deep breath, and letting the yawn you’ve been holding in for six hours go, you’re finally ready.

“Hi, Mrs. Sanchez,” you greet your patient as you enter the room. You introduce yourself and wince at the sight of the wound on her leg. “Gosh, this looks like it hurts. What happened?”

“I was taking the stupid dog out to the bathroom. He needs to go out on a leash because we live on a big property.” Her face crumples into a cute frown. “He took off and pulled me through the gravel backyard. He hates me, I swear!”

You sigh, shaking your head.

“Doesn’t sound like he has your best interest at heart,” you agree, earning a small grin. You pull the stool to her bedside and snap on a pair of gloves. “What breed is your dog?” “My dog!?” She scoffs, wiping the smile off her face instantly. “No! My son’s. Little rat bastard that I never wanted in the first place.”

“The son or the dog?” You tease, opening the instruments on the sterile tray next to you. She chokes out a stream of laughter that lasts the entire time you’re unwrapping, earning a few giggles from you as she tries and fails to regain her composure. 

“Things are going well in here, I see.” A familiar voice says from the doorway. Abbot steps into the room, rubbing sanitizer into his hands before looking at the patient chart. “I’m Dr. Jack Abbot, I’m the attending physician here.”

“This is Mrs. Hilaria Sanchez,” you introduce your patient because she’s still laughing too hard to get a word out. You’re wearing a wide smile of your own as you glance back at her. “She was taking her son’s dog out when he took off and dragged her.”

“Yeah?” He says it almost unconsciously, and still, heat pools between your legs. He isn’t even looking at you, and you’re quick to turn back to your patient before he does. The last thing you need is for him to realize the effect he has on you. “Should I be concerned about a hospital-induced laughing spell, Mrs. Sanchez?”

She snorts, wiping tears from under her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. 

“She’s just a very funny doctor!” She giggles again, and you can’t help the amused chuckle that tumbles from your own lips as you grab her a tissue from the counter. 

“I said one thing!” You retort through your own laughter. “Ok, ok. We have to stop laughing so I can get these pebbles out of your leg. Talk about something else, please, Dr. Abbot.”

You’re careful not to look at him when you address him out of fear that he won’t react to you the way you do to him.

That’s one thing that used to bother you about Jack SgtMD. Since he never showed his face online, you could never tell if he was enjoying what you were doing, really. He’d groan and tell you how good you looked. You’d catch his strong arms moving sometimes, stroking himself off camera at a slow, steady pace. 

Once, last year, he’d finished and came so hard that cum shot up into frame, dirtying his pressed black shirt. It was dirty and impulsive and he was so out of breath, you remember. You came immediately after him that day.

“How old is your son?” He prompts as he hands you the tweezers and sets the discard tray on the bedside next to her wounded calf. Again, you’re jolted back into the moment.

“He’s 25. That’s about your age, no?” She looks at you as she blots under her eyes with the tissue. 

“Just about,” you reply, dropping the first rock into the tray. “What does he do?”

“He’s a lawyer,” she responds proudly. “And he’s very handsome. And single.”

You and Abbot both snort at the same time. 

“Are you trying to set me up on a date with the same son you just called a ‘rat bastard’?” You raise your brows playfully at her before turning your attention back to the leg. 

“Oh, please! You know I meant the dog!” She chuckles, swatting at your arm and missing by a mile. “I’m telling you. You two would be good together. Two attractive, successful young people.”

“Unfortunately, she’s taken,” the man behind you answers before you can even open your mouth. 

You turn your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers as you process his words.

Did he actually just stake his claim like that?

Heat floods your face, neck, and ears as you reorient toward your patient’s leg. The sight of him there, in that same tight black shirt he was wearing earlier today when he had you beg him to stop making you cum, is too much. 

“That’s too bad. I’m sure my son is cuter!” She winks. 

You give your best chuckle despite the rising temperature, continuing the tedious task of plucking each piece of dirt and gravel from her six-by-three wound. 

For longer than he should, Abbot hovers over your shoulder, humming each time you do something well. 

It’s almost odd seeing his face. You’d never considered what SgtMD might look like. Based on the build of his torso and the grit of his voice, you knew he would be hot, and that was really enough to satisfy the knots he managed to unwind. 

You were used to knowing clients only by their screen names and what they chose to show. It wasn’t a big deal, it was the nature of the business.

But this morning, it did bother you, just for a fleeting moment. 

First, it bothered you not knowing what name to write on his cake. You weren’t going to write Happy Birthday, SgtMD on top of your pretty white buttercream frosting. Something about that name had been… defiled. 

SgtMD was the man who coaxes orgasms with only his instruction, never a finger laid on your body but still managing to light you up with desire. 

Happy Birthday, Jack would have been much more fitting. 

Jack is the man who pays you for every session, even the ones where you’re ten minutes late because you had to finish a timed quiz or hit every red light on your way home from the library. He’s the one who insists on buying you pretty lingerie. Sexy, of course, but beautiful. Handsewn pieces custom made to fit the measurements he asked you for. 

A little ache splits your heart as you face the new reality of your situation. 

He recognized you. He knew you. Not your name, maybe, but your face. From where he’s standing over you, he’s observing the hands that he’s seen knuckle-deep in your pussy. It’s not new for him, just for you. 

And as much as it embarrasses you to admit it, it upsets you a little bit. Makes you feel guilty for not being able to know his name from your residency offer letter and reject it. 

And seeing his reaction this morning, him having to process your presence alone while you apologized for something entirely unrelated-- it releases a strange guilt that climbs up your throat. 

“Dr. Abbot,” you say without thinking first, because you desperately need reassurance that you haven’t managed to go and fuck up your professional and personal life by being here. 

You want him to tell you that everything is alright, that he’s not disgusted by you, that this doesn’t ruin his fantasy of you, that he won’t march to HR as soon as the shift ends and tell them that he can’t work with you because you have an inappropriate relationship. 

You swallow hard, not knowing what to say now. 

“Do you think this area needs a stitch?” Is all that comes to mind.

His dark eyes feel all-consuming, and suddenly you’re grateful that he never showed them during your calls, because the pressure of having to make yourself finish while he gave you this stare would be far too intimidating. 

It isn’t unkind, it’s just-- intense. Everything he’s done today, actually, has been rather intense.

He bends down, and the smell of mint swarms your senses. His chest presses against your shoulder as he squints, searching for the made-up bleeder. 

“Where?” Fuck that voice is even better in person. The breath of it brushes your ear just barely, and you suck in a sharp breath. 

Instead of answering verbally, you point to a random spot on the wound with your tweezers. He looks from you, to the not-bleeding area of skin, back to you. 

“Stitches?” Mrs. Sanchez asks, looking up from where she’s been scrolling on her phone. 

“No, ma’am,” He reassures her quickly with a shake of his head. She nods, and he turns his gaze back to you. “I see why you thought to ask. Come find me after you’re done here and I can explain why it doesn’t need a stitch. I’ll be charting if you need me. Feel better soon, Mrs. Sanchez.”

He stands quickly, sheds his gloves into the waste bin, and leaves the room. 

“Do you think it’s ok to add non-famous people to a hall pass list?” Your patient asks as soon as the door shuts behind him. Slowly, you lift your gaze from her leg to her face, arching a brow in question. “That Dr. Abbot is… phew!” 

She fans herself with her fingers, eliciting a hearty laugh from you as you continue working and thinking about your attending because… phew is right. 

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

Mrs. Sanchez is discharged shortly after you finish the grueling task of removing each piece of gravel from her open wound and wrap it under Donnie’s supervision. There’s a sharp ache across the entire length of your shoulders. 

“Shoulders?” Shen asks as you sit down to chart, noting your pained wince.

“I was hunched over that leg for two hours.” You blink hard. “I’m seeing little pieces of gravel everytime I close my eyes.”

He laughs, wiping condensation from his drink with a sterile towel. 

“Is she ready to be discharged?” He looks at the board. “We could use her room.”

“Actually, she’s been discharged. Just waiting for her son to get here and pick her up,” you say through a bite of the granola bar you keep in your scrub top. “He’s a lawyer.”

“Is she trying to set you up with her son?” He snorts, shaking his head as he looks toward the patient room where she’s rifling through her purse. “You’ll get used to it. Happens at least once a day. Everyone wants their kids to date a doctor for some reason.”

He leaves, taking his coffee with him into a patient room. 

Just as you’ve found a comfortable position and typed out the first sentence of your patient care summary, Lena raps her knuckles from the other side of the counter. When you look up, you make eye contact with the man next to her. 

He’s about your age, with dark, curly brown hair and a tanned complexion. Both features that match Mrs. Sanchez, who you turn to find excitedly waving at you both through the glass door of her exam room. 

Laughing, you stand up and extend your hand in greeting as you introduce yourself. 

“You’re Mrs. Sanchez’s son, I assume?” You ask as you round the counter. He nods, scratching the back of his neck. 

“I guess it’s safe to assume that all the matchmaking texts I was getting were being relayed to you, then?” He breathes out a nervous laugh. 

You chuckle in response, pulling your lips between your teeth before releasing them with another quick laugh. Before you can respond, you hear your name called from down the hallway. Abbot is walking over, and you note the slight unevenness of his footsteps. 

So many quirks, and you want to know them all. You want to know him. All of him.

“You discharging Mrs. Sanchez?” He asks, leaning in to glance at the tablet in your hand, not once looking at the man beside you. You nod, maintaining his heavy eye contact. “Great. Mind if I observe?”

You shake your head, then gesture between the two men. 

“This is Mrs. Sanchez’s son. He’s here to take her home. This is my attending physician, Dr. Jack Abbot,” you introduce the two of them to each other, taking note of the way Jack nods without a smile. On the way to her room, you stop to grab a wheelchair from the side wall of the hallway, but Jack takes it quickly, pushing it on his own. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He pulls the door to the room open, waiting for you to walk through. Shyly, you cast a smile in his direction and step inside. 

For such a gentleman, you’re surprised he isn’t being welcoming to Mr. Sanchez. Surely, he isn’t jealous. Right?

“Hey, mom.” Her son enters right after you, moving to her bedside to place a kiss to her hair. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

They spend a moment arguing over the son’s dog while you sort her discharge paperwork and Jack prepares the wheelchair. 

When you turn to face the bed again, Mrs. Sanchez points to you. 

“Mijo, this is the girl I was telling you about. See? Very pretty, very sweet, very very smart. She’s a doctor, you know?” She nudges his side. 

“This is your discharge paperwork, Mrs. Sanchez,” you say in an attempt to change the subject. “There’s instructions for how to rebandage the wound on this page. You’ll want to do it twice a day, when you wake up and when you go to sleep, ok?”

She nods, taking the packet of paperwork. 

“Your leg may be a little bit tender. A little pain is normal as the skin heals, but if it gets too uncomfortable to bear weight, or if you start noticing any foul smells or pus coming from the wound, it could be a sign of infection. Come back in as soon as possible if that happens, alright?”

She nods and hands the paperwork to her son as Jack helps to transfer her into the wheelchair. He does it easily, lifting her body off of the bed and into the cushioned seat. 

As he does, every muscle ripples down his arm. Somehow, every inch of him is huge. Fingertip to his bicep, where the tee blocks the rest of his arm from view, you watch his skin dimple as it flexes with his movements. 

“Does she need to be on any antibiotics or anything?” Her son asks, bringing your attention away from Jack’s arms and back to him. 

“Um, no. She’s all set to go.” You smile politely.

“I’ll walk them out,” Jack says, nodding to you. “Can you notify Lena that this room is ready to be cleaned, please?”

You nod, holding the door as he pushes Mrs. Sanchez through the threshold. She hooks a finger into your scrub pocket as she’s pushed out, winking coyly. Although you don’t understand, you smile and wave, wishing her a good rest of her night. 

“Central 9 is ready to be cleaned,” you tell Lena as you approach the nurse’s station again. She gives a thumbs up and picks up the phone, nodding to the board. Pediatric bone break in South 12, and she’s writing your name into the box next to it. 

You head there, smiling softly when you enter the room and introduce yourself. 

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

You pick up cases for the rest of your shift, bouncing from room to room and having no time between check-ins to chart. 

“God, it’s nice having another resident,” Ellis tells you as she plops down across from you to chart.

You grin, fingers clacking away as you hurry to document everything as quickly as you can. It’s already 6:45 a.m., the day shift is trickling in, and you have eight charts to start and complete before you can leave. 

“Do you have a minute?” You swivel on your stool to see Jack standing at your desk. “I wanted to discuss the bleeder you asked about earlier with Mrs. Sanchez.”

Swallowing hard, you nod, standing to follow him. His limp is more pronounced now after a shift on his feet, and you wonder what he’s dealing with. 

The continued reminders that you don’t really know him at all are both aggravating and unnerving.

“How was your first shift?” He asks you, leading you to a window that overlooks the bridge. It’s far from the swing of things, nestled between a staircase and elevator. 

Only the two of you are here for the moment, but anyone could walk down the stairs or exit the elevators. 

He’s staring out, watching the occasional car drive by. 

“Um, it was good, thank you,” you reply nervously. “How was your birthday?”

He faces you then, a smirk tugging one corner of his lip up. 

“Best one so far,” he says simply. His eyes are so full of something, not emotion, but-- passion, maybe? You aren’t sure what to call it, but it’s incredibly difficult to maintain eye contact and even more difficult to look away. “I realize I made you uncomfortable this morning, and I’m sorry. I was just-- surprised to see you.”

“What?” You frown, stepping back in surprise. “Dr. Abbot, you didn-- no! Oh my gosh, no, not at all! I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I promise I had no idea that you work here. Really, I didn’t mean to ambush you or surprise you or ruin what we have.”

You snap your mouth shut so hard that you have to run your tongue along your teeth to make sure none of them chipped from the force. 

The corner of his mouth raises higher, but he says nothing. 

“Is this ok? Me working here, I mean.” 

You hate how desperate you sound. The feeling sits low in your stomach, bubbling with anxiety as his silence continues. 

“What kind of cake was it?” He stares back out the window. 

“What?” You ask stupidly for the second time before realization dons on you. “Oh. It’s vanilla. With a whipped buttercream. I had some leftover batter, so there’s cupcakes, too. Actually, there’s two in my lunchbox if you want one.”

“You made me a cake from scratch?” He chuckles darkly. “You brought it to work?”

A bead of sweat runs from your hairline down the nape of your neck, and you wipe it anxiously. Shrugging, you wince a little at how pathetic he’s making you sound. 

It’s not like you knew SgtMD would be here. 

“You’re a sweet girl,” he comments, and you feel heat pool between your thighs. 

Instinctively, you cross your legs and look down at your feet. 

“I should probably get back to charting.” You wipe your sweaty palms off on the knees of your scrubs and push yourself to stand. 

He follows, towering over you. Then, silently, he dips his hand into the front pocket of your scrub pants. 

It’s only for a moment, but the heat from his palm makes your breath catch in your throat. 

His hand emerges with a piece of paper between his pointer and middle fingers. 

“You don’t need this. You’re seeing someone, remember?” His head tilts to the side, as if testing you. Your eyes flit to the paper he’s holding, something you don’t recognize. 

“I-I-- what is that?” You pout your lips and return your gaze to his face, finding his eyes fixed on your mouth. Your pout gets more dramatic as he further confuses you. “Dr. Abbot?”

“Don’t call me that.” It’s stern. “Jack. I’m Jack.”

“Jack,” you repeat softly. It’s your first time saying it out loud. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He drags a hand down his face, laughing like you wear him out. The sight makes your heart skip a beat.

This look on his face. This is what you craved from him online, and here it is. 

It was worth the three-year wait, no doubt.

Jack tucks the paper into his pocket and his eyes dart to something over your shoulder. You turn, following his gaze to find a man entering the double doors. Jack places a hand just above the curve of your ass, urging you back into the main ED. 

“Robby!” He calls, dropping his hand, but motioning for you to follow with a tilt of his head. The man entering the ED turns, and you recognize him as the one who wished Jack a happy birthday this morning. The same man from your interview. “This is our new resident. I don’t think you two met this morning.”

He shakes his head, gaze moving between the two of you briefly before settling on your face. 

“We did not. I’m Michael Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby.” He extends his hand for you to shake, and you do, hoping you don’t look as fucked-out as you feel. When you tell him your name, he surprises you by saying, “I remember. I sat in on one of your interviews. Hard to forget someone with such an impressive resume.”

You laugh, waving your hand in front of you to dismiss his praise. 

“Oh gosh, thanks Dr. Robby.” Nervously you glance at Jack, who is giving you an appraising look. “I’m really behind on charting, so I should probably get to that. It was great to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe we could grab dinner sometime,” he suggests, and Jack clears his throat. 

You were almost sure that he was merely suggesting a space to talk more about your resume. Almost. 

“I’d love for the three of us to get together!” You play stupid on purpose. “I just moved to Pittsburgh so I could definitely use the restaurant recommendations. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

You catch Jack’s sneaky grin from the corner of your eye as you turn on your heels to go back to your computer station. 

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

An hour later, the sweet smell of buttercream enters your nostrils. You hear a crinckling and turn quickly to see Jack looming over you. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “How long have you been here?”

He’s just standing there, holding your lunchbox and unwrapping your cupcake. 

You have no idea how he knew it was yours, but alas, here you are.

He sets the lunchbox onto the counter next to you and pulls a stool from another charting station. Sidling next to you, he leans too far into your space, disregarding all professional boundaries. 

“This is really good,” he praises. “You spelt ‘oophorectomy’ wrong.”

“Where?” You move closer to the screen, scanning your patient history portion of your last chart. His finger points at the correctly spelled term. “That’s how you spell it.”

He hums, chewing another bite. 

“So you’re good at everything, then? Baking and spelling and-”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Dr. Abbot,” you whisper harshly, eyes darting for any listening day-shift ears. 

“Told you not to call me that.” He clears his throat, tugging at the fabric that’s now pulling a little tighter around his groin. 

Ok, maybe this is the thing you desired most from SgtMD. This was a view you were not getting over video chat.

You busy yourself grabbing another cupcake out of your lunchbox. 

“Our shift ended an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be going home?” You press.

He was usually home by now. You knew, because he’d schedule calls with you four times a week at exactly 8:00 a.m.. 

“Nothing exciting to rush home for anymore.” He says it so offhandedly that you almost don’t realize he means your appointments. Then, leaving no room to the imagination, he adds, “Ive got you right here. We’re both getting paid now, huh?”

You choke on a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Your tongue darts out to lick the peak of buttercream from the top of the cupcake. He blows out a long exhale, and his breath smells sweet as if fans over you. 

“You almost done? We could grab breakfast,” he suggests, eyes tracking your tongue as you swipe it across the top of the cupcake again. 

“Mm, I kind of spent my ‘fun money’ on ingredients for the cake stuff,” you say, setting the cupcake back down and saving the chart. “I think I get my first check next week. Can we raincheck?”

“I’ll pay.” He sounds offended. “How much longer do you need?”

“I’m done, actually.” You rub your eyes and face him again. “And breakfast would be very nice, thank you, Jack.”

“It’s a date.” His words ring familiar from his message prior to yesterday’s call. “Go grab your stuff.”

As you obey, you can’t help but think about how much better it is taking orders from Dr. Jack Abbot than SgtMD.

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

find smutty pt 2 here! & pt 3 here!

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[wkemeup]

Guiding Light - Master List

summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get the intel and go home. Until everything goes wrong and you’re taken captive by Hydra. While you struggle to stay alive and hold your sanity, Bucky begins to lose himself to a darkness and gives into the soldier because he doesn’t know how to breathe without you. Not until he brings you home. If he even can. pairing: bucky x reader word count: ~100,000  warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, torture, minor character death, vague/brief suicidal ideation, smut (marked with *), slow burn/longing/mutual pining

🥊 part one

💣 part two

📺 part three 

🎥 part four 

👟 part five 

🗽 part six 

👯‍♀️ part seven 

🕯 part eight 

🏥 part nine 

🧠 part ten 

❤️ part eleven *

❄️ part twelve 

💜 part thirteen *

✨series playlist ✨

Drabble: Destroyer

This series is officially complete 🖤

[smorgaswhored]

null & void (part two)

pairing: sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n

word count: 8.6k

part one - part three: coming soon

summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…

sammy speaks: part two is here!! I don’t think I’ve written this many words since my 1D fanfic days lol. good news is I’m on vacation now so the writing will be flowing! I wouldn’t mind an ask or prompt about these two either 😏 hope you enjoy lovelies

December arrives suddenly. With it comes your winter break.

You spend most of it staying up late, indulging in mindless scrolls and shitty TV, and sleeping in until the afternoon. It’s lazy, self-serving and irresponsible, but it’s healing something childlike within you that hasn’t gotten attention since your mom passed.

Bucky understands this, but it doesn’t mean he likes it.

“I’m giving my brain a break,” you tell him for the third time, phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder as you make a fresh cup of coffee at four in the afternoon.

“You’re becoming nocturnal,” Bucky replies sternly on the other end.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Sunlight’s good for a person.”

‘I’m looking at sunlight right now.”

“Sunset,” he corrects. Sure enough, the light is fading quickly, street lamps powering on outside of your window. Damn daylight savings.

“Oh, whatever,” you dismiss. “It’s not like it’s forever — I promise I’ll go back to a normal person’s sleep schedule after the new year.”

“I don’t like waiting around all day to hear from you.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you say, gentler. “I don’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“I know,” he sighs, resigned. “It’s just boring without you.”

You bite your lip, an idea blooming in your brain. “You know what’s not boring?”

“What?”

“Malibu.”

He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.

“Alright,” he relents. “Fine. But when we get back, you’re gonna start going to bed at a normal time like a well-adjusted person. I’m tired of eating lunch alone.”

“Ok, grandpa. I promise.”

He picks you up an hour later when you’re still zipping up your suitcase, dressed like a Tom Ford ad with a cashmere scarf and designer pea coat draped over him, face appropriately disgruntled but eyes bright with adventure as he holds the car door open for you. By six, you’re buckled into the seat next to him on the private jet. By midnight, you’re touching down at Santa Monica Airport.

Sun, sand and ocean breeze occupy your next forty-eight hours. Bucky’s house in Malibu boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Pacific, a waterfall pool set to the perfect temperature, and a large back deck to soak in the sun while eating breakfast. Bucky scrolls the morning news on his phone, shades on and shirt unbuttoned to his naval, while you sip mimosas and try not to stare.

That’s a difficult ask when you’re finally getting an unobstructed view of the chest hair that teased you so long ago.

The first day, you hop in his vintage convertible and drive up the coast to his sprawling vineyard. He gives you a tour of the grounds while you catch a buzz taste testing all the wines he’s made. You’re flushed and giggling by the time you head back, and Bucky’s smile seems like a permanent fixture on his face. Dinner is a seafood feast at a small restaurant right off the beach, where the owner welcomes Bucky like a son and calls you stunning at least five times. The night ends with a glass of wine in front of the moonlit ocean, curled up on a blanket with oversized sweatshirts to block the wind. Whispers back and forth about childhood dreams and failed first kisses; favorite books and most embarrassing moments. You feel light as a feather by the time you float off to bed, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine settling deep in your chest.

The next day, Bucky rouses you from your sleep before the sun’s fully up, claiming you “need the practice” and muttering that it’s already 9 in the morning back home when you prove difficult to move from the guest bed. When you’re finally up, the two of you walk the beach with the rest of the early risers, sipping travel mugs of extra strong coffee and making fun of runners who stumble through the sand.

The ocean’s coming alive at this time of day, and for a few minutes, the two of you stop to watch it do its thing. Waves crash, shells tumble. Not far from the coast, dolphins jump through the air, chasing fish and playing.

It’s the calmest your mind and heart have been in ages, and the feeling makes you smile, face tipped up toward the sun. When Bucky reaches for your hand, you thread your fingers through his and squeeze.

Later, you take a dip in the pool while Bucky makes a work call. The sun beats down on your skin relentlessly like it’s never heard of winter. You’re starting to doze on your floating lounge chair when you hear a small splash, and waves lap at your skin. You push your sunglasses up and look around.

Bucky breaks through the water at the other end of the pool. You blink at him.

When he spots you, a wicked smile crosses his face. Before you can say a word, he’s ducked under again and streaking towards you like a shark.

“Bucky—“

You’re tossed overboard, the sound of Bucky’s laughter the last thing you hear before you hit the water. He’s still laughing when you emerge, drenched and in disbelief. You answer his laugh with a sharp splash right to the face, scowling. His smile turns evil after he shakes the water from his eyes.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.”

You splash him again because he fucking deserves it. Then he lunges.

You shriek, making a break for the edge of the pool, but he’s got you by the ankle before you even touch the wall. He yanks, sending you spiraling underwater again.

You’re sputtering when you come up, but it’s game on now. You throw yourself at him, hands pressing down on his shoulders to give him a taste of his own medicine, but he’s immovable to your touch. Wasting no time, he grabs you by the waist and tosses you several feet across the water. You launch another attack when his head’s turned, coming up from behind and wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down with you. He goes willingly this time, but his hands maneuver you easily so that you’re thrown over his shoulder when you break the surface. You writhe and wrestle him to let you go, but he’s got an unbreakable grip across your legs; he carries you through the shallow end while you whine about unfairness, fists beating at his back. He crosses the deck quickly and suddenly, you’re airborne.

Until you smack the water in the deep end.

You gasp for air when you come up. “You’re a fucking bully,” you cough, throat raw from the unprecedented amount of water you inhaled. “You win.”

“You started it,” Bucky lifts his hands helplessly. Then, without warning, he gives you his best smile before cannonballing directly next to you. You scream as another wave of water brings you under.

You have half a mind to shove him back down when he reemerges, but his unbridled laughter is possibly one of the greatest sounds you’ve ever heard in your entire life. You greedily take in the arch of his neck as he throws his head back, and the way his nose scrunches in delight.

After he accepts your white flag, he helps you to the wall, a hand on your back pushing you gently. He hoists himself out first, and suddenly the water in your nose isn’t the only thing making it difficult for you to breathe.

Rivulets trail down his broad back, emphasizing the isolated muscles used to push himself up. They’re large, but sharp, clearly built by hours spent in the gym. When he turns around to offer you a hand, you can’t look him in the eye. The front of him is downright obscene, a replica of any Greek sculpture you can think of. And with his hair slicked back, swim trunks clinging to his muscular thighs, and the chest hair on full display— the chest hair—

He lifts you one-handed out of the water. You scurry away before you can make a bad decision — like lick the water from his chest.

Dinner is sushi on a private deck with the stars shining down on you. He’s placed his jacket around your shoulders, the scent of his cologne and something innately him smothering you in the best way possible. Bucky’s chatty tonight, talking about work, talking about the vineyard, talking about old friends from college. You only absorb every other word, too busy sneaking lingering glances when he’s not looking.

His posture is more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it, and his phone — his usual stressor — is nowhere in sight. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair but he doesn’t bother to fix it. When he meets your eyes, he offers a smile that says he’s right where he wants to be. Like he could do this for the rest of his life.

But all good things must come to an end eventually.

New York is a tundra wasteland when you return. Your timing was impeccable because you just missed the biggest snowstorm of the season. Bucky’s grumbling about the cold the minute you step onto the tarmac, drawing the collar of his coat around his ears despite the car idling thirty feet away.

The drive into the city goes by too quickly. Malibu fades more into a memory with each mile you put between you and the plane.

You think you must be sleep-deprived and jet lagged, because when Bucky presses a parting kiss to your forehead once you’re in front of your building, tears spring to your eyes. You’re out of the car before he can get a chance to see them.

But as soon as you step foot in your apartment, you’re missing the warmth of California, the beautiful Malibu home, the smell of the ocean, and Bucky by your side. It’s not exhaustion that brought the tears — it’s longing. Heavy, irrational, unfiltered longing.

You force yourself to take a nap anyway.

Eventually, the holidays are here, and Bucky gets into the spirit by sparing no expense.

Two days before Christmas, he rents out the entire top floor restaurant of a skyscraper and presents you with a solid gold, heart-shaped locket in the middle of the quiet, candlelit room. It’s vintage, it’s supposedly priceless, and it’s everything you never knew you wanted but now can’t live without. You’re stumbling over your thank yous as he helps you put it on. His fingers are warm and confident as he hooks the clasp, and trail down your neck unintentionally as you turn, giving you goosebumps.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly. Your skin flushes and your heart soars. That’s all you need to hear. You can’t help but touch it repeatedly throughout the night, and Bucky notices, hiding his smile behind his drink.

He’s over the top with giddiness when you give him his gift. A vinyl for his collection, a one-of-a-kind collector’s album of his favorite band that took weeks to track down. And it’s something you purchased with your own meager savings — you know you didn’t have to, but it means something to you to have given back even a minuscule fraction of what he’s given you.

Later that night, when you’re getting ready for bed at your own apartment, you take the locket off and unclasp it.

It pops open easily, revealing two empty frames.

Despite the incredible night, your heart can’t help but sink.

You don’t know what you were expecting — Bucky’s hardly the type to put a photo of himself in a locket, he barely looks in the mirror in the morning. But something inside of you was obviously hoping for it. A small sign of possession. Of claiming this relationship, no matter how it started or what it’s defined as.

You set the locket gently on your bedside table. You fall asleep looking at it, mind sifting through what’s real and what’s imagined.

Christmas day is a quiet event with an estranged aunt that makes the effort to keep family in your life. It’s an awkward affair, with stilted small talk and pauses long enough to make you sweat, but you don’t have the heart to tell her no each time she comes around.

Bucky’s unusually silent throughout the day, nothing from him except a text in the morning wishing you a merry Christmas. It’s a strange feeling for you when most of your day is spent in contact with him. You’re not sure where he is, or if he’s with family, or if he has any. Somehow, you haven’t asked, and he hasn’t volunteered that information yet.

But as the day goes on and you still haven’t heard from him, the curiosity is starting to burn you alive.

Or is it jealousy? Jealousy for whoever’s taking up all his time, time that’s normally dedicated solely to you?

You’re probably being overdramatic, but this feels like the first taste of what your life would be like without him, and it’s turning you inside out. Your usual detachment tendencies are nowhere to be found, instead making room for a frantic need to confirm his existence. You have to battle with the urge to call him three different times before your aunt gives you a stiff hug and heads out.

Once it’s just you and Lucky, the silence is a bitter enabler. You’re ringing him before you know it.

He picks up just before it goes to voicemail. “Hey,” he answers, voice hushed.

“Hi,” you say. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart. How’s your aunt?”

“She’s good. She made cookies and then we ate them in silence while watching Rudolph.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like a heartwarming Christmas tradition.”

“I know. She’s trying, at least. She just left, actually…how’s your Christmas?”

“It’s good.”

There’s a pause as you wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

“Good,” you croak. “I-I’m glad. I was afraid you’d spend it in the office.”

“Even I know when to take a day off, unlike some of us.”

Your smile is automatic as you recall the conversation from months ago. “Hey, some of us didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” his chest rumbles, “but now you do.”

“I don’t have a job, Bucky.”

“So you can take as many days off as you want.”

You giggle. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“It works whatever way you want it to, doll—“ He cuts off when a voice in the background calls his name. A woman’s voice. High and lilting, musical. Your blood runs cold, like you’ve been dropped into the Hudson. “Hey, listen, I gotta go,” Bucky says, low and rushed. “But I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, okay? We’ll do something. Don’t sleep in.”

Your mouth’s open to reply but he’s already hung up. You stare at your phone until the screen goes black. Lucky jumps off the couch next to you, disappearing into the other room and leaving you to deal with your new fears alone.

Bucky makes good on his promise to call you the next morning. In a strange twist of events, you wake up early, probably because you were tossing and turning all night after the abrupt end to your call.

“Hey, doll,” he says cheerfully.

“Hey,” you breathe, praying you hide the hint of relief in your tone.

“Feel like ice skating today?”

Famous last words.

Much later, when your feet are numb from loss of circulation and the cold, and you’ve tired of grumbling at Bucky about how effortless he is at skating, you stare down over the city from his penthouse windows. He has the fireplace lit, Christmas tree lights on, a Bing Crosby carol playing on the vinyl; your hands are wrapped around a hot tea, its steam warming your face. It’s peaceful and serene.

Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

Your mind conjures up the phone call, the woman’s voice on Bucky’s end.

You smile. “That I missed my calling as a figure skater.”

Bucky’s laugh is low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine and makes you shiver.

“I was thinking the same thing. You could’ve had a gold medal by now.”

“A dream deferred.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Bucky reaches for you, pulling you closer by the hip. You can smell his cologne again, and it momentarily deprives you of all other senses.

“I had fun today,” he tells you. “Skating was my favorite thing to do as a kid. I couldn’t tell you the last time I went.”

You hum and look up at him. “What made you think of it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says slowly, taking a sip of tea. “I guess I was feeling nostalgic.” He meets your eyes. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Thank you for taking me. It was surprisingly fun to embarrass myself in front of all those people.”

He scoffs. “You were a lot better than you think. You just need practice.”

“Sure. But let’s save that for next year when there’s a better chance that people don’t remember me.”

“Whatever you say, doll.” He pauses. “What are you doing for New Years?”

You blink. “Oh, uh — nothing, I guess.”

His head tilts. “Up for another fancy party?”

Five days later, you’re draped in silk and diamonds, hair done and skin glowing. Bucky’s hand is dragging lazily up and down your back as he listens to a board member’s hypothetical on splitting shares. You barely hear a word he’s saying.

When the man walks away, Bucky leans in. “Having a holiday work party on an actual holiday is already dickish, but talking about work at the holiday work party? Unbelievable.“

“The nerve of him,” you whisper back. He sends you a wink before leading you to the other side of the room.

Before the end of the night, Bucky gives a speech to the partygoers. He thanks everyone for coming before humbly acknowledging the company having another record-breaking year. Cheers erupt all around; everywhere you look, people are smiling at him with respect and admiration. Bucky calls out a few people in particular for exemplary performance, then reminds everyone to arrange for rides home before cracking a joke about who will be the first one in HR’s office after tonight.

He’s charming, he’s magnetic, he’s impossible to look away from. And when he steps off stage and heads directly for you, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

During the countdown to midnight, Bucky has you pressed against his side, eyes twinkling as they take in the room. Meanwhile, you’re barely breathing, desperately wondering if Bucky will respect the age-old tradition of a kiss to ring in the new year. Just as the clock hits twelve, and you turn your face to his, Bucky leans down and brushes his lips to your forehead. Gentle, steady.

And not at all what you wanted.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

You exhale softly. “Happy New Year, Bucky.”

It takes everything in you to keep those floodgates right where they are.

After the party’s ended, you agree to go back to Bucky’s. He’s rubbing the marks of your heels from your feet while you recap the night, massaging the stiffness out of them; you’re bundled up in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wears the same.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he says.

“Of course. It was a really beautiful party.”

“Agreed. I’m looking forward to signing off on that bill on Monday.”

You laugh. “You know, your employees really love you. I could see it on their faces.”

Bucky shrugs, but his ears go pink. “They’re good people.”

“I think you’re good people.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says with a smile. You attempt to push his chest with your foot, but he holds your ankle steady, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I also think you don’t give yourself enough credit,” you continue softly, voice lowering. “You work hard, you fight for things that’ll make the company better, and you care so much. These people see it. They’re lucky to have you and they know it. I know I am.”

His hands pause. When his eyes find yours, they’re wide, vulnerable. “Thank you,” he whispers.

You shoot him a shy smile. “You’re welcome.”

Your phone lights up just then, an alert from your cat camera detecting movement. But Bucky’s gaze is drawn to the time.

“Christ,” he swears, “it’s already three. Think it’s time for bed.”

You follow him toward the bedrooms, fighting off yawns; he turns to you in front of his door, sleepy smile already stretched across his face. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning the handle.

A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.

“Bucky?” you blurt out.

He turns.

“Yeah?”

“Can I, uh — can I sleep…in your bed? With you?”

Bucky’s silent, eyes blinking. You feel the heat creep up your neck and more words rush out of your mouth in response. You’re looking everywhere but at him.

“Just for tonight, I — um, I just mean, it’s a holiday and, you know, you spend holidays with people…You totally don’t have to say yes, oh my God, I probably crossed a line—“

“Sweetheart.”

Bucky holds the door to his room open, standing aside to allow you to pass. Your mouth opens and closes without a sound, but you scamper by him when he raises an eyebrow. The lights are off, the bed made; you unfold it together, like you’ve done this before a million times, and slide under the sheets.

Lying down, you face each other, eyes dancing over the other’s features softly illuminated by the lights of the city through the window; there’s only a few inches of space between you — it feels too close yet not close enough at the same time.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him. A soft smile flits across his face. Wordlessly, he reaches out and curls two fingers around yours, then his eyes flutter shut.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

You watch his breathing slow, getting comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like this, you’re free to stare. You drink him in, every inch you can see, from the strands of hair falling in his face to the outlines of his legs underneath the sheets. You wish you could see all of him, every freckle, every line, every angle, so you can greedily commit it to memory. So you can be one of the lucky few to have known Bucky Barnes so intimately.

It isn’t lust, it isn’t want —it’s something much deeper than that. Something much more devastating.

You’re eventually lulled to sleep by the pulse in his wrist beating against yours.

January is cold and brutal. February is no better. March finally brings a taste of the sun, but you’re too busy buried up to your neck in school that you hardly step outside to savor it, unless Bucky’s there to drag you out the door.

With finals on the horizon, sometimes you have to make the hard decision to decline Bucky’s invites to dinner, or a show, or another charity gala. The guilt and pressure cut so deep after you say no that you burst into tears as soon as you get off the phone with him.

To his credit, Bucky doesn’t push — he’s your number one champion for you getting your degree — but in your weakest moments, when a headache throbs at your temple and you’ve gone cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day, you think about the woman’s voice on Bucky’s phone. It’s like your brain is punishing you for overworking it day in and day out, pushing nasty propaganda about losing him to a faceless woman as you try to fall asleep.

Dark circles under your eyes become a constant. You live off of electrolytes, coffee and takeout that Bucky has delivered to your apartment. You’re too tired to even doomscroll when you allow yourself a five minute break. It’s a very isolated existence.

Bucky comes by when he can, bearing groceries and ibuprofen and looking larger than life in your little one bedroom flat.

When he’s with you, he shows absolutely no signs of there being another woman in his life, patiently listening to your complaints about thesis formatting and unproved data formulas, gently making you eat after you’ve paced a ditch into your floorboards, holding you close on the couch until your body finally relaxes.

But your brain is a vengeful motherfucker. It torments you for choosing school over Bucky in between writing papers and compiling research. It convinces you that he’s faking every sweet word of encouragement that he gives you. It blends your reality until you believe that he’s cozied up at dinner with someone new, working his effortless charm on your replacement while you sit at home in the dark with your textbooks.

Unsurprisingly, you reach a breaking point.

Now, a sane person would pick up the phone and talk to him about it. But you’ve been entertaining a mild psychosis for days, brought on by stress and fatigue and pathetic amounts of yearning, so — naturally — you decide to show up at his home.

It’s half past midnight when you stumble out of the elevator into his dark penthouse. You bump into a side table as you struggle to find the light switch, sending it to the floor with a crash that could wake the dead, i.e., Bucky. Sure enough, you hear his bedroom door open and the sound of feet rounding the corner. The light flips on.

“What the fuck?”

He’s wearing nothing except his briefs, hair mussed from sleep but eyes wide and alert. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost. You certainly look the part — your clothes are soaked through from the rain, your teeth chattering and lips blue.

“H-hey,” you say weakly.

He says nothing, a tense moment passing between the two of you, before he crosses the room and pulls you into his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he demands. “Are you okay?” He pushes you back to scan you from head to toe. Your fingers curl around his forearms.

“N-no, I’m f-fine. Just c-c-cold.”

He yanks you back into his hold, arms like pythons around your waist and shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” he breathes against your hair. “I thought you were asleep.”

Your sigh brushes against his collarbone; your body is melting against his already. “I t-tried, but…I m-missed you.”

Bucky stills, just for a second. Then his arms pull even tighter around you.

“I missed you, too.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you whisper.

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re here.” He lifts his cheek from your head, taking in your wet clothes. “Did you — did you walk here?”

You have the grace to look guilty.

“Fuck,” he hisses, leaning down to meet your eye, “don’t ever do that again. I don’t want you walking around the city alone at this time of night — either call Bob or call an uber and charge it to my card. You don’t walk. Do you hear me?”

The tone of his voice is new and startling to your already-vulnerable psyche. Tears spill over before you can stop them. He exhales deeply, hands coming up to cup your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softer. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. You just…scared me.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sniffling.

“Says the woman who walked God knows how far in the pouring rain at midnight.” His eyes search your face. “What’s going on?”

Your lip trembles. ”I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Shhh. Tell me what’s wrong,” he urges, and all of the ugly thoughts rear their heads inside your brain.

“It — it’s stupid…”

“It can’t be if you came all this way. Just tell me.”

He waits in silence for you to answer. You struggle to find the words, sifting through scraps of explanations while your head and your heart duke it out.

“…I guess I was…afraid,” you mumble, unable to hold his gaze.

“Afraid of what, sweetheart?” His thumbs brush your cheekbones soothingly.

“Of…losing you.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You take a sharp, rattling breath. “I keep saying no to doing things with you because I’m so worried about school, and I — I haven’t made any effort at all to make up for it. We’ve barely seen each other in weeks — I didn’t realize until now how much I’ve been pushing you a-away. It made me scared that you’d see that I was choosing school over you and…y-you’d get tired of me, or want someone else…”

For the longest minute of your life, he says nothing. You watch as a thousand different emotions cross his face, from anger to sadness to relief. He settles on a blend of happy and pained, jaw clenching but eyes calm as ever. Bucky brings you closer, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Sweetheart, you’re not losing me.” He speaks softly, melodically. “I told you a long time ago that I wanted you to be able to focus on what matters to you, and I meant it. I’m so damn proud of what you’re doing, it makes every second I’m not with you worth it.”

He tilts your head up so that you meet his gaze. It’s warm, tender, almost pleading.

“And I could never get tired of you, even if we go days, or weeks, or months without seeing each other. You bring so much joy to my life just by being in it. Just by being you. Why would I ever want anyone else?”

In the back of your mind, you know you’re sobbing, but you don’t care. A hundred pound weight has been lifted off your chest and you think you might float to the ceiling if you weren’t wrapped up in Bucky’s arms. Whimpering, you bury your face into his chest, clutching at him with all your might. Bucky’s hands spread across your back, pressing you closer.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his skin. His lips brush your hair in a soft kiss.

The other floodgate cracks open, as inevitable as the sun rises. This time, you don’t fight it — you push the door all the way open, standing aside to let the oncoming rush of feelings flood your heart after they’ve been locked away for so long. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Especially when Bucky’s holding you through it.

He only pulls away once your tears have turned into the occasional hiccup. “Come on,” he says gently, “let’s get you warmed up.”

He steers you into his bathroom, turning on the shower and placing a hoodie and boxers next to the sink. He leaves you to it, and you spend a good amount of time scrubbing at your face and regaining feeling in your limbs.

When you open the bathroom door, drowning in his clothes and smelling like his soap, he’s waiting for you, dressed in a hoodie of his own. A tiny part of you mourns the loss of seeing his skin. He helps you climb into his bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you settle against the pillows. He flicks the light off before sliding in beside you, shuffling over until his cold toes touch yours, and his hand slides down your wrist and grabs your arm, pulling you in to close the distance between you.

A faint noise escapes you as you tuck your head against his shoulder. You’ve never been this close to him before — it feels like coming home after a long time away.

You’re drifting off in minutes, Bucky’s arm a comforting weight around your waist. Your dreams start sweetly when you hear his voice saying, “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”

When you receive the email that late April morning, you’re lying in Bucky’s bed scrolling on your phone. Even though Bucky left for work hours ago, you have a habit of drawing out your mornings from the comfort of his king mattress. As soon as you get the notification, your heart stops. You shoot up quickly, opening the email with shaky fingers, and read.

On behalf of the faculty and administration, we extend our sincere congratulations on the successful completion of your Master’s degree in Business Analytics.

This message serves as official confirmation that your degree has been conferred. Your academic achievement reflects a high level of dedication, discipline, and commitment to your field of study…

You scream before erupting into a fit of laughter, scrambling out from under the covers to jump on the bed until your legs give out. You fucking did it.

Breathless, you collapse onto the bed, immediately dialing Bucky. He picks up in one ring.

“Your ears must’ve been burning ‘cause I’ve got a bone to pick with you, doll, you took all the covers from me last night arou—”

“Bucky. I did it. I got the email.”

Silence for the length of a heartbeat. Then, with a smile in his voice, “That’s my girl. Congratulations, sweetheart, I always knew you’d do it.”

“Thank you, Bucky — I-I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Nah, that was all you, smarty pants.”

You giggle, smushing your face into the pillow to hide your blush.

“It doesn’t feel real,” you muse, blowing hair from your eyes. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel different or what.”

“That’s because you need to celebrate. You worked so hard for this, your brain isn’t out of school mode yet. You need to show yourself that you earned it. That’s when it will sink in.”

Your smile grows. “I like the way you think, Barnes. What do you think our odds are of getting into Minetta tonight?”

There’s a pause on his end, the sound of his keyboard the only thing you hear.

“Actually, I was thinking of something a little further away than Minetta.”

You know that tone. You sit up straight.

“Bucky. What are you planning?”

You’ve never seen water so blue in your entire life. Not even the beaches of Positano hold a candle to the sea surrounding the Maldives.

Bucky offers you a hand as you step out of the car. You take it gratefully, squeezing tightly just to make sure he’s real, that all of this is real.

“Welcome to One&Only Reethi Rah, Mr. Barnes. We’re so happy you could join us here.”

Bucky pulls you close, an arm slung over your shoulders, as the guide takes you across the grounds and to the docks where several large huts are built over the turquoise water. He shows you to the door of yours and Bucky’s villa, prattling off the agenda Bucky’s already set with the staff. You just barely register the words “snorkeling” and “private dinner” while you wander. It’s a long structure with an open concept, you can just see the end of the bed past the dining table; all of the walls are windows that are open to let in the breeze; on the far end, a large sundeck faces the ocean.

Bucky speaks with the guide while you weave in and out of the rooms. Two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a pool, and one bed. A small smile stretches across your face as your fingers brush over the comforter.

“What do you think?”

You turn, finding Bucky leaning against the wall across from you. Your smile grows and you let out a squeal, scrambling up and over the bed in your hurry to wrap your arms around him.

He smiles back, crushing you to him. “I’ve never heard that sound from you before. I’m guessing you like it?”

“Bucky — I love it. This place is a dream!”

“Glad you think so. Not a bad spot to celebrate getting your Master’s, huh?”

You laugh. “Way better than Minetta.”

The celebrations start with — of all things — a nap, because the twenty-four hours of traveling catch up to you once the adrenaline wears off. You stretch out on the bed next to Bucky, his hand carding through your hair, feet dangling over the edge, the sound of the ocean lulling you to sleep.

You feel like you’ve just closed your eyes when he nudges you awake. His hair’s all over the place in the most endearing way possible, so you reach up and muss it up even more; he grabs your wrist and holds it tight, warning you that you’ll be swimming in the ocean sooner than you think if you keep it up.

The sun’s just kissing the horizon when you head toward the beach, where another member of the resort staff escorts you to a private table set up for dinner. You sit through six courses of the freshest seafood and sweetest fruit you’ve ever had, sipping Bellinis while you and Bucky talk about nothing and everything at once.

At the end of the meal, after you can’t eat another bite of the desert, he pulls out a small black velvet box. Inside is a pair of earrings of your birthstone, shined till they gleam. You give him an earful for buying these when he’s already brought you here, but he smiles through it until your chastising turns into an endless stream of gratitude.

The next morning begins with a huge breakfast spread out on the sundeck, where Bucky insists on sunscreen first thing. You laugh at him for his responsible antics, but when you take turns putting it on each other’s backs, his big hands touching parts of you he hasn’t touched before, you can’t think of a more beautiful invention than sunscreen.

Bucky looks like God’s gift to women lounging next to you in the sun chair, sipping coffee and eating berries in a linen shirt he doesn’t bother to button, like it’s his birthright, like he was made to do it. You’re thankful for the heavy tint on your sunglasses concealing your wandering gaze.

Later, the two of you set off on a private yacht tour of the islands. You sit leaning against him on the front of the ship, pointing out dolphins that flip through the air and waving at passing boaters. With the roar of the wind and the motor, Bucky has to lean down and speak directly into your ear so you can hear him, and every time his lips brush your skin, you’re melting further and further into him.

You know you’re not being as subtle as you’d like — a small voice in your head wonders if he notices.

Dinner is back at the villa, where a private chef prepares choice cuts of steak and lobsters the size of your arm. The chef is entertaining, cracking jokes and flipping knives, and as you laugh through his horrible impression of Gordon Ramsay, you catch Bucky watching you from the corner of your eye.

He smiles shyly when he sees he’s caught, but he doesn’t look away. You feel a flush of warmth drag down your spine, limbs tingling in anticipation of something you don’t know the name of.

That night, you’re facing each other in bed, heads propped up by elbows so that you can reminisce on the day. You’re raving about the miles of rainbow coral you saw when Bucky reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger longer than necessary, much longer than appropriate, and it takes everything you have to keep going like his touch didn’t just send your heart into a frenzy. You take note of his half-lidded gaze locked onto your face — it could be from exhaustion, or it could be from something else.

You try not to let your mind spiral into the possibilities.

But when he has you cuddled close to his chest, just like every other night, you can hear his heart pounding through his thin t-shirt.

The rest of your week in paradise is a balance of dream-like activities and tension-filled moments. One minute you’re snorkeling, the next, Bucky’s undoing the back strap of your bikini and retying it with slow, concentrated precision. One minute you’re learning how to sail, the next, Bucky has you laid out on his chest, every inch of you on him as you take a nap in the sun.

You tell yourself that this is just Vacation Bucky, that nothing’s changed for him when it comes to what this arrangement is.

But his eyes follow you everywhere, he follows you everywhere, a hand lingering near your skin at all times.

It’s enough to make a rational person snap. And you do.

You’re getting ready for dinner after hours spent in the ocean. Bucky’s already cleaned up, now rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear while you’ve slipped into the connecting bathroom. You absentmindedly slide the door shut behind you, and it doesn’t quite connect with the frame; instead, a sliver of space is left open, just enough that, when you reach to close it all the way, you can see Bucky moving about the room.

The idea arrives unbidden, and it makes your stomach swoop low. Do it, the devil on your shoulder urges. The angel on the other shoulder stays silent.

You wait until he’s directly lined up with the crack in the door, then you turn your back to him.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Remind me what we’re doing for dinner again.” There’s a brief pause.

“We’re heading inland,” Bucky says. You think he sounds like he’s directly behind you.

Wasting no time, you take the ties of your bikini bottoms and pull them loose — they crumple to the floor.

“Do you know what they’re serving?”

Then you turn to the side, reaching up to untie the knot at the back of your neck; slowly, your bikini top slinks down your torso, exposing your breasts to the warm, night air.

You want to look — you really, really want to look — but you know you can’t. You can’t risk what comes after catching him looking. And what if he’s not looking? What if he’s done the decent thing, like the decent man he is, and walked away? You’re not sure how you’d be able to shoulder that feeling for the rest of the trip, not when you’re bartering your firstborn to the higher powers above for him to be looking.

You realize that Bucky hasn’t said anything.

“Bucky?” you call out, reaching to undo the last of the ties, and the bikini top lands on the bottoms, leaving you completely naked before the crack in the door.

“Yeah,” you hear. Low, rough, distracted.

Don’t fucking look—

“The food,” you reply, forcing an amused smile. “Do you know what it is? I don’t think I could eat another tartar with a gun to my head.”

There’s a pause before he speaks, sounding further away. “You’ll be fine.”

His words sound final; you think you hear the slide of the door leading out to the water. You bite your lip before turning for the shower. The boldness you were feeling before is quickly shrinking into nothing, leaving you with an empty feeling in your stomach and a knot of guilt in your chest.

Back in the room, Bucky nowhere in sight, you sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your chest, damp hair clinging to your skin.

“Fucking idiot” you whisper to yourself. You think you might actually be insane. Or tremendously stupid. Or both. Who tries to seduce their best friend, their supportive, respectful, gorgeous best friend, with a fucking strip tease?

The words are like a knife to your chest as you sit with them. It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged Bucky being your best friend, and it’s right after going down in history as the shittiest friend ever.

…but are you?

Your mind replays every crooked smile he’s sent you, every dirty joke he’s laughed at, every hug and cuddle and forehead kiss, every second of this damn trip. You’re analyzing all of it frame by frame in pursuit of a sign that he wants more.

Because you sure as hell do.

It’s no question that things have changed completely for you, as devastating as a religious reckoning. You want him. You love him. You’re fucking head over heels for him.

But until you get that sign. The sign that he wants more, too. You can’t tell him. Not without risking everything — and you’d rather die with your love a secret than destroy what you have with him now by saying it out loud. Yet another tragedy to add on to your already pitiful life.

Bucky’s out on the deck when you emerge from the bathroom, wearing a flowy white linen dress that allows your skin to breathe.

“Hey,” you call out, voice on the wobbly side, heart fluttering nervously. “You ready?”

He turns from staring out at the ocean. When his eyes land on you, he stills.

“What?” you can’t help but ask as the silence stretches. “Should I change?”

He shakes his head, taking a step toward you. “Please don’t. You look…you look like an angel.”

The new compliment sinks deep into your heart, making you blush. Your answering smile is shy. “Thanks, Buck…so, are we going or what?”

You watch as Bucky’s shoulders move up and down in a deep breath; beyond him, the dark ocean cradles a strip of silver in its endless surface, the moon’s mirror image. It lights up the side of his face, exposing the soft look he’s wearing as he drinks you in. You’re hit with a sudden wave of what you can only describe as reverse déjà vu, like you’ve just come across a moment you never want to forget, a moment you want to come back to, time and time again.

You reach out your hand.

Bucky takes it.

The dinner is beautiful, no surprise there; you, Bucky, and a few other guests sit in a treehouse-like structure while aproned servers bring around plates of local dishes that melt on your tongue and introduce you to flavors you could only dream of. There’s live music in the corner of the room, a light breeze that cools your skin, and the ambiance is the perfect mix of cozy and seductive.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance of everything being perfectly fine and normal. He smiles at you over his drink and lets his hand wander over your back. He laughs at the server’s joke and encourages you to get a second desert. He seems calm. Content. Happy.

But his eyes are dark and distracted. You catch him staring off into the distance more than once. And when you say his name to brink him back, his gaze burns into yours like a brand.

Back in the villa, the two of you get ready for bed quickly, the day getting the better of you both. You’re fighting through a fifth yawn when you finally collapse on top of the bed, spreading out over the covers in a small tank top and matching shorts to fight off the heat of the night. Behind you, Bucky emerges from the bathroom; the sound of his footsteps stop suddenly near the end of the bed, where you’re on full display to whoever passes by. They start up again before you can turn and look, and then Bucky’s pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.

“Budge over, doll,” he murmurs, stretching out his legs beneath the sheets. You sigh and roll over and off the bed so you can join him. He reaches over to turn off the light, and then it’s just the two of you and the moon’s reflection on the ocean.

“It’s so pretty,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of this.”

“Me neither,” he says. You turn on your side to look at him, a hand propping up your head.

“What’s been your favorite part?”

A faint smile flickers across his face. “The eel.”

You laugh. “Oh, I’m so glad you found my fear so entertaining.”

“I’ve never seen anyone swim that fast.”

“A moray eel crossed right in front of us and you’re saying you didn’t almost shit yourself?”

He shrugs before flipping onto his side. “They don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”

“And maybe next time you won’t push me toward it while you’re trying to get away.”

You cover your face with your hand. “Okay, that was shitty of me, I admit it.”

“Just shitty?” he repeats. “You were sacrificing me to save yourself! I started questioning everything I thought I knew about you.”

Your jaw drops open. “That’s not fair! I’d love to see what you’d do to me if a big fat spider crawled up the bed.” Bucky shudders for effect. “And what happened to ‘they don’t bother you if you don’t bother them’?”

“They’re territorial, doll — you pushed me into his reef.”

“And he didn’t do anything because he could sense your hippie-dippy, ‘respect the ocean, it respects you back’ manifesto. Point is, you’re fine.”

“Yeah, physically. Emotionally? I’ll never recover.”

“Drama queen.” You shove at his shoulder to push him out of the bed.

Quick as a whip, he seizes your wrist and pushes you back. You can’t help but laugh as your plan backfires, his strength overtaking yours by a long shot. He rolls you closer to the edge of the bed, restraining your other wrist easily. You push back with all your might, slipping one wrist from his grasp and pushing at his chest, locking your leg around his to keep you anchored. Your giggles and his huffs of laughter fill the room as you struggle to push each other out of the bed.

And then something shifts, like a light switch turning off; Bucky’s eyes, bright with laughter, turn darker, steadier. His breath hitches.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs, voice rough. With no effort at all, he grabs both wrists in one hand. His other hand grips your bare knee, unhooking it from around his thigh and placing it on the mattress.

Shocked, you slide your leg down beside the other, your skin burning where his hand touched. He keeps your wrists.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He says nothing, breathing deep as he stares at your hands. You shake them in his hold. “Bucky.”

He sighs softly, just a push of air from his lungs like he’s come to a decision but hates the choice he made.

“I need you to stay there, sweetheart.”

You gape at him. “What? Did I — did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Bucky—“ you start, inching closer, but he pins your wrists to the mattress, pressing firmly to make a point.

“Please.”

You watch with wide eyes as he slowly turns from his side to his stomach, resettling into the mattress with a fleeting wince.

Is he…?

He can’t meet your gaze, and there’s a flush to his neck that wasn’t there before, that you suspect is not from the heat. His hand over your wrists tightens imperceptibly. You stay silent until he has no choice but to look at you, and all you see is blown pupils.

He is.

You nod and he releases you, but you can’t look away from him. Not when he looks like this. Not when he’s the most vulnerable he’s ever been in front of you.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t move.

Eventually, his breathing levels out and so does yours — you hadn’t realized it had picked up when he held your hands down. The waves crash again and again, a tropical white noise to chip away at the tension.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice screams at you that this is it, this is your moment to let him know exactly how you feel.

You think about crossing that symbolic six inches of space between you and kissing him. You think about touching him softly until he relaxes for you, until he welcomes you over to him. You think about forcing him over and straddling him before he can say a word.

What stops you is the look on his face. He isn’t embarrassed, like you expected — he’s disappointed, remorseful, pained, like he violated your trust as his friend and decided it’s unforgivable.

It makes your gut sink, remembering the bait you dangled before him earlier. A conflicting mix of emotions crowd your heart, vying for priority, the biggest battle between sweet satisfaction, and crushing guilt.

You can’t do it. Not like this. Not when he looks so broken over it. You take a deep breath, strands of hair floating into your face.

Without a word, and giving you all the time in the world to stop him, Bucky reaches over and tucks the pieces carefully behind your ear. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Your lips part. Your eyes open. He’s staring at you.

“You too, Buck.”

sammy speaks again: thank you for reading! I appreciate all the love I got from part one so much, it meant the absolute world to me. it’s a privilege just to be able to share my silly little stories with others 🤍 last part coming soon!

[mcrdvcks]

pining and anticipation

summary: Creating an heir is your current and most important duty as viscount and viscountess... if only you could get some alone time. Or, the 4 times you were interrupted and the 1 time you weren't. word count: 21.6k+ pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader notes: first time posting an anthony fic🥺kinda nervous. i love this man so much goddddddd warnings/tags: no use of y/n, married!anthony, fluff, implied to be trying for a baby, kissing, the bridgerton siblings are menaces, takes place during season 3, some allusions to plot of season 3 but not exact, soft smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie

Bridgerton House had a way of waking before the sun had fully decided what sort of day it wanted to be, because the servants were already moving with quiet purpose and the downstairs hall always carried the faintest echo of footsteps and polished manners. You find Anthony in the morning room with a ledger open, correspondence stacked in neat piles, and a cup of tea he has forgotten to drink, because his attention is fixed on a list he’s written in his unmistakably sharp hand.

He doesn’t look up when you come in, not at first, but you can see the exact second he registers you anyway, because his shoulders ease as if the room has finally become habitable. He drags his gaze up from the page and the stern look he wears for the rest of the world breaks at the edges.

“Good morning,” he says, and it sounds as though he means it.

You cross to him, leaning in to kiss his temple before you take the chair opposite. He turns his head just enough that your mouth brushes his cheek instead, and he acts as if that small change of angle was a brilliant idea he’s been waiting for all morning. “Good morning,” you reply, then glance pointedly at the untouched tea. “Do you intend to drink that, or is it only here to make you look less terrifying?”

“I am not terrifying.” You lift your brows and he sighs, a long-suffering sound that would be convincing if he weren’t already reaching for the cup as though you’ve ordered him to take medicine. “I am… occupied.”

“With what?” You tilt your head toward the papers. “The family accounts? A new scheme to frighten away your sisters’ suitors? A list of men you’d like to challenge to a duel for looking in your direction?”

“That last one is not a list,” he says, insulted on principle. “It is merely a natural consequence of existing in society.”

You give him a look that says you are not fooled by the distinction, then reach across the table and slide the top sheet closer. It’s covered in tidy blocks of time, names, and appointments, the sort of thing a man writes when he cannot bear the idea of being surprised by his own life.

You read aloud, because of course you do. “‘Ten o’clock: call on Lady Danbury. Eleven: return call from the Smythes. Noon: speak with the steward. One:—’” You pause, eyes narrowing. “‘One-thirty: private time.’”

Anthony’s hand flattens over the page as if he can physically prevent you from seeing it. It’s too late, of course. You keep your face composed for a full second longer than necessary, then the laugh breaks out of you, warm and helpless. “It is perfectly reasonable,” he says, and the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade darker. “I do not see what is amusing.”

“You’ve scheduled it,” you say, still laughing, and you tap the line with one finger. “Anthony, you have made it an appointment.”

“It is not an appointment,” he insists, but it’s weaker than his earlier protest, because his mouth is starting to twitch. “It is… a consideration.”

“A consideration between the Smythes and your steward,” you say, delighted. “How romantic.”

He sits back, eyes narrowing as if he’s deciding whether to be offended or to drag you into his lap and end the conversation by other means. The second option clearly appeals to him, because his gaze slides to your mouth and lingers there for a heartbeat. “Do not mock me,” he says, but there’s no bite in it.

“I’m not mocking,” you reply, and you soften your voice just a little, because you like him like this, caught between duty and desire. “I’m only trying to understand how you reached the conclusion that this needed ink.”

His expression shifts into that familiar Viscount look, the one he puts on when he thinks the universe is a misbehaving estate that can be managed with firmness and exact timing. “We have been… interrupted, as of late.”

You fold your hands and pretend to consider. “Have we?”

Anthony’s stare turns flat with disbelief, because the audacity of your innocence is apparently too much. “Yes.”

“By whom?” you ask, and when he keeps staring, you add sweetly, “because if you mean your siblings, I am shocked. Truly shocked.”

“Do not be insufferable.”

“I’m not insufferable,” you counter, and you glance down the list again. “I’m practical. If you want privacy, perhaps you should schedule your brothers and sisters instead.”

He huffs. “I cannot schedule my family.”

“You try,” you say, and now you’re smiling too wide to be anything but honest mischief. “You’ve tried since the moment I met you.”

Anthony’s mouth opens, then closes again, because he knows you’re right and he hates that you’re right. He reaches for the teacup, takes a drink as if it will restore his authority, and sets it down with a careful clink that suggests he’d rather set something else down far less gently.

“I am simply ensuring we are not disturbed,” he says, as if this is a problem any reasonable man would solve with a timetable. “There are calls to return. There is Francesca’s presentation to consider. There is Colin—” He stops himself mid-sentence, as though he’s remembered Colin is perfectly capable of wreaking havoc without being invoked. “There are expectations.”

You lean back in your chair, watching him, letting him talk himself into righteousness. “Expectations,” you repeat, and you make it sound like what it is: a nuisance dressed up as propriety.

Anthony’s eyes flicker to you, then away, then back again. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” you say. “And I also know you’re the only man in England who would try to conquer the question of children with a ledger.”

He bristles at that, but not too hard, because the truth of it is wrapped in your fondness, and he knows it. “I am not attempting to conquer anything.”

“You are,” you say, and you tap the page again, gentler this time. “You’re trying to arrange the world so it behaves.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table now, his gaze steady and demanding in a way that would make most of the ton sit up straighter. It doesn’t work on you, not anymore, because you’ve seen him laugh into your shoulder and you’ve heard him say your name like it’s a prayer he doesn’t mind repeating. “I am trying to give you what you want,” he says.

You blink, and your teasing falters into something quieter, because there’s no performance in his tone. It’s plain, like a truth he’d rather say once and be done with, but it sits between you anyway. “I already have what I want,” you reply, then let the smile return, because you refuse to let him turn this into solemn duty. “A husband who is handsome and occasionally ridiculous.”

His eyes narrow again, but this time it’s pure affection. “Occasionally?”

“Frequently,” you correct. “But I don’t mind, it’s one of your charms.”

He pushes his chair back and stands, moving around the table with the kind of purpose that suggests he’s decided talking is a losing game. When he stops behind you, his hands settle on your shoulders, warm through the fabric of your morning dress, and the touch is both gentle and possessive, as though he can’t help reminding himself you’re real. “You are enjoying this far too much,” he murmurs.

“I enjoy many things,” you say, tipping your head slightly so his fingers slide up to the line of your neck. “Including watching you pretend you’re not flustered.”

He leans down, mouth near your ear, and you feel the quiet shift in the air, the way the room seems to narrow into only the two of you and the steady rhythm of his breath. “I am not flustered,” he says.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. “Then you won’t mind if I add something to your schedule.”

His brows lift, suspicious. “What?”

You reach up, catch one of his hands, and tug him forward until he has to bend closer, until his body is near enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back. “Cross out ‘private time,’” you tell him softly. “If we’re going to try, let it be because we want each other, not because the Smythes have been neatly contained.”

Anthony’s throat works, like he’s swallowed a protest and found it turning into something else entirely. “You are suggesting—”

“I’m suggesting,” you say, cutting him off with a smile that you know will undo him, “that you stop treating our bed like a committee meeting.”

His mouth twitches, then he exhales, half laugh and half surrender. “Very well.”

“Good,” you say, and you rise from the chair, turning fully now so you’re facing him. “Now, Viscount Bridgerton, what is next on your list?”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and the way his hands settle at your waist makes it very clear he’s done pretending the page matters. “I believe,” he says, voice low, “that I am about to revise it.”

You hum thoughtfully, as if you’re weighing the merits of his proposal, then let your fingers curl into the front of his coat and pull him closer by an inch. “Revisions are welcome,” you tell him, “but if someone knocks on the door, I’m leaving you to explain why you were defeated by your own household.”

Anthony’s smile turns sharp and dangerous in the most enjoyable way. “No one will knock.”

“Anthony,” you say, and you let the warning sit in your tone like a dare. “Don’t tempt fate.”

Anthony doesn’t let you get more than two steps away from the table before he’s there, close enough that the edge of his coat brushes your skirts. His hand settles at your waist with a familiarity that still makes something warm spark behind your ribs, and his mouth finds yours again like he’s determined to prove that he can, in fact, revise the day into obedience. The kiss is not gentle in the way the ton would approve of; it’s the sort he saves for when the door is shut and there is no one watching, his thumb pressing lightly at your side as he angles you back toward the corridor.

“You look far too pleased with yourself,” you murmur when he finally lets you breathe.

“I am pleased with you,” he replies, and the emphasis he puts on the words makes your face warm. He dips his head again, kissing along your jaw in a way that suggests he’s decided the morning room is no longer fit for respectable conversation, then pulls back just long enough to add, “and I am correct. No one will knock.”

“You say that as though you’ve bribed the entire household,” you tell him, letting your hands slide up the front of his coat, smoothing it even though it’s already perfectly arranged.

“I have not bribed anyone,” Anthony says. He looks offended by the very idea, which is comical considering he is currently steering you toward the stairs with all the subtlety of a man guiding a carriage through a narrow lane. “They will simply do their duties elsewhere.”

“Because you will glare at them until they flee,” you say, laughing a little when he shoots you a look. “It’s a gift.”

“It is authority,” he corrects.

“It’s terrifying,” you correct back, and you don’t fight him at all when he leads you up the stairs, because you are not made of stone and neither is he. Bridgerton House is bustling below—voices, the soft clatter of breakfast trays, a distant instruction called from one servant to another—but the upper floor is quieter, the air cooler, the carpets muffling your steps.

At the top landing, Anthony pauses, as if listening for some sign of impending chaos, then continues with renewed purpose. His hand doesn’t leave you, not for a moment, and you catch him glancing toward the family wing as though half-expecting Benedict or Colin to leap out with a question about nothing at all.

“You’re scanning the corridor like a soldier,” you remark.

“I am being vigilant,” he says, then opens the door to your bedchamber with a firmness that suggests he would like it understood by the world that this room is not to be invaded. He shuts it behind you, and for a moment the quiet is immediate and complete, broken only by the soft sound of the latch settling.

You turn to face him properly. The morning light is pale through the curtains, catching on the dark fall of his hair, the clean line of his jaw. He looks like he’s been wrestling responsibility since dawn and is about to surrender to something he likes far more. “Now,” you say, drawing the word out just enough to see his gaze sharpen.

“Now,” he agrees, and his hands come to your shoulders, turning you slightly as if he wants to take you in from every angle. He leans down, kissing you again, slower this time, as though he’s decided he has all the time in the world. His fingers slide to the ties at the back of your dress, not hurried, but sure, and you let your hands drift to his collar, tugging him closer.

“You’re very confident for a man who has been defeated by a single knock,” you tease against his mouth.

His breath hitches in a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t clearly something else. “Do not remind me.”

“You’re the one who said no one would knock,” you point out, and you pull back just enough to watch him. “If we’re disturbed, I will hold you personally responsible.”

Anthony’s eyes narrow, but it’s the look he gives you when you’ve challenged him and he’s already decided he likes it. “Then we shall not be disturbed.”

He guides you backward until the backs of your knees brush the edge of the bed. The sheets are crisp, the coverlet neatly smoothed, the pillows stacked in a way that suggests a maid has only just made everything perfect. Anthony does not look like he appreciates the perfection; he looks like he wants to ruin it in the most satisfying way possible.

You sit, letting him stand over you for a moment, and tilt your head. “Anthony, are you attempting to seduce your own wife as if she might refuse you?”

“I am not attempting,” he says, voice low, and his hand slides along your cheek with a tenderness that turns the words into something warm rather than arrogant. “I am succeeding.”

“Oh?” You smile, fingers catching at the front of his coat. “Then take it off.”

His brows lift at the bluntness. He hesitates for the briefest second, as if you’ve spoken too plainly for morning, then he huffs out a breath like he’s decided he doesn’t care about morning’s opinions. He shrugs out of the coat and tosses it over a chair, then undoes his cravat with brisk efficiency.

“You’re in a hurry now,” you observe, watching him.

“I am not,” he says, though he absolutely is. “I am merely… prepared.”

“Prepared,” you repeat, and you lean forward, catching his hand before he can return to unfastening your dress. You bring his knuckles to your mouth and press a kiss there, slow enough to make his focus flicker. “For a man who puts everything on paper, you are very easy to distract.”

His eyes darken, and his voice drops. “Do not do that if you intend for me to remain calm.”

“I don’t,” you reply honestly.

Anthony’s hand slides to the back of your neck, and he leans in again, kissing you with a little more hunger, his other hand working at the ties and buttons with practiced familiarity. You feel the loosen of fabric at your shoulders, the gradual ease of your dress giving way under his careful hands, and you smile into his mouth because this is exactly what you wanted: not an appointment, not a task, just the two of you deciding that the world can wait.

A knock lands on the door.

It’s not loud, it’s not urgent. It’s polite, measured, and perfectly timed like a weapon.

Anthony freezes so completely you can feel it through his hands. You stay very still, not because you’re startled, but because you are suddenly struck by the pure comedy of it and the fact that his expression looks one heartbeat away from murder. Another knock follows, gentle again, then a familiar voice through the wood. “Anthony?” Violet calls. “Are you in there, dear?”

You press your lips together, eyes widening as you look up at him. Anthony’s gaze flicks to the door as though he’s considering setting it on fire. “Do not answer,” you whisper, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

His jaw clenches. “I must.”

“No, you don’t,” you insist, keeping your voice low. “You’re a grown man. You’re the Viscount. You can ignore your mother.”

Anthony stares at you as if you’ve suggested he rob a bank. “I cannot ignore my mother.”

“Anthony,” Violet calls again, still perfectly polite. “It will only take a moment.”

You bite your lip, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, because of course she’s said that. Of course she has. Anthony inhales slowly, visibly attempting to summon composure. He leans down, mouth near your ear, and mutters, “if I open this door and she is holding a list, I shall throw myself out the window.”

You whisper back, “I’ll help you.”

His hand leaves your shoulder and drifts to your waist again, as if grounding himself. He looks as though he might refuse, as though he might finally decide that he is allowed one private moment in his own house, then Violet says, very gently but with unmistakable authority, “Anthony, I know you are in there. I saw you walk up the stairs.”

You choke on a laugh, pressing your fist to your mouth. Anthony closes his eyes for a beat, opens them again, and straightens his cravat with brisk, furious motions, as though tying it tightly enough will keep his patience from spilling out.

He points at you in a silent command—stay. The fact that you are his wife and not a misbehaving sibling makes the gesture ridiculous, but you nod solemnly anyway, because you want to see how this unfolds.

Anthony crosses the room, opens the door, and plants himself in the doorway like a barricade. “Mother,” he says, voice controlled to within an inch of his life. “Good morning.”

Violet stands there with a small smile and a folded paper in her hand, dressed as though she has been awake for hours, which she certainly has. Her gaze flicks past his shoulder, not in a scandalized way, but in the way a woman who raised eight children assesses a room in half a second and understands everything she needs to understand. “Good morning,” Violet replies, and her smile widens by a fraction. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Anthony says immediately, which would be convincing if his ears weren’t turning red.

You can’t help it. You call out from the bed, sweet as honey, “yes.”

Anthony’s head snaps around. His glare is devastating and entirely affectionate at once.

Violet’s eyes find you, and her expression softens into something warm and genuinely pleased, which is the worst possible reaction because it makes it impossible to be properly indignant. “Ah,” she says. “There you are, dear.”

Anthony speaks through his teeth without looking away from you. “You are not helping.”

You adjust the loosened fabric at your shoulders with exaggerated innocence. “I’m only being honest.”

Violet clears her throat, still smiling, and shifts the paper in her hand. “I truly will not take long. I only wished to speak to you both, if I may. It’s about the season, and… certain expectations.”

Anthony’s shoulders go rigid. “Mother.”

Violet lifts her brows. “What? I am your mother. I am allowed to have expectations. Also, I am allowed to knock.”

“You knocked,” Anthony says flatly. “Yes.”

“And you did not answer,” she replies, calm as ever.

“Because I was—” Anthony stops himself, breathes, then tries again with all the dignity he can gather. “Because we were occupied.”

Violet’s smile becomes almost unbearably serene. “Naturally.”

You shift closer to the edge of the bed, unable to resist leaning into the moment. “Lady Bridgerton, if you are here to give instructions, I must warn you that he already attempted to schedule me.”

Violet’s eyes widen with delighted surprise, and then she laughs, a soft, quick sound. “He did not.”

Anthony looks as though he might dissolve into the floorboards. “I did not,” he lies, then turns sharply to you. “I did.”

Violet’s gaze goes fond as she looks at him. “Oh, Anthony.”

“It seemed sensible,” he says, defensive and miserable at once.

“It is very like you,” Violet agrees, stepping half a pace forward as though she might come in, then stopping when Anthony subtly blocks her again with his entire body. She glances at the doorframe, then back at him, amused. “You need not guard the room as if I am the Queen.”

“I am not guarding,” Anthony says.

You snort. Violet’s eyes flicker to you again. “My dear, are you comfortable?”

“Very,” you say brightly. “For the moment.”

Anthony shuts his eyes for a beat, then opens them and looks at Violet with a desperate sort of politeness. “Mother. Please.”

Violet’s smile softens into something more practical, the expression of a woman who has managed a household longer than Anthony has been alive. “Fine. I will be brief, since you are clearly… occupied.”

Anthony’s jaw tightens at the word, and you can see him fighting not to glance back at you.

Violet holds up the folded paper. “There is a dinner this evening at Lady Danbury’s. She has asked that you both attend, and she was quite clear that it is not a request that can be declined. Also, Francesca’s modiste is arriving at noon, and she insists on your opinion, Anthony.”

Anthony’s stare turns hollow. “My opinion.”

“Yes,” Violet says, perfectly serious. “She says you have a ‘severe eye’ and that it will keep her from being overwhelmed.”

“I have never offered an opinion on a gown in my life,” Anthony says.

Violet’s mouth twitches. “Then today is a fine day to begin. She wants you in the blue room at noon.”

Anthony looks down the corridor as though he might flee. “I have meetings at noon.”

“You will move them,” Violet says, as calm as a judge.

He exhales. “Very well.”

Violet’s gaze dips toward the bed again, and she adds, still gentle, “And as for other expectations… you needn’t let the ton make you feel watched. You will do things in your own time.”

You blink at that, because it’s the closest Violet Bridgerton ever comes to saying anything blunt. Anthony’s posture eases by a fraction, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice it. “Thank you,” you say, voice softer now, because you can take teasing only so far before it becomes cruel, and you have no interest in making him feel cornered.

Violet nods, satisfied, then reaches out and pats Anthony’s sleeve as if he’s twelve again. “Now, I will leave you to your… revision of the schedule.”

Anthony’s head tilts back in silent agony. “Mother.”

Violet steps away, still smiling. “Do remember the dinner,” she calls lightly as she retreats down the hall, and then, as if she cannot resist delivering the final blow, she adds, “and do lock the door next time, dear. It saves everyone a great deal of embarrassment!”

Anthony shuts the door with careful restraint; the latch clicks and the quiet returns. For a moment, he simply stands there, hands at his sides, staring at the door as though it has personally betrayed him. You wait until he turns, because you want to see his face when he looks at you again. When he does, he has the expression of a man who has survived a war and lost anyway.

You can’t keep it in. You laugh, not a delicate giggle but a full laugh that bends you forward, your hands pressed to your stomach. “I told you,” you manage between breaths. “I told you not to tempt fate.”

Anthony crosses the room in three long strides, stopping at the side of the bed. “Do not laugh.”

“You’re blushing,” you accuse, delighted.

“I am not blushing.”

“You are,” you insist, and you reach out, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Come here.”

He resists for half a second out of sheer stubborn pride, then gives in, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. His shoulders are tense, his mouth set, but his hand finds your thigh automatically, thumb stroking through fabric as if he cannot help needing to touch you. “She told me to lock the door,” he says, voice flat.

You turn toward him, still smiling. “She’s not wrong.”

“She should not have said it,” he replies, scandalized.

You tilt your head. “Anthony, she raised eight children. She has said far worse things than that in her life.”

He looks at you, as if he wants to argue, then seems to realize he has no ground. “This house is impossible,” he declares.

“It is,” you agree, and you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “But you love it.”

“I love you,” he corrects, and the intensity of it lands right against your ribs. “And I would like to spend a single moment with you without my mother announcing herself like a herald.”

You slide your hand up his chest, fingers resting over his heart. “Then we’ll try again.”

Anthony’s eyes narrow. “Try again.”

“Try again,” you repeat, and you let your smile turn wicked. “But perhaps not in the morning room, and perhaps not with the confidence of a man who thinks the universe can be bullied into silence.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping. “I can bully the household.”

“You cannot bully your mother,” you say, and you kiss him again, slower now, coaxing the tension out of his jaw. “Though watching you attempt it might be entertaining.”

His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you close. “You enjoy my suffering.”

“I enjoy you,” you correct, and you keep kissing him until his breath evens out and his grip softens into something warm instead of tight. When you finally pull back, you brush your thumb along his cheek. “No more schedules,” you tell him, gentle but firm. “If you want me, come and take me. If you want a baby, we’ll find our moments. We’re not racing anyone.”

Anthony watches you for a long beat, then exhales like he’s letting go of a battle he didn’t realize he was fighting. “Very well,” he says, and he leans in to kiss you again as if he’s sealing an agreement.

Somewhere downstairs, a door shuts, a voice calls, life continues as it always does in a house full of Bridgertons. Up here, for the moment, it’s just the two of you again, and Anthony’s hands are back at the ties of your dress with renewed determination, like he plans to win this war even if it takes all season.

Two days later, the house is no quieter, but the chaos has shifted shape, as it always does. The morning callers have been managed, Francesca has been whisked out with Violet and a modiste who speaks as if lace is a matter of national importance, and Benedict has vanished somewhere between breakfast and whatever it is he does all day that produces paint stains and smugness. The servants move with practiced ease, and yet you can feel Bridgerton House waiting for something to happen, the way it always seems to hover on the edge of commotion.

You’re in your sitting room with the windows cracked just enough to let in a cool breeze. A small vase of fresh flowers sits on the table, and you’re halfway through a letter when you hear Anthony’s footsteps in the corridor. They’re unmistakable: purposeful, steady, as though the floorboards belong to him by right.

He enters without knocking because it’s your sitting room and you’re his wife, and he looks like a man who has been holding himself together with nothing but habit and stubbornness. His coat is immaculate, his hair is tidy, his expression is controlled, but his eyes go straight to you with something sharper than duty. “Are you alone?” he asks.

You glance past him toward the hall as if you’re considering whether a Bridgerton might be dangling from the chandelier. “At present? Yes.”

Anthony closes the door behind him with a very particular care, the kind that says he’s learned at least one lesson from recent experience. He remains there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, as if he doesn’t trust the door to stay shut unless he threatens it.

“You look as though you mean to interrogate the furniture,” you say, folding your letter.

“I am ensuring we are not about to be interrupted,” he replies, then immediately looks toward the wall as if the house itself might be listening.

You smile. “Oh, you’re cautious now.”

“I am practical,” he corrects, and he takes another step, then another, scanning the room as though Eloise might burst from behind a curtain with a pamphlet and a lecture.

You set the letter aside and lean back. “What is it you want, Anthony?”

His gaze flickers down your face, your mouth, the line of your throat, and he clears his throat like he’s trying to shove that thought back into the box he keeps it in for public hours. “I have been thinking.”

“That’s never a comforting start,” you say, amused.

He ignores the jab, which is how you know he’s serious about whatever he’s decided. “We require a new strategy.”

You tilt your head. “We do?”

“Yes,” he says, and this time there’s no hesitation. “Because the current method of attempting to find privacy in this house is… ridiculous.”

You laugh, but you keep it gentle. “It’s your house.”

“It is my mother,” he returns flatly, and then, as if he’s realized he’s spoken too plainly, he adds, “and my siblings.”

“And the entire ton,” you say, gesturing vaguely, as if Mayfair itself is waiting in the corridor.

Anthony’s mouth tightens. “Exactly.” He crosses to the settee and sits beside you, not close enough to be improper if a servant were to glance in, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your sleeve. His hand lands on the cushion behind you, a casual possession he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing.

“All right,” you say. “What is your brilliant plan?”

He glances at the door again before answering, which makes you grin even wider. “We leave.”

You blink. “Leave?”

“Yes,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “For a few hours, perhaps an entire day. Somewhere with fewer… doors.”

You look at him. “Somewhere with fewer doors?”

Anthony gives you a look that says you’re being deliberately difficult. “Somewhere without my family. Somewhere without callers. Somewhere without my mother’s impeccable timing.”

You shift closer, just enough to let your knee brush his. “You’re proposing we abandon Bridgerton House like fugitives.”

“I am proposing,” he says, voice dropping, “that I would like to kiss my wife without the threat of my mother appearing like a benevolent specter.”

You hum thoughtfully. “A very noble desire.”

His eyes narrow. “Do not tease.”

“You make it impossible not to,” you reply, and you reach out to straighten his cravat, slow and unhurried, enjoying the way his attention drops to your hands. “Where are we going to go? Aubrey Hall is not exactly a short walk.”

“I am not taking you to Aubrey Hall,” he says, and then pauses like he’s reconsidering whether he should. “Not unless you wish it.”

You lift your brows. “Do I sound as though I’m objecting?”

Anthony’s jaw flexes as if he’s deciding whether to smile. He fails; the corner of his mouth betrays him. “We could go to the town house on Half Moon Street.”

You blink again. “We have a town house on Half Moon Street?”

“We have a town house on several streets,” he says, and there’s the Viscount pride again, as if he’s offended you didn’t memorize the family properties for pleasure. “Half Moon Street is simply… quieter. It is used less often.”

“So it’s empty,” you translate.

“It is managed,” he corrects. “But yes, it is not full of Bridgertons.”

You tap his chest lightly with one finger. “You do realize how strange it is that we must flee your own family in order to have a moment alone.”

Anthony catches your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you, and his thumb slides over your pulse with slow intention. “Do you mind?” His voice is calm, but the question is real, and he watches you the way he does when he wants a straight answer and doesn’t trust the world to give him one.

“I don’t mind,” you say, and you let your smile soften into something warmer. “But I’m not going to let you turn it into a military campaign.”

His brows lift. “A military campaign.”

“You’re making plans,” you say, leaning closer. “You’re scouting doors. You’re selecting locations.”

“I am ensuring success,” he replies, and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s speaking about negotiations with Parliament.

“You’re ensuring you won’t be interrupted,” you correct. “Which is fair, given what happened, but if you start drafting timetables again, I’m taking your pen away.”

Anthony’s grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and his gaze drops to your mouth again. “You will not take my pen away.”

“Oh?” you say, delighted by the spark in him. “And how will you stop me?”

His answer is not verbal—he leans in, and the kiss is quick at first, a sharp press of intention, then it deepens as he decides he has permission to take what he wants. His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, drawing you closer, and you make a soft, satisfied sound against his mouth because this, at least, is not scheduled.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead nearly touches yours, and his voice is quieter. “We leave this afternoon.”

You keep your hands on him, smoothing the front of his coat as if you’re thinking. “This afternoon?”

“Yes,” he repeats, and he looks almost relieved to have a plan that isn’t a page of ink. “We take the carriage, we tell the household we are not receiving, and we go to Half Moon Street.”

“You’re still giving orders like it’s a campaign,” you point out, though you’re smiling.

“I am the Viscount,” he says, as if that settles everything.

“You’re also a husband,” you remind him, and you tilt your head. “Shouldn’t you ask your wife if she’d like to go first?”

Anthony’s eyes narrow in mock annoyance. “Would you like to go?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately. He blinks, like he’d expected at least a moment of negotiation. You continue, sweetly ruthless. “But only if you promise you won’t turn the entire day into ‘attempting.’”

Anthony’s mouth tightens again. “We are trying for a child.”

“We are,” you agree. “And we can try as often as we like, but if you look at me like you’re evaluating an estate investment, I will lose my mind.”

His expression shifts, and he actually laughs, a quiet sound that seems rare when he’s wearing his public face. “An estate investment.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” you say, and you give his collar a final tug as if you’re satisfied with the arrangement. “I want you. I want the idea of it, the fun of it, the closeness of it. I don’t want to feel like I’m being entered into your ledger.”

Anthony’s gaze holds yours, steady and intent. “You will never be a line in my ledger.”

“Good,” you say. “Then we’re agreed.”

He studies you for a beat longer, then nods like a man accepting terms. “We are agreed.”

You stand, smoothing your skirt, feeling his eyes follow the movement. “All right, we’ll flee to Half Moon Street.”

Anthony rises too, and he reaches out, catching your hand before you can step away. “One more thing.”

You lift a brow. “If this is another instruction—”

“It is not,” he says, but his voice drops anyway. “If anyone interrupts us there, I will buy the building and have it emptied.”

You laugh, properly this time, and squeeze his hand. “That’s the spirit.”

He brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them, and there’s something almost smug in the way he looks at you afterward, as if he’s finally found a solution that will work. “Go and dress,” he says. “Something comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” you repeat. “How scandalous.”

Anthony’s eyes flick down your body again, and his tone turns dry. “If you are uncomfortable, it will take longer.”

You pause mid-step, turning back to him with an expression of innocent disbelief. “Did you just admit you’re planning for it to take longer?”

His face doesn’t change, but his ears go faintly red again. “Go and dress.”

“Yes, my lord,” you say, far too pleased with yourself, and you leave him standing there in your sitting room looking like a man trying very hard not to chase you down the corridor.

You’re halfway to your chamber when you hear a door open somewhere down the hall and Eloise’s voice carry, sharp and energetic. “Mother, you cannot possibly expect—”

Anthony exhales like a prayer for patience, and you bite back another laugh as you continue on, already imagining the look on his face when the carriage finally rolls away and Bridgerton House is left behind, loud and impossible and not your problem for a few blessed hours.

The townhouse on Half Moon Street remains a very fine idea for exactly six hours, right up until the moment it becomes impossible. Because that night, just as you’re finishing supper and Anthony is wearing the particular expression he gets when he believes he has finally arranged a quiet evening, the front doors downstairs fly open with all the restraint of a man arriving with news too large to carry politely. The entry hall fills with sound—boots on marble, an excited voice, servants startled into motion—and you and Anthony both pause mid-conversation, turning as one toward the commotion.

Anthony’s gaze narrows at the ceiling as if he can see through floors. “No.”

You set your glass down slowly. “That’s Colin.”

“It is,” Anthony agrees grimly, already pushing back his chair. “And he is doing something.”

Colin’s voice carries up the stairs, bright and unabashed. “Mother! Benedict! Anthony! Everyone—where is everyone?”

Anthony straightens his coat, because he can’t help himself, and looks at you with the resigned fury of a man who can feel his evening collapsing. “Stay here,” he says, as if you’re going to miss this.

You stand immediately. “Absolutely not.”

By the time you reach the top of the stairs, Violet is already in the hall, summoned as if by instinct, and Benedict has emerged from wherever he lurks, looking entertained before he even knows why. Eloise appears behind Violet with her usual suspicion, as though joy is something the family might be attempting to sell.

Colin stands in the entry, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes shining. Beside him—half a step behind, hands clasped tightly as if she isn’t sure where to put them—Penelope looks like she’s trying not to faint.

Colin doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t even attempt a preface. “I am engaged,” he announces, like he’s declaring a victory in battle. “To Penelope.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence so complete you can hear the faint clink of a servant’s tray somewhere in the back hall. Violet’s hand flies to her chest, Eloise makes a noise that sounds like she’s swallowed a cough, Benedict’s brows shoot up, and Anthony, beside you, goes perfectly still.

Then Violet moves first, because she always does. “Engaged?” she repeats, voice breathless with surprise and immediate delight. “Colin—Penelope—oh!”

Colin nods hard, grinning. “Yes. Yes, I—I asked her, and she said yes, and—”

Violet crosses the distance like she can’t help herself and takes Penelope’s hands. “My dear,” she says warmly, eyes shining, “how wonderful—how very wonderful.”

Penelope’s face is pink, but her eyes are bright, too. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

Benedict turns his head toward Anthony with the kind of grin that means he’s about to be insufferable for at least a week. “Well,” Benedict says, “this is a surprise.”

Eloise stares at Colin as if he’s announced he’s joined the clergy. “You cannot be serious.”

Colin blinks at her. “Eloise, I assure you I am—”

Anthony’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Colin.”

Colin looks toward him, still smiling, as if Anthony is going to applaud and clap him on the shoulder. “Brother!”

Anthony takes one step forward. His expression is controlled, but you can see the way his jaw flexes. “When,” he says, “did this occur?”

Colin lifts his chin, like a man proud of himself. “This evening.”

“This evening,” Anthony repeats, as though Colin has said he became engaged during a thunderstorm on a ship at sea. “You became engaged this evening, and you decided the appropriate way to share this information was to burst into the house like a highwayman.”

“It is good news,” Colin protests.

“It is sudden,” Anthony corrects.

Benedict laughs under his breath. “Oh, Anthony, do not pretend you do not enjoy a little drama.”

Anthony ignores him completely and looks at Penelope. His tone softens a fraction, as if reminding himself she’s not the one who enjoys bursting into rooms. “Miss Featherington,” he says, then corrects himself with stiff formality that makes you want to pinch him, “Penelope. Congratulations.”

Penelope manages a small smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

Colin beams like he’s personally improved the world. “He is pleased,” Colin announces to the room, as if interpreting Anthony is now his duty.

“I am—” Anthony begins, then stops, because whatever he is, he is not going to say it in front of Violet and Penelope and half the house. “I am… glad you have made your intentions honorable.”

Violet turns, eyes bright with happiness and barely contained plans. “We must inform Portia at once. We must speak with the modiste. There will be a breakfast, and then a dinner—Anthony, there will be announcements to manage!”

Anthony’s face tightens like he’s taken a physical blow. “Mother—”

Eloise takes a sharp step forward, eyes fixed on Penelope. “Since when?”

Penelope’s hands tighten together. “Eloise—”

Colin steps in quickly, protective. “It is not an interrogation.”

“It is absolutely an interrogation,” Eloise snaps.

You slide a hand lightly onto Anthony’s arm, not to restrain him, but to anchor him, because you can feel the storm gathering in his posture. He glances down at your hand, then up at you, and you can almost hear him silently counting the hours of quiet he thought he’d arranged being eaten alive by Bridgerton chaos.

You lean in and murmur, “so much for leaving this afternoon.”

Anthony’s mouth barely moves, but his reply is immediate. “We will still leave.”

You lift your brows. “With an engagement in the house?”

“I will drag my brother into the carriage with us if I must,” he mutters, which is not at all what he means, but it does make you smile.

By the time the congratulations are finished, the questions asked, Violet’s immediate plans declared, and Eloise’s outrage temporarily redirected into pacing, the hour is too late for any sane attempt to flee Mayfair. The townhouse plan is quietly abandoned under a mountain of family discussion and social necessity, and when you finally return upstairs with Anthony, he shuts your bedchamber door with enough care that it looks like restraint rather than desperation. He turns, shoulders slumping the slightest bit in private. “This house is cursed,” he says.

You slip out of your gloves and lay them neatly on the table, pretending you haven’t noticed his mood even though you have. “It’s your house.”

“It is my family,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like a battlefield.

You approach him, smoothing the front of his coat, and kiss him once, quick and affectionate. “We’ll find another day.”

Anthony’s hands land at your waist automatically, pulling you close as if he might steal what the evening has taken. “We will find tomorrow.”

“You always say tomorrow,” you tease.

“Then we will find the next day,” he corrects, eyes narrowing. “But we will find a day.”

You smile up at him. “Confident again, are we?”

He looks like he might answer with something grand, but instead he drops his forehead briefly to yours, as if he’s trying to keep himself from swearing. “Do not provoke me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, still smiling, and you let him kiss you properly this time, slow and lingering, until his grip steadies and his breath evens.

It is, annoyingly, still not enough to save your plan.

A few days later, the ton has already taken Colin’s engagement like a morsel and begun devouring it in public, and Bridgerton House has become a parade of callers: Violet is radiant, Penelope arrives and departs under the careful watch of chaperones and excited servants, and Eloise vanishes every time she sees a Featherington carriage, only to reappear with a stormy expression and a book held like a shield.

Anthony bears it for as long as he can, which is longer than most men would, and then one late afternoon, when the house has finally quieted and the sun is lowering into a soft amber glow, he finds you again like a man who has reached his limit.

You are in the library this time, because it is one of the few rooms where the door feels like it means something. The fire has been lit even though it isn’t truly cold, and the air smells faintly of paper and polished wood. You’re standing near the shelves, skimming spines, when Anthony comes in and closes the door behind him with a decisive click.

He doesn’t speak immediately. He simply looks at you as if he’s been thinking about you all day and the moment he’s finally alone with you, words stop being useful. “Well,” you say, amused by the intensity, “you look like a man with an intention.”

“I am a man with an intention,” he replies, crossing the room toward you. He reaches you, and his hands settle on your hips as though that is where they belong, thumbs pressing lightly through your gown. “If anyone knocks, I shall not answer.”

You smile. “That’s new.”

“It is not new,” he says, leaning down to kiss you. “It is final.” You let him, because you want him, and because the library door is shut, and because you can hear nothing beyond the quiet crackle of the fire. His mouth is warm, insistent, and he kisses you like he’s reclaiming time that has been stolen. When he finally lifts his head, his gaze stays on yours. “Move,” he murmurs, and he nudges you back a step toward the large armchair by the hearth as if he’s already decided the library is not merely for books.

You laugh softly. “Anthony—”

“Do not,” he warns, but there’s humor in it too, the edge of a smile he can’t quite hide. “Just—come here.”

You let him guide you, and his hands move with familiar surety, tugging you close, his mouth finding the skin just beneath your ear. “You are enjoying this,” you whisper.

“I am enjoying you,” he corrects immediately, voice muffled against you. “And I will not be interrupted.”

As if the house has been waiting for that exact sentence, there is a knock at the library door. It’s brisk and insistent, not a servant’s timid tap, a Bridgerton knock. Anthony freezes with the speed of a man who has been shot.

You press your lips together, shoulders lifting with silent laughter. “Oh no.”

The knock comes again, louder. “Anthony!” Benedict calls through the door, sounding entirely too cheerful. “Are you in there?”

Anthony closes his eyes. His hands stay on you, as if letting go would be admitting defeat, but his face tightens with fury. You whisper, delighted, “you said you wouldn’t answer.”

“I will not,” Anthony whispers back, as if saying it will make it true.

Benedict knocks again, then adds, “It is important!”

From the other side of the door comes Eloise’s voice, sharper, impatient. “He is in there, Benedict, I saw him go in. Anthony! I need to speak with you!”

Anthony opens his eyes and stares at the door like he’s imagining ways to remove it from its hinges. You murmur, “this is becoming a pattern.”

“It is becoming a tragedy,” Anthony replies.

Benedict’s voice rises, still maddeningly bright. “Anthony, if you do not open the door, I shall open it myself!”

“You will not,” Anthony calls back, voice tight.

“Oh, I absolutely will,” Benedict replies, sounding pleased with himself. “I only need—where is the key?—Eloise, do you know where he keeps the key?”

Eloise makes an exasperated noise. “Why would he keep a key to his own library door?—Anthony, open it!”

Anthony’s arms tighten around you, and he mutters under his breath, “if he touches this door—”

You tip your head up, eyes glittering with amusement. “Are you going to duel Benedict in the library?”

“I will duel him in the street,” Anthony says, dead serious.

Benedict knocks again, and then you hear the unmistakable rattle of a handle being tested. You put a hand on Anthony’s chest, stopping him from launching himself at the door. “Wait,” you whisper.

Anthony’s gaze snaps to you. “Wait?”

You smile, wicked and fond at once. “If you open it, they win.” His jaw tightens.

Outside, Benedict announces, “I am counting to three!”

Eloise barks, “do not count!”

Benedict ignores her. “One—”

Anthony looks at you, and for a moment you can see him wrestling with the impulse to keep control, to keep dignity, to keep peace, and losing all of it at once. His hands flex at your waist.

“Two—”

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his mouth. “Let them knock,” you murmur. “We can be stubborn too.”

Benedict’s voice rings out, delighted. “Three!”

The handle rattles again, harder, and Anthony’s entire body goes rigid. He takes a sharp breath, then—finally—lets out the sort of sound that isn’t quite a growl but is close enough to make you laugh. He turns, still holding you as if you’re the only steady thing in the house, and calls, “what?”

There’s a pause on the other side of the door, as if Benedict hadn’t expected him to answer without opening it. Then Benedict says, brightly, “ah! Excellent. You’re alive.”

Eloise snaps, “Benedict, do not be insufferable. Anthony, I need you. Immediately.”

Anthony’s eyes squeeze shut again. “For what?”

Eloise replies, clipped, “because Colin has decided to be smug in the drawing room and Mother is planning three separate breakfasts, and I cannot endure it alone!”

Benedict adds, as if this is equally urgent, “also, I believe Colin is about to announce something else, and I would hate for you to miss the look on your face.”

Anthony’s stare goes entirely blank with disbelief. “Nothing else can be announced.”

Benedict’s tone is innocently delighted. “You would be surprised what Colin believes he can announce.”

You cover your mouth to muffle a laugh, shoulders shaking against Anthony’s chest. Anthony looks down at you with a mixture of outrage and reluctant amusement. “This is not important,” Anthony calls through the door, voice dangerously calm.

Eloise replies immediately, “it is important to my sanity!”

Benedict says, “and to mine. Eloise is becoming very loud.”

Eloise retorts, “you are the one counting like a child!”

Benedict responds, “I am attempting to be organized, which you should appreciate.”

Anthony’s hands slide up your back, slow, grounding, as though he’s reminding himself that he still has you even if his siblings are trying to break down the door. He leans closer to your ear. “If they do not leave,” he murmurs, “I will move us to the roof.”

You whisper back, laughing, “do we have a roof schedule as well?”

He pinches your waist, not hard, but enough to make you yelp softly. “Do not.”

Outside, Benedict calls, “Anthony, are you opening the door, or do we continue this ridiculous stand-off?”

Anthony opens his mouth to answer, and you can tell he’s about to declare something dramatic and absolute. The door handle rattles again, and this time it’s accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a key being inserted and the both of you go still. On the other side, Benedict says, sounding pleased, “ah, there it is.”

Anthony’s voice drops into something lethal. “Benedict.”

Benedict pauses. “Yes?” Anthony’s hand leaves your waist. He strides to the door in three steps and yanks it open so hard the hinges complain. Benedict stands there holding a key in one hand, grin already prepared, and Eloise is beside him looking vindicated and irritated at the same time. Benedict takes one look at Anthony’s face and lifts both hands. “All right,” he says quickly. “I see you are in one of your moods.”

“One of my moods,” Anthony repeats, and his tone suggests Benedict should start writing his will.

Eloise peers past Anthony into the room, her eyes flicking toward you. “Oh,” she says. “Hello.”

“Eloise,” Anthony says sharply.

Benedict leans in just slightly, as though he’s inspecting a painting. “Is this a bad time?”

You step forward enough to be seen properly, smoothing your skirts, expression sweet. “A dreadful time.”

Benedict’s grin widens. “My apologies.”

Eloise looks between you and Anthony, then pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s the one being punished. “Colin is insufferable,” she announces, as if that explains everything. “He has been smiling for an hour, Mother is floating, and Penelope… I needed an ally.”

Anthony stares at her. “You broke into the library for an ally.”

“It is not breaking in if Benedict has a key,” Eloise says.

Benedict lifts the key. “It was in Father’s old desk.”

Anthony’s face hardens. “Put it back.”

Benedict nods quickly. “Immediately.”

You can’t help it, you laugh, because the scene is so absurd you might choke if you don’t. Benedict looks relieved you’re amused, and Eloise looks irritated that anyone is capable of amusement at all. Anthony steps out into the hall, lowering his voice. “Whatever you think is happening in the drawing room, it can wait.”

Eloise’s eyes flash. “It cannot. Not if I am to survive.”

Benedict adds, as if offering a compromise, “Anthony, come for five minutes. Five minutes, and then we shall all vanish and never speak of this again.”

Anthony glances back at you, his expression tight, then looks at his siblings again like he wants to throw them down the stairs. You step closer and touch his arm lightly. “Go,” you say, soft enough that only he hears. “If you don’t, they’ll only keep doing it, and I’d prefer not to witness Benedict’s next attempt at burglary.”

Anthony’s nostrils flare. “I will have him arrested.”

“You cannot arrest your brother,” you whisper, laughing.

“I can try,” he mutters.

Benedict, sensing he’s survived another second, brightens. “So! Five minutes?”

Anthony holds Benedict’s gaze with a promise of future violence, then says, clipped, “five minutes.”

Eloise’s shoulders drop in relief like she’s been granted mercy. “Thank you.”

Benedict beams. “Wonderful. Come along.”

Anthony turns back to you before he follows them. His hand catches yours briefly, fingers tightening, and his voice drops low. “Do not move from this room.”

You lift your brows. “Now who’s issuing orders?”

His mouth twitches. “I will return.”

“I’m sure you will,” you say, and you tilt your head. “Unless Colin announces he’s become the Prince Regent.”

Anthony lets out a sound that might be a laugh if he weren’t still furious, then leans in, kisses you once—quick, hot, and full of promise—and follows his siblings down the corridor.

The library door remains open behind him, the fire still crackling, your carefully claimed privacy evaporated like mist. You watch the three of them go, Benedict talking animatedly, Eloise already complaining, Anthony walking in the middle like a man being led to execution. You close the door yourself, calmly, and slide the lock with deliberate precision.

A week after Colin’s announcement, the ton has done what it always does: taken the news, polished it until it gleams, and then used it to bludgeon everyone else with questions. You feel it the moment you step into Lady Danbury’s drawing room for an afternoon call, because the room isn’t loud exactly, but it is alive with attention. Fans flick, bracelets glint, and every conversation seems to pause for the smallest fraction of a second when a Bridgerton enters, as if society is collectively deciding which topic to attack first. Lady Danbury, seated like she owns the entire building, lifts her chin toward you in greeting. “Viscountess,” she says, voice rich with amusement. “You have survived a week of congratulations.”

“Barely,” you reply, taking the seat indicated. “I have heard the word ‘engaged’ so many times I may never recover.”

Lady Danbury’s mouth curves. “Nonsense, it could be worse. It could be the word ‘heir.’”

You give a quiet laugh that turns into something more pointed when you feel Anthony’s presence behind you. He’s just finished greeting someone near the door—one of the endless men who insist on clasping his hand and smiling as if they’re friends—and now he crosses toward you with that controlled ease that makes everyone get out of his way without understanding why they’ve done it.

He sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours, and his hand lands on the arm of the chair in a way that looks casual but feels protective. Lady Danbury’s eyes flick from him to you. “How is our viscount today?”

Anthony’s smile is polite. “Enduring.”

“Ah,” she says, pleased. “Honesty, I applaud it. Now, I have a question, and you may glare all you like, Bridgerton, but I will ask it anyway.”

Before Anthony can respond, a woman in pale blue drifts close, fan raised like a shield. She smiles at you first, then at Anthony, and you recognize her as Lady Smythe’s sister-in-law—one of those people who appears at every gathering and always manages to be within earshot of news. “Viscountess,” she says, overly warm. “How delightful to see you. And you as well, Lord Bridgerton. Such a charming week for your family.”

Anthony’s smile stays fixed. “Indeed.”

The woman’s gaze lingers on you with the sort of curiosity that never feels innocent. “Mr. Bridgerton’s engagement is quite the talk. Penelope Featherington! Who would have guessed?” Lady Danbury snorts softly. The woman pretends not to hear it and continues, lowering her voice as if sharing something intimate. “And of course, it does set one thinking.”

Anthony’s jaw tightens. You can feel it without even looking at him. “Does it?” you ask, letting your tone remain pleasant.

“Oh, yes,” the woman says, eyes bright. “Such a large family, and now another wedding approaching. Lady Bridgerton must be in ecstasies. It makes one wonder which happy announcement will come next.”

Lady Danbury’s brows lift as if she’s about to cut in, but you beat her to it with a smooth smile. “Society wonders about all sorts of things,” you say. “It keeps them occupied.”

The woman laughs lightly, not deterred. “Naturally, naturally. Still—one cannot help but consider how important heirs are, particularly when one’s husband holds a title. Forgive me, I only mean it as… interest.”

Anthony’s hand shifts on the chair arm. His voice is controlled, but there’s an edge to it now. “You need not be interested in matters that do not concern you.”

The woman blinks at him, then laughs again like she’s charmed rather than warned. “Oh, Lord Bridgerton, you are as protective as ever. I only meant that the ton is always so eager—”

“To gossip,” Lady Danbury supplies, dry as dust.

The woman’s smile tightens. “To celebrate,” she corrects quickly.

Anthony turns his head slightly toward you, his expression asking, silently, if you want him to end this conversation with a sentence that will become legend. You answer with a small squeeze to his knee under the edge of your skirt, a reminder that you can handle it too. You tilt your head at the woman. “I appreciate your… celebration,” you say sweetly. “But I must insist you find another subject.”

For the first time, the woman looks properly uncertain, as though she’s only just realized she has stepped too far. “Oh,” she says, blinking. “Of course, I did not mean to offend.”

“Then we are perfectly agreed,” you reply.

She retreats with as much dignity as she can salvage, immediately latching onto someone else across the room, likely to repeat the entire exchange as though it happened to her rather than because of her. Lady Danbury watches her go. “I should like to throw her into the street,” she remarks.

Anthony exhales through his nose. “Lady Danbury.”

“You heard her,” Lady Danbury replies, eyes glittering. “She said the word.”

Anthony’s mouth goes flat. “Yes.”

Lady Danbury leans back. “It is not your fault, you know. People see a title and they begin counting cradles.”

You glance at Anthony, amused by his expression. “Counting cradles.”

He looks pained. “Please do not repeat it.”

Lady Danbury waves a hand again. “Very well, we shall call it what it is. Nosiness.”

A second group approaches before the room has even properly settled. This time it’s two matrons and a younger lady who looks as though she’s been dragged along as decoration. They greet Lady Danbury, then angle toward you and Anthony with bright smiles.

“Viscountess!” one of the matrons says. “Lord Bridgerton, what a pleasure. We were just speaking of your family—how fortunate Lady Bridgerton must feel, to have so many children, and now Mr. Colin’s engagement besides.”

“Fortunate,” Anthony repeats, tone politely dead.

The younger lady tucks her chin, eyes flicking up at you with curiosity. The other matron leans in like she’s about to share a recipe. “Tell me,” she says, “how is married life suiting you, my dear? You look positively radiant.”

Anthony’s gaze snaps to her. You smile. “Thank you.”

The matron continues, undeterred. “And Lord Bridgerton has always been so devoted to his family. I imagine he’s devoted to you as well. It must be such comfort, being Viscountess, knowing you will soon have—”

Anthony cuts in sharply, voice still quiet but unmistakably firm. “That is enough.”

The matron blinks as if she’s been slapped by etiquette. “Pardon?”

Anthony doesn’t raise his voice, he simply looks at her, and the air seems to cool around the edges. “You are speaking to my wife,” he says. “Not to a ledger.”

There’s a beat of silence. The younger lady’s eyes widen. Lady Danbury’s mouth curls with clear approval. The matron’s smile becomes strained. “Of course. I meant nothing improper—”

“Then do not say improper things,” Anthony replies, still controlled, but there is no softness in him now.

The second matron clears her throat and attempts to steer the conversation. “Perhaps we might speak of the weather. Such strange winds lately—”

“Strange,” Lady Danbury echoes, a touch too amused.

You place your hand lightly on Anthony’s forearm, not to stop him entirely, but to settle him, because he looks ready to start banning people from the city. You meet the matron’s gaze with a calm smile. “Lady Danbury was just telling us about a new opera,” you say, offering a safe path out. “Perhaps you have heard of it?”

The matrons seize the topic like a lifeline, and within moments they’re talking about music and gowns and who has the best box at the theatre, as if nothing sharp has just happened. That is society: it presses its thumb into a bruise, then pretends it never saw the mark.

When the group finally drifts away, Lady Danbury makes a pleased sound. “That was satisfying.”

Anthony looks at her. “It was necessary.”

“It was both,” Lady Danbury says, then regards you. “And you, Viscountess, do not let them make you feel as if you are on display. These women have nothing to do but sharpen their tongues.”

You nod once. “I won’t.”

Lady Danbury’s gaze shifts to Anthony again. “And you,” she says, “if you frighten away half the ton, I shall call it a personal favor.”

Anthony’s mouth twitches. “I am not trying to frighten anyone.”

“You are succeeding,” you murmur, just loud enough for him.

He turns his head toward you, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” you reply. “Annoyed, but fine. It’s them, not me.”

His thumb brushes once over your hand where it rests on his arm, a quiet gesture that says he heard you and believes you. “Good.”

Lady Danbury stands with her cane, signaling that your visit is at its end. “Go on, then. Escape while you can, before someone else decides to count your cradles aloud.”

You rise as well, smoothing your skirt, and Anthony stands immediately at your side, posture already set for departure. He offers Lady Danbury his thanks with perfect politeness, then guides you toward the door with a hand at your back.

In the carriage on the way home, the city rolls by in neat terraces and busy streets, but inside the cab it’s private enough to breathe again. Anthony sits opposite you, gloves in his hands, jaw still tight from holding himself together. You watch him for a moment. “You nearly bit that woman’s head off.”

“I should have,” he replies.

You laugh, then reach across the small space and tap his knee lightly. “You said I’m not a ledger.”

His gaze lifts to yours. “You are not.”

“I know,” you say. “But you can’t duel every person who asks about children.”

“I can try,” he says immediately.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Anthony.”

His expression shifts into something like frustration, but it’s directed outward, not at you. “They speak as if it is a matter of public interest,” he mutters. “As if you are… as if we are…”

“As if we’re a story for them,” you finish, voice steady. “We are. That won’t change.”

Anthony’s shoulders ease a fraction, like he’s letting the truth settle instead of fighting it. “Then we must be more careful.”

You lift your brows. “Careful.”

“Yes,” he says, then adds, very pointedly, “we will not be made ridiculous by an entire room of women with fans.”

You grin. “You mean you won’t.”

Anthony looks at you with that familiar, dangerous affection. “Do not pretend you were not tempted to tell them something scandalous just to see them choke.”

“I was tempted,” you admit, pleased. “But I behaved.”

Anthony leans forward slightly, voice dropping even in the carriage. “And I did not?”

“You behaved,” you allow, then smirk. “In your own way.”

He exhales, then reaches across and catches your hand, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles, slow and grounding.

“When we return,” he says, “we will have dinner quickly.”

You tilt your head. “Quickly?”

He gives you a look that makes the word mean something else entirely. “Quickly,” he repeats, then glances out the window as if daring the city to interrupt him. “And then we will retire early.”

You smile, letting your fingers squeeze his. “And if someone knocks?”

Anthony’s gaze returns to you, unwavering. “Then they will learn to regret it.”

You laugh again, warm and genuine, and the carriage turns onto your street while Anthony holds your hand as if it’s the only part of the day he’s been able to keep for himself.

The night of the Queen’s ball arrives dressed in gold and urgency, the sort of evening that makes even Bridgerton House feel like it’s holding its breath. Servants move with an extra sharpness, carrying trays and ribbons and polished shoes, while somewhere down the corridor Violet’s voice floats with last-minute instructions that sound suspiciously like commands issued to a regiment.

You’re in your room with the fire lit low and your gown laid out like an offering, silk the color of pale moonlight with delicate beading that catches when you turn it in your hands. Your maid has done most of the work already, but now she’s tightened the corset ties and stepped back to fetch a pin from the dressing table, leaving you in that in-between state where your hair is half arranged and your shoulders are bare, a ribbon hanging loose at your back like an invitation. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and huff softly. “If this contraption gets any tighter, I’ll have to breathe in turns.”

Your maid smiles without looking up, carefully selecting a hairpin. “You look very fine, my lady.”

“Fine is not the same as breathing,” you reply, shifting your shoulders to test the stays. “If I faint at the Queen’s feet, I’ll blame you.”

“You will not faint,” she says confidently, then glances toward the door as footsteps approach. “That will be his lordship.”

Before she can say more, the door opens and Anthony steps in without ceremony, as if he belongs in every room you occupy, which, to be fair, he does. He’s already dressed for the ball, hair neat, coat immaculate, the white of his cravat so crisp it looks sharp enough to cut. He pauses the moment he sees you, and the look in his eyes changes from public composure to something warmer, softer, and unmistakably pleased.

Your maid drops into a quick curtsy. “My lord.”

Anthony doesn’t take his eyes off you. “Leave us,” he says, not unkindly. Your maid hesitates, glancing at the half-finished hair and the loose ribbon. Anthony finally looks at her, expression politely firm. “I am perfectly capable of tying a ribbon.”

Your maid’s mouth twitches as if she’s trying not to smile. “Yes, my lord.” She curtsies again and slips out, shutting the door with a careful click that somehow sounds like a blessing.

You turn slightly, smiling at him through the mirror. “You’re perfectly capable?”

Anthony walks closer, slow and certain, stopping behind you. His hands hover for a moment at your shoulders, as if he’s asking permission even after everything. “I can learn,” he says, and the tone makes it clear he’s not talking about ribbons alone.

“Then learn,” you reply, and you tilt your head to give him access as he leans in. His lips brush your shoulder, gentle at first, then lingering, like he’s trying to steal a moment from the night before it’s demanded from you.

You close your eyes briefly. “If you ruin my hair…”

Anthony’s mouth moves against your skin in a way that makes you forget your own warning. “You will survive.”

“Anthony,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, because you can hear the pride in his refusal, the way he likes putting you above everything else even when he’s pretending he doesn’t.

His hands come to the ribbon at the back of your corset and he draws the ends through his fingers, testing the tension with surprising care. “Is it too tight?”

“A little,” you admit, then add, because you can’t resist, “I should like to be able to inhale at the Queen’s leisure.”

Anthony makes a low sound that could be a laugh if he weren’t concentrating. He eases the ribbon just slightly, then starts to tie it properly, his fingers steady. When he finishes, he smooths the fabric at your back as if he’s calming something wild, then leans down again, kissing the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.

“You look…” he begins, then stops, like the rest of the sentence is too exposed.

“Go on,” you say, opening your eyes to meet his gaze in the mirror. “You never stop halfway through an opinion.”

“I do when it is dangerous,” he replies.

You turn your head just enough that your cheek nearly brushes his. “Dangerous to whom?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. “To me.”

That earns a soft laugh from you, pleased and a little breathless. You turn fully then, facing him, and the closeness immediately changes the air. He’s so handsome in evening dress it’s almost unfair, and there’s something about the way he looks at you—like he’s already impatient with the world for taking up so much of your time. “You’re meant to be downstairs,” you say lightly. “Someone will come searching for you.”

“Let them,” Anthony answers, and he takes your hands, drawing you a step closer until your corset brushes his coat. “I have watched you be pestered for a week. I have listened to women speak about you as if you are a subject for discussion. I am allowed a few minutes with my wife.”

You lift your brows at the sharpness of it. “Are you sulking again?”

“I am not sulking,” he says, but his mouth tightens, which is as close as he comes to admitting anything.

You reach up and straighten his lapel, slow, your fingers smoothing the fabric deliberately. “You’re supposed to charm people tonight.”

“I can charm people,” Anthony replies, voice dropping. “I would much rather charm you.”

“You already have,” you say, and you tug him closer by the lapel. “Clearly, because you’re in my room instead of behaving like the Viscount.”

He catches your wrist, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of it, a gesture so intimate you feel it in your stomach. “I behave when I must.”

“And when you don’t?” you ask softly.

His gaze stays on yours. “Then I do this.” He kisses you, and it starts gentle, like a courtesy, then becomes something warmer, more insistent, the kind of kiss that makes the mirror and the corset and the ball disappear until there’s only him. His hand slides to your waist, holding you steady, and you let yourself lean into him because it’s been days of interruptions and noise and other people’s expectations, and this is yours. When he lifts his mouth, his breath is warm against your lips. “We will leave early,” he murmurs.

You blink, amused. “Will we?”

“We will,” he says with certainty. “I will invent a headache if I must. I will tell my mother you are tired. I will do anything.”

You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “So dramatic.”

“I am serious,” he says, and then he kisses your shoulder again, as if he can’t help himself.

You shiver, laughing quietly. “If you keep doing that, I’ll forget I’m meant to greet royalty.”

Anthony’s mouth pauses against your skin, and he looks up, eyes dark with the satisfaction of having that effect on you. “Perhaps you should forget.”

“Anthony,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in it, only fondness.

He answers by tugging you closer, his lips at your ear now. “After the ball,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a secret, “we will go upstairs and we will lock the door, and if anyone knocks—”

A sharp rap sounds at the door and Anthony goes still. You stare at the door with immediate, helpless disbelief. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

The knock comes again, harder, urgent in a way that makes your heart drop, because this isn’t Violet’s polite timing or Benedict’s cheerful menace. This is the sound of a servant afraid to deliver news. Anthony’s jaw tightens. “Ignore it.”

The knocking continues, and then a voice—breathless—filters through the wood. “My lord! Lord Bridgerton, forgive me—my lord!”

Anthony’s eyes close briefly, as though he’s bargaining with God. He pulls back just enough to look at you. “If it is my brother—”

“It’s not your brother,” you whisper, and you can hear it in the servant’s tone too, that edge of panic.

Anthony turns sharply and strides to the door, yanking it open. A footman stands there, flushed and wide-eyed, with a sealed note held out as though it might bite. “My lord,” the footman says quickly, “a messenger has arrived. From the palace.”

Anthony’s entire posture changes. “From the palace?”

“Yes, my lord,” the footman says, swallowing. “He says it is immediate.”

You step closer behind Anthony, peering past him. In the corridor, a man in livery waits—distinct from your household, carrying himself with practiced authority, a sealed note in his hand.

Anthony steps into the hall and takes the note without hesitation. He breaks the seal, eyes scanning the contents, and you can see the exact moment his evening is stolen away. His shoulders tighten, and his mouth goes flat. “What is it?” you ask, already knowing you won’t like the answer.

Anthony looks back at you, and the frustration in his eyes is almost comical if it weren’t so real. “The Queen requests our presence,” he says, and his tone makes it sound like an ambush. “Now.”

“Now?” you repeat, incredulous. “We’re already going to the ball.”

“Apparently,” Anthony replies, turning the note slightly as if to confirm it hasn’t changed its mind, “Her Majesty intends to receive the Bridgertons before the main assembly.”

The palace messenger speaks for the first time, polite but unmoving. “My lord, the carriage should depart within the quarter hour.”

Anthony’s eyes flick to the man, then back to you, and for a moment he looks like he wants to argue with the monarchy itself. Instead, he forces the air into his lungs slowly and says through his teeth, “of course.”

The messenger bows and steps back down the corridor, leaving your footman hovering like he expects Anthony to throw something. Anthony closes the door with careful restraint and turns to you, still holding the note. The room feels suddenly smaller, as if the palace has reached in and taken hold of your evening by the throat.

You cross your arms lightly, gaze narrowing. “She couldn’t have waited until we arrived like everyone else?”

Anthony lets out a short breath that is half laugh, half pure irritation. “Apparently not.”

You step closer, reaching for his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours immediately. “All right,” you say, forcing brightness into your tone. “We go. We smile. We do whatever she wants us to do.”

Anthony’s gaze drops to your mouth again, and the look in his eyes turns sharp with promise. “And then we come home.”

“Anthony—” you begin, because you know that look.

He leans in, close enough that his voice is only for you. “I will make it up to you,” he murmurs, each word slow and deliberate. “Tonight.”

You feel the warmth climb your neck, and you can’t help the small breath you take. “You’re threatening me.”

“I am promising you,” he corrects, and his hand slides to your waist as if he’s already imagining you there later, not dressed in silk and stays, but bare of all that restraint.

You swallow, trying to keep your composure. “We’re about to face the Queen.”

Anthony’s mouth curves, just slightly. “Yes.”

“That is not the time to look like you want to—” You stop yourself, because the word is too much in a room full of ribbons and court summons, but your eyes say the rest.

Anthony’s gaze holds yours without apology. “I always look at you like that.”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh and tug him back by his hand. “Then come on,” you say. “Before Her Majesty decides to send someone to drag you by the ear.”

Anthony moves with you, but before you can reach the bell to summon your maid, he catches you and pulls you in for one last quick kiss, sharp and possessive, the kind of kiss that leaves you a little dazed. When he pulls back, his voice is low, meant only for you. “Do not forget what I said,” he murmurs.

You lift your brows, breath unsteady. “As if I could.”

Anthony’s eyes darken with satisfaction, then he straightens with that practiced public composure, the Viscount sliding back over him like armor. He calls for your maid, orders are given, gloves fetched, and within minutes you’re being fastened into the last of your finery while the house scrambles to meet the palace’s demand.

Even as you’re pinned into place and the night’s obligations close in, Anthony’s hand lingers at your back for a heartbeat longer than necessary when he helps you into your cloak, his touch a quiet reminder. The Queen can summon you, the ton can watch you, Bridgerton House can interrupt you, but the promise in his voice follows you out the door and into the carriage like a private heat you can’t shake.

By the time you return from the palace, the house feels quieter, not because it actually is, but because it’s past the hour when polite people pretend not to yawn. Your cloak is shrugged off in the entry, gloves handed away, and the last of the evening’s sound trails behind you as you climb the stairs, the candlelight throwing warm patches on the walls and stretching your shadows long across the carpet.

Anthony walks at your side, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours every so often, as though he’s reminding himself you’re still here after an entire night of being watched. He said very little in the carriage, but not because he had nothing to say. It’s because he has the sort of restraint that looks like calm until it finally cracks.

You reach your door and he opens it before you can touch the handle, ushering you inside with a hand at your back. The room is dim, the fire low, the air still faintly scented with the perfume you dabbed on before you left. The quiet should feel like relief.

Instead, the moment the door shuts, Anthony exhales sharply and throws his gloves onto the table with enough force that they slide. You pause mid-step. “If you’re about to curse the monarchy, I won’t stop you.”

Anthony turns, and his eyes are bright with frustration, his jaw tight in a way you’ve come to recognize as the line between control and anger. “She summoned us before the ball,” he says, voice low. “Before the ball, as though we are footmen waiting for a bell.”

“You didn’t like being told what to do?” you ask, light on purpose.

“I do not like being treated as though I have no choice,” he replies, then rubs a hand over his mouth as if he’s biting back ten sharper sentences.

You move toward the dressing table, beginning to unpin your earrings. “We never have a choice with queens.”

Anthony laughs once, short and humorless. “Apparently not.”

You set the earrings down carefully, then glance at him. “Are you angry about the Queen, or are you angry about the timing?”

Anthony’s gaze flicks to you, then away, then back. “Yes.”

That answer earns a quiet smile from you, but it fades when he comes closer, stopping only a step away. He lifts a hand toward you like he’s going to touch you, then hesitates, as though he’s afraid of turning this into another thing he ruins by being too rough with it. “You promised,” you remind him, voice soft but teasing, trying to pull him back from the edge. “You said you’d make it up to me.”

Anthony’s mouth tightens. “I know what I said.”

“And?” you prompt.

“And I am tired of promises,” he snaps, and then immediately looks as though he regrets the sharpness, because your expression shifts and he can see it. He drags in a breath. “Not to you. I do not mean to you.”

You set your hands on the edge of the table and face him fully. “Then what do you mean?”

Anthony’s gaze drops to the ribbon at your shoulder, the small fastenings of your gown, the pieces of the evening that still cling to you. “I mean,” he says, quieter now, “that every time we attempt to have a moment, there is someone knocking. Someone needing something. Someone dragging us back into the world. And tonight—tonight I could not even get you to the ball without the palace reaching into our carriage.”

You lift a brow. “You sound like you want to fight the Queen.”

“I want to fight the house,” Anthony replies, then shakes his head as if he’s disgusted with himself for even saying it. “It is ridiculous. I am a grown man.”

“You are,” you agree.

“And yet,” he continues, and his voice tightens again, “my siblings behave as though doors are suggestions. My mother behaves as though privacy is a myth. The ton behaves as though your body is a matter for discussion. The Queen behaves as though she owns our time. And I—” He cuts himself off, jaw working.

You step closer, careful. “And you?”

Anthony’s eyes meet yours, and there’s something raw in the way he looks at you now, not romantic and pretty, just honest and frustrated. “And I cannot even do this properly,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you as though this is everything you’ve been trying for. “I cannot even manage to be alone with my own wife without it becoming a farce.”

You blink once, then let your hands settle on his coat, smoothing the fabric over his chest the way you do when you want to bring him back to you. “It’s not a farce.”

“It feels like one,” he says immediately, and the words are too quick, too sharp. “It feels like we keep—” He stops again, then exhales hard through his nose. “It feels like we keep failing.”

You hold his gaze. “We are not failing.”

Anthony’s eyes narrow, stubborn as ever. “We have been trying.”

“We have been interrupted,” you correct. “That isn’t the same thing.” He looks away, jaw clenched. You can tell he wants to argue, wants to insist that if something isn’t going the way he pictured it, it must be his fault, because that’s what he does. He takes responsibility until it becomes a weapon he uses against himself. You move in front of him, blocking his escape, and tilt your head. “Do you want to be angry,” you ask, “or do you want to take off your coat?”

Anthony stares at you for a beat, as if the simplicity of the question has knocked him off balance. “What?”

You reach for the buttons at his coat and start unfastening them yourself, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been wound tight all evening,” you say. “If you want to be angry, be angry. If you want to kiss me, kiss me. But stop standing there looking like you’re about to explode.”

Anthony’s throat works, and his hands finally come to your waist, fingers flexing as if he doesn’t know where to put all that energy. “I do want you,” he says, voice low.

“Then have me,” you reply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “But don’t turn it into a test.”

His brows draw together. “A test.”

“Yes,” you say. “A test where you’re measuring whether you’re doing it right, whether the world is cooperating, whether people are watching, whether you can control everything long enough for—” You stop, because you don’t need to say the rest aloud to make the point.

Anthony’s grip tightens slightly, not painful, just intense. “I am not making it a test.”

“You are,” you tell him, plain and sure. “You’re turning it into something you have to win.”

His eyes flash. “Because I want it.”

“I know you do,” you say, softer now, because you can feel him trembling with it, the want and the frustration and the pressure the ton has layered on top of your bed as if it belongs there. “And I want it too. But I don’t want to dread it. I don’t want every kiss to come with you bracing for a knock.”

Anthony’s gaze drops to your mouth. “Then what do you want?”

You lift your hands to his face, cradling his jaw so he has to look at you. “I want you to stop thinking about everyone else,” you say. “Stop thinking about Violet, and Benedict, and the Queen, and Lady Smythe’s sister-in-law’s opinions. Right now it’s just us, and if nothing happens tonight, it’s still us.”

Anthony swallows, and the muscle in his jaw twitches under your fingers. “Something will happen,” he says, stubborn even now.

You give him a look. “Anthony.”

He holds your gaze, and the anger in him shifts, draining into something quieter. “I do not like,” he says, choosing his words carefully as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing, “that they speak about you as though you are… as though you are only—”

“A womb,” you finish, flat and calm.

Anthony’s eyes flare, and he looks like he wants to tear the word out of the air. “Yes.”

You keep your hands on his face, steady. “That’s their vulgarity, not ours.”

His breathing is slow, controlled. “I know.”

“And if it’s become miserable,” you add, “we can stop trying like it’s a project. We can just be together. We can let it happen when it happens.”

Anthony’s gaze searches yours, then he gives a short exhale. “You are too reasonable.”

“That’s why you married me,” you say, and you let a small smile soften the edge of the room.

For the first time since you came in, Anthony’s mouth twitches with something like relief. He leans forward, pressing his forehead briefly to yours, then murmurs, “I married you because you do not let me behave badly without telling me.”

“You behave badly constantly,” you tease, and you stroke your thumbs along his cheekbones. “You just do it with nice coats and a title.”

Anthony lets out a quiet, reluctant laugh, and it breaks something in him. His hands slide up your back, drawing you close, not frantic now, but firm and warm. “All right,” he says, voice rougher. “All right. I will stop.”

“Good,” you whisper. He kisses you then, and it’s slower than earlier kisses, less about proving something and more about settling. You feel his shoulders loosen under your hands as you tug at his coat, pushing it down his arms until it falls to the floor in an unceremonious heap. When you pull back, your mouth is still close to his, your breath mingling. “Better?” you ask.

Anthony’s eyes are dark, but the tightness is gone. “Better,” he says.

“Then help me out of this,” you murmur, tugging lightly at the fabric of your gown. “If I have to sleep in stays, I will start cursing the monarchy myself.”

Anthony’s hands move to the fastenings with careful attention, fingers brushing your skin as he works. He leans in now and then to kiss your shoulder again, softer than before, not trying to start a fire so much as keep the warmth alive.

You let yourself breathe, let yourself feel it without counting outcomes, and Anthony’s mouth finds your ear. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I will make it up to you.”

You smile into the quiet. “We’ll see.”

His hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer as the last pin comes loose and the gown begins to slip from your shoulders. “You will,” he replies, and the certainty in it is no longer angry. It’s simply him, finally choosing you over the noise outside the door.

It’s late, well past midnight, and Bridgerton House has finally slipped into the kind of hush that feels earned. The last candlelight in the corridor has been lowered, the servants have retreated to their own corners, and even the distant creaks of the building sound sleepy instead of watchful. In your room, the fire has burned down to a soft glow, and the only real light comes from a single lamp near the bed, its flame turned low.

You’re already out of the gown and the stays, skin warm from the heat of the hearth and the blankets. Anthony is beside you, coat gone, cravat discarded somewhere without ceremony, his shirt half unbuttoned as if he didn’t have the patience for knots tonight. He’s stretched out close enough that your legs tangle together, one arm draped around your waist, hand resting there like it belongs.

You turn your head on the pillow to look at him, and his gaze is on you already. “You’re staring,” you whisper.

“I’m looking,” he corrects, as if that distinction matters.

You smile, fingers tracing along his forearm. “Is there a difference?”

“There is when it’s you,” Anthony murmurs, then leans in to kiss your shoulder, slow and unhurried, the way he does when he isn’t trying to race the world. His lips move up the curve toward your neck, and you let out a quiet breath that makes him pause, pleased.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” you accuse softly.

Anthony’s mouth brushes your skin again. “I always enjoy myself.”

“You didn’t sound like you enjoyed yourself at the Queen’s ball,” you tease.

His hand tightens lightly at your waist. “Do not mention the Queen,” he says, voice low. “Do not mention my siblings. Do not mention society. Do not mention anything but—”

“But what?” you prompt, smiling.

Anthony lifts his head, eyes dark and intent. “But you.”

You laugh quietly, then tug him closer by the front of his shirt. “Then stop talking,” you tell him.

He answers by kissing you properly, mouth warm and sure, the kiss slow enough that it makes your chest loosen and your thoughts scatter. His hand slides up your side, thumb pressing lightly as if he’s mapping you, and when you shift closer, he makes a quiet sound against your mouth that is half approval, half need.

“Anthony,” you whisper when he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe.

“Yes,” he murmurs, lips at the corner of yours. “Yes.”

You catch his face between your hands, holding him still, and your voice turns playful again because you can’t resist. “No knocking.”

His eyes narrow. “No knocking.”

“No sudden announcements,” you add.

“No announcements,” he agrees, and he kisses along your jaw again.

“No urgent messages,” you finish, and your mouth curves when you feel him pause.

Anthony lifts his head just enough to look at you. “If an urgent message appears, I will burn it.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied, and you pull him back down.

For a few minutes, you get exactly what you wanted: the quiet, the warmth, the feeling that the rest of the house has finally left you alone. Anthony’s touches are careful and possessive at once, and he’s smiling into your skin like he can’t believe he’s been allowed to keep you to himself. You’re laughing softly at something he murmurs, his hand slipping under the edge of the sheet, his mouth moving slowly along your throat.

Then it happens—a knock at the door, sharp and urgent, nothing like Violet’s measured politeness. You and Anthony both freeze. You stare at the ceiling as if it might provide an explanation. “You said you’d burn it.”

Anthony’s voice is so quiet it’s almost a hiss. “I will burn the person.”

The knock comes again, followed by a voice you recognize as your housekeeper’s, careful but strained. “My lord? Forgive me—my lord, it is urgent.”

Anthony closes his eyes. His forehead drops briefly to your shoulder like he’s physically holding himself back from shouting. “No,” he says, to no one in particular.

You push yourself up on one elbow, hair falling over your shoulder, and call out, “what is it?”

There’s a pause, and the housekeeper’s reply is lowered, like she knows exactly what she’s interrupting and will never forgive herself. “A messenger has arrived with a note for you, my lady, and for his lordship. It is from Lady Cowper’s house.”

Anthony’s head lifts immediately, expression going hard. “Lady Cowper.”

You blink. “Why would Lady Cowper be sending anything at this hour?”

The housekeeper hesitates again, then says, “it concerns Mr. Colin’s engagement, my lady.”

Anthony’s arm tightens around you as if you might bolt out of the bed and into the street. “Bring it,” he says, clipped.

The door opens only a fraction. Your housekeeper steps in with her eyes very firmly on the carpet, holding out a folded note sealed with wax. She sets it on the table near the lamp as if it might explode, then backs away.

“I am very sorry,” she says quickly. “Very sorry, my lord. My lady.”

Anthony waves a hand without looking at her. “Go.”

She retreats at once, shutting the door behind her with the softest click she can manage, which still sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.

You stare at the note, then look at Anthony. “Lady Cowper.”

Anthony’s mouth is a thin line. “She is not sending congratulations.”

You swing your legs out of bed and snatch up your robe, shrugging into it. “Open it, then.” Anthony sits up too, already reaching for the paper like he means to strangle it. He breaks the seal and scans the contents, eyes moving fast. The longer he reads, the darker his expression becomes. “What does it say?” you ask.

Anthony holds the note out to you without a word. You take it and read, and it’s exactly as you feared: a carefully worded warning dressed up as courtesy, hinting that “certain gossip” has begun to spread about Penelope’s suitability, her family’s “recent embarrassments,” and whispers that Colin has been “ensnared.” There’s a neat little suggestion that the Bridgertons should act quickly to “protect the family” before the rumor becomes impossible to stamp out.

You lower the paper slowly. “That is vile.”

Anthony’s laugh is sharp. “It is calculated.”

You glance at the clock on the mantel. “At this hour?”

“It means she wanted to be first,” Anthony says. “She wanted to feel powerful.”

You fold the note once and set it down with deliberate care. “So what’s the rumor?”

Anthony looks like he’s about to pace a hole into the carpet. “It does not matter.”

“It matters if everyone is repeating it tomorrow,” you point out.

Anthony drags a hand through his hair. “She is implying that Penelope is—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “She is implying things that will make the matrons clutch their pearls and the men grin.”

You exhale slowly, because you can already imagine it: the looks, the whispers, the cruel delight of people who want to be entertained. “Violet will lose her mind.”

“She will be furious,” Anthony says. “And Colin will be—” He stops again, because whatever Colin will be is probably not fit to say out loud.

You step closer, hand on his shoulder. “We should wake Violet.”

Anthony’s eyes flash. “It is past midnight.”

“And?” you say. “If this is going to spread, she’d rather know now than be blindsided at breakfast.”

Anthony holds your gaze for a beat, then gives a short nod like he’s conceding to a point he hates. “Fine,” he says. “But I will deal with Cowper.”

You lift a brow. “How?”

He looks at you as if the answer is obvious. “With words.” You stare. Anthony sighs. “With words,” he repeats, slower. “I will not start a fight in her drawing room. I will simply make it clear that if she breathes one more hint of this nonsense in public, she will regret it.”

“You’re going to threaten Lady Cowper,” you say, half amused, half genuinely impressed.

“I am going to remind her,” Anthony replies, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “that the Bridgertons do not tolerate cruelty dressed as concern.”

You fold your arms over your robe. “And what are you going to do about the rumor itself?”

Anthony pauses, looking up at you, and the anger in his face shifts into something more focused. “I will speak to Colin,” he says. “Tonight. Now. I will have him ready before morning.”

“You’re going to wake Colin,” you repeat.

Anthony’s mouth tightens. “If I do not, my mother will, and she will do it with far less mercy than I possess.”

You let out a short laugh, because you can picture it perfectly. “All right. We wake Violet, we wake Colin, and then you terrify a Cowper.”

Anthony reaches for his discarded shirt and yanks it on, not bothering with buttons properly. “Yes.”

You step in close and fix one button on his shirt because he’s doing it wrong in his fury. “Then come on,” you say, voice gentle but brisk. “Before the sun rises and everyone decides this is their entertainment.”

Anthony catches your wrist, pulling you closer for one brief second, his touch firm and warm. “We are not finished,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it sends a shiver straight down your spine despite everything.

You lift your brows. “Is that a promise?”

“It is a vow,” Anthony replies, and then he kisses you once—quick, heated, full of frustration and intent—before releasing you and striding toward the door like he’s about to declare war on half of Mayfair. You follow, tying your robe tighter as you go, because the night has been stolen again, but not the two of you. Not really, no matter how many times the world tries.

By the time the afternoon drifts toward evening, you’ve already endured Violet’s excited plans for Colin’s wedding breakfast, a visit from Lady Danbury that somehow turned into three separate instructions delivered like favors, and Eloise sweeping through the corridor with the energy of a storm cloud. Even the servants look tired of announcing names.

You’re in your sitting room with the windows open and a plate of fruit you’ve barely touched, trying to convince yourself you’re not still thinking about that horrible note from Lady Cowper. The scandal did not erupt at breakfast the way it threatened to, which means Anthony must have spent the morning terrifying the right people in the right order, but the tension still lingers in the house like smoke after a candle’s been snuffed.

Anthony comes in without knocking, of course, and closes the door behind him with a firmness that makes you glance up immediately. He doesn’t look furious the way he did the night of the message, but he does look set on something, the kind of set that means he’s decided and anyone standing in his way will simply be moved.

He crosses the room and stops in front of you. For a moment he says nothing at all, just reaches down and takes your hand, drawing it into both of his as if he’s checking you’re really here. “Well?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Did you duel Lady Cowper at dawn? Because I didn’t hear the pistols.”

Anthony huffs a short laugh, and his thumbs begin to move over your knuckles in a slow, absent motion that would look almost calm on another man. On Anthony it reads like restraint. “I did not duel anyone,” he says. “I spoke to Cowper’s husband.”

“Oh,” you reply, immediately interested. “And?”

“He blanched,” Anthony says with unmistakable satisfaction. “Which I found encouraging.”

You smile, letting your fingers curl into his. “Encouraging.”

“He understands,” Anthony continues, still rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand as if it’s the only soothing thing in the room. “If anything is said again, there will be consequences.”

“Consequences,” you repeat, amused. “You’re terrifying when you’re polite.”

“I was not polite,” he says, and there’s a flicker in his eyes that suggests he enjoyed not being polite.

You squeeze his hand. “And Colin?”

Anthony’s jaw tightens again, but less sharply than before. “Colin is determined to be happy,” he says, as if this is a crime. “He has decided the world may do what it likes, he will marry Penelope regardless.”

“That’s the point,” you say, reaching up with your free hand to straighten his lapel. “And Penelope?”

Anthony’s expression shifts into something more measured. “She looked as if she might bolt when I asked her if she was all right,” he admits. “But she did not bolt, she said she is fine.”

“Good,” you say simply.

Anthony’s gaze stays on you, and his thumb keeps moving, a steady stroke over your knuckles that feels oddly intimate in the middle of all this. “You were right,” he says.

You blink. “About what?”

“About waking everyone,” he replies, and you can hear the reluctance in it like a man swallowing vinegar. “About handling it before morning.”

You smile, pleased, and tilt your head. “Careful, Anthony. Compliments are dangerous.”

He gives you a look that suggests he’d like to place you directly on his lap and remind you what he thinks is dangerous. Instead he breathes out slowly, still holding your hand like he’s decided not to let go, and says, “We are leaving.”

You pause. “Leaving?”

“Yes,” Anthony repeats, and this time his thumb stops for a beat, then resumes, slower, as if he’s calming himself with the decision. “Today. Tonight. Now, if you are ready.”

You search his face, then glance toward the door as if you expect Benedict to burst in and announce he’s found another key. “Where are we going?”

“The Half Moon Street house,” he says. “The one no one thinks of because it is not full of Bridgertons. The one that is quiet.”

You lean back slightly, studying him. “You’re serious.”

“I am always serious,” Anthony says, then softens it by adding, “yes. I am serious.”

“And what do we tell your mother?” you ask, because you know that Violet does not accept vague answers as a rule.

Anthony’s mouth twists. “We tell her we are tired.”

“She will know you’re lying.”

Anthony’s eyes narrow. “We tell her you are tired.”

You laugh, and it makes his grip tighten on your hand like he’s pleased he can still make you laugh even when the house is trying to eat you both alive. “She will know you’re lying,” you repeat.

Anthony leans closer, lowering his voice. “Then she may know,” he says. “I do not care. She has had eight children. She can survive the knowledge that her eldest son is attempting to have one.”

You cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. “Anthony.”

“I am not joking,” he insists, though his eyes glint as if he’s enjoying your reaction. “I will not spend another evening listening to my brother being congratulated while my sister argues with a footman about pamphlets and strangers stare at you as if you’re a topic. We are going.”

You glance down at your joined hands, then back up. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” he asks, immediately suspicious.

“The thing where you declare war on the entire world,” you say, and you nudge his chest lightly. “It’s charming, but you’re doing it.”

Anthony’s thumb strokes your knuckles again, slower now, and he looks at you with that steady, direct expression that makes most people fall into line without understanding why. “Do you want to go?” he asks.

The question is simple, but there’s something careful about it, like he’s making sure you’re choosing it too and not just being carried along by his stubbornness. “Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Anthony’s shoulders loosen so slightly you might have missed it if you didn’t know him. “Good,” he says, and brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles once, unhurried. “Then go and dress. I will order the carriage and tell the household we are not receiving anyone.”

“You’re going to tell the household,” you repeat. “Not your mother.”

Anthony’s gaze flicks toward the corridor like he can already hear Violet’s footsteps. “I will tell my mother,” he says, and the grimness in his tone makes you grin. “Briefly.”

You stand, still not letting go of his hand. “If you say ‘we’re tired’ she’ll laugh in your face.”

Anthony looks down at your intertwined fingers, then back up at you. “Then I will accept her laughter,” he says, and his thumb traces your knuckles again, almost tender. “I will accept anything if it means you and I are not interrupted.”

“And if we are interrupted?” you ask, teasing even though you know he’ll take it seriously.

Anthony’s mouth curves, sharp and pleased. “Then I will buy the street.”

You laugh properly at that, then give his hand a final squeeze before letting go. “All right,” you say. “Half Moon Street.”

Anthony watches you as you move toward your chamber, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your neck like a touch. “Do not take long,” he calls after you.

“You’re in a hurry,” you call back.

“I am efficient,” he replies, which is exactly the wrong answer and makes you laugh again as you disappear down the corridor.

When you return a short time later, dressed in something simple enough for travel and warm enough for the evening air, the house is already in motion. A footman hurries past with a cloak. Another servant carries a small case. Somewhere down the hall Violet’s voice rises with curiosity, and then, unmistakably, with delighted disbelief.

You reach the landing just in time to see Anthony in the corridor outside Violet’s sitting room, looking as if he has just survived a conversation he did not enjoy. Violet stands in her doorway, eyes bright, trying very hard not to smile too widely. “You are leaving,” Violet says, as if confirming what she’s already heard from every servant in the house.

“Yes,” Anthony replies, clipped.

Violet’s gaze flicks to you and softens. “How lovely,” she says, and the warmth in it is genuine. “A little privacy will do you both good.”

Anthony’s ears go faintly red. You step closer, smiling sweetly. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet’s smile turns sly. “Do lock the door,” she adds, as if she cannot help herself.

“Mother,” Anthony says, pained.

Violet only laughs, and waves a hand as if she’s dismissed the entire matter. “Go on,” she says. “Before one of your brothers discovers you are escaping and decides to follow.”

Anthony’s eyes narrow like he’s imagining someone clinging to the back of the carriage. “If they do, I will throw them out.” Violet laughs again, and retreats into her room with a final, satisfied look. Anthony turns toward you, and the moment he’s facing you, his expression changes—still intense, still determined, but softer around the eyes. “You are ready,” he says, as if this is a triumph.

“I’m ready,” you reply. “Are you?”

Anthony steps close and takes your hand again, immediately, like he’s been missing it for the entire ten seconds you weren’t attached. His thumb starts that slow stroke over your knuckles again, and he leans in just enough that his voice is only for you. “I have been ready,” he murmurs, “for days.”

Your breath catches, and you tilt your head, letting your smile turn wicked. “Then we should go before your sister starts another argument about pamphlets.”

Anthony’s mouth curves, and he tugs you forward. “Exactly,” he says, guiding you down the stairs as the house swirls around you with its usual chaos.

Somewhere behind you, a door opens, and Benedict’s voice rings out, cheerful and suspicious. “Anthony? Why are the horses being harnessed—”

Anthony doesn’t even look back. He just tightens his grip on your hand and keeps walking, hauling you toward the front doors like a man who has finally learned the value of leaving before someone can knock.

The Half Moon Street house smells different the moment you step inside, as though it’s been holding its breath for weeks and only just remembered how to be lived in. The entry is quieter, the air cooler, and there’s none of Bridgerton House’s constant undercurrent of footsteps and voices and doors opening for no reason at all. A single footman takes your cloaks with the brisk efficiency of someone who has been instructed not to ask questions, then disappears as if he knows his continued existence depends on it.

Anthony doesn’t wait for you to cross the hall before he’s reaching for the latch, turning it, and shutting the front door with a finality that makes the sound echo. He stands there for a beat with his hand still on the brass, shoulders squared, as if he’s daring the world to knock anyway. You glance around, taking in the dim glow of candlelight, the neat furniture shrouded in linen, the faint scent of beeswax and polished wood. “It’s almost unsettling,” you say.

Anthony turns his head toward you. “What is?”

“The quiet,” you answer, and you can’t help smiling at him. “No one is yelling your name, no one is counting to three outside a door, no one is attempting to hand you a note like it’s a live grenade.”

His mouth tightens like he’s trying not to smile, which never works for long with you. “Do not tempt it.”

“Oh, now you believe in tempting fate?” you tease, stepping closer, letting your voice drop just a little. “That’s new.”

Anthony’s gaze flicks over you in a slow sweep that makes your skin warm under your travel cloak. “It is not new,” he says, voice low. “I have simply learned what happens when I declare myself safe.”

You slip your cloak from your shoulders and hand it to him because you can. He takes it automatically, but his fingers linger at your wrist as he does, thumb stroking once like he’s checking you’re real. The touch is small, but it makes your belly tighten with that familiar anticipation you’ve been denied for days.

“Well,” you say, tilting your head, “are we going to stand in the entry all night? Or have you brought me here for a reason, my lord?”

Anthony’s eyes darken at the title. He shifts your cloak over his arm without looking away from you, then offers his hand as if you’re stepping into a ballroom rather than a quiet townhouse meant for escape. “Come upstairs,” he says.

The stairs creak softly under your steps, old wood complaining in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. There are fewer portraits here, fewer signs of family, fewer reminders that the house belongs to a dynasty rather than two people. Anthony leads you down a corridor to a bedchamber that’s been prepared—fire laid and lit, curtains drawn, candles set low as if someone knew exactly what sort of privacy you were coming here to claim.

He closes that door too, and this time he turns the key in the lock; the click is sharp in the quiet. He pulls the key free and sets it on the mantel, deliberately out of reach of any hypothetical sibling who might have followed you like a stray. You watch him do it, lips quirking. “Dramatic.”

“Prudent,” he corrects, and then he’s crossing the room toward you with the kind of controlled speed that tells you he’s been holding himself back for hours.

You stand near the foot of the bed, hands folded loosely in front of you, pretending you’re calm while your pulse beats too fast. “If you say ‘efficient,’ I’m leaving.”

Anthony’s hand comes up to your chin, tilting your face toward his. “You are not leaving,” he says, and the way he says it is half command, half promise.

You let yourself smile. “Good. Because I didn’t come here to be polite.”

That earns you the smallest flash of teeth, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Neither did I.” He kisses you, and it’s immediate—no cautious testing, no gentle courtesy, just his mouth on yours like he’s been owed this and refuses to let it slip away again. His hand at your chin slides to the back of your neck, holding you close, and you grip the front of his coat, dragging him nearer because you want him close enough that there’s no room for anything else. When he breaks the kiss, his breath is warm against your lips. “No one will interrupt,” he murmurs.

You tip your head back slightly, letting him see the way you’re smiling. “If they do, I’ll throw them into the street.”

Anthony makes a low sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t edged with hunger. “I married a woman with sense.”

You reach up and tug his coat open, fingers finding the buttons with unnecessary impatience. “Take it off.”

His eyes hold yours as he obeys, shrugging out of the coat and letting it fall over a chair. He loosens his cravat next, hands practiced, movements brisk, but he never fully looks away from you, as if he thinks the second he does you’ll vanish and he’ll be back in Bridgerton House listening to Eloise complain.

“You’re staring again,” you say, breathless now that he’s undone.

“I am looking,” he repeats, and then he steps behind you.

The shift makes your spine prickle. You feel him there—heat at your back, his chest close enough that if you lean back an inch you’ll touch him. His hands hover at your shoulders, then settle, light but sure, fingertips brushing the top of your arms. His mouth finds the side of your neck, a slow kiss just beneath your ear that makes you inhale sharply.

“Anthony,” you warn softly, even though you don’t mean stop, not really.

“Quiet,” he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is almost a caress. “Let me.”

His fingers move to the fastenings of your gown, working them open from behind with a patience that feels like torture. Each small undoing is accompanied by the faint brush of his knuckles down the line of your spine, as if he can’t resist touching you even while he’s taking you apart layer by layer.

You lift your hands and brace them on the dresser in front of you, partly for balance and partly because it feels wicked to stand there and let him do it. “You’re taking your time,” you say, trying for teasing, failing when his teeth graze your shoulder in a way that makes your knees soften.

“I have waited long enough,” he replies, and then he kisses the spot again, softer, as if to apologize for the bite. “But I am not rushing.”

His hands slide the fabric off your shoulders, easing the gown down your arms. The cool air kisses your skin where it’s newly bared, then his palms follow, warm and possessive, smoothing over you as if he’s claiming every inch that’s been hidden from him in public.

You glance up at your reflection, catching his eyes in the mirror. The look on his face is reverent in the most dangerous way—like he’s worshiping you, but he’s also starving. “Turn,” he says.

You turn slowly, and he’s right there, close enough that your breasts press against his shirtfront and you can feel his heartbeat through the linen. His hands go to your waist, thumbs digging in just slightly as if he needs something to hold onto. “You’re going to crease your shirt,” you whisper.

“I do not care,” he replies, and then he kisses you again, deep and unhurried, while his hands keep working at you. He draws the gown down and away, leaving you in your petticoat and stays and chemise, the layers that are meant to keep the world at a distance.

He breaks the kiss and lets his mouth trail down your throat to your collarbone, and you tilt your head to give him room. His hands slip behind you, finding the laces of your stays. He loosens them slowly, not because he’s reluctant, but because he’s enjoying the way your breath changes, the way you squirm when the pressure eases.

“You’re making that face,” you manage, voice a little unsteady.

“What face?” he asks, mouth brushing your skin.

“The one you make when you think you’re being clever,” you say.

Anthony’s hands pause for half a heartbeat, then continue. “I am clever.”

“You’re smug,” you correct.

He hums against you, amused, and then his fingers pull the stays looser, looser, until he can slide his hands beneath the fabric and feel you properly. His palms cup you through the thin chemise, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden, and you gasp, head falling back. “There,” he murmurs, pleased with the sound he pulls from you. “That is what I wanted.”

You grab his shoulders for balance, nails pressing through fabric. “If you keep doing that, I won’t make it to the bed.”

Anthony’s breath warms your ear. “We are not required to.”

You move slightly, and he shifts with you, one hand still on you, the other tugging the stays down and away. The chemise is all that’s left between his hands and your skin now, and he doesn’t waste the advantage. He pushes it down far enough to bare your breasts and immediately bows his head to them, mouth closing around one nipple, tongue slow and insistent. You make a sound you don’t bother swallowing, fingers tangling in his hair. “Anthony—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips wet, eyes dark. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, and the question is quiet but real, because he always asks in the moments that matter.

Your laugh comes out shaky. “Don’t you dare.”

That earns you a sharp, satisfied smile. He releases you and straightens, hands moving to the ties of your petticoat. He draws it down over your hips slowly, knuckles grazing your skin, and then drops to his knees in front of you like it’s nothing, like kneeling is simply another natural order.

Your breath catches hard at the sight. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cuts in, looking up at you with something almost fierce. “I have wanted to.”

His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing lightly as he spreads you just enough for him to fit between. The chemise is bunched at your hips, the last flimsy barrier, and he hooks his fingers under it and lifts it without taking his eyes off yours.

You’re already slick, and he sees it. His expression shifts—satisfaction, hunger, something possessive that makes your stomach clench. “God,” he mutters, voice rough.

“Don’t start praying now,” you manage, trying to keep your tone light even as your body betrays you.

Anthony’s mouth curves. “I’m not praying.”

He leans in and drags his tongue through you slowly, tasting you with a deliberate patience that makes you jolt. You grip the edge of the dresser behind you, knuckles whitening as he does it again, deeper this time, tongue flattening and pressing right where you need it.

Your legs tremble, and he steadies you with his hands, thumbs digging into your thighs. “Hold still,” he murmurs, and the command lands like a spark.

You try, you really do, but when he sucks gently on your clit you can’t help it—you let out a sharp, helpless sound and your hips jerk forward. Anthony’s hands tighten, pinning you in place with careful strength, and he looks up again, watching your face as if it’s the only entertainment he needs.

“That’s it,” he says, almost smug. “Let me.”

He works you with his mouth until you’re shaking, until your breaths come in broken little pulls, until you’re whining his name like you’re not even trying to be dignified. When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his tongue keeps circling your clit, your vision goes hazy at the edges.

“Anthony—please,” you gasp, and it isn’t even a proper sentence, just need spilling out of you.

He pulls back, lips shining, and his voice is low and steady. “On the bed,” he says. “Now.”

You don’t argue, you stumble backward, dragging him up with you by his shirt, and he follows with the kind of hungry purpose that makes you feel hunted in the best way. You sit on the edge of the bed, chemise still bunched, and Anthony stands in front of you, hands moving quickly now as he undoes his trousers.

“You’re suddenly very efficient,” you manage, breath still unsteady.

Anthony gives you a look that’s almost a snarl. “Say it again and I will slow down out of spite.”

You reach for him, fingers hooking at his waistband, helping because you can’t not. When he finally frees himself, he’s hard and thick, the sight making your mouth go dry. He steps closer, and you lean forward and kiss him again—tasting yourself on his mouth when he meets you, the intimacy of it turning your stomach hot.

He breaks the kiss and nudges you backward onto the bed. “Open your legs,” he says, voice rough. You do, and he settles between your thighs, one hand stroking along you, gathering slickness as if to make it easier. He positions himself at your entrance and pauses just a beat, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me,” he says.

“Yes,” you breathe, already arching toward him. “Yes, Anthony.”

That’s all he needs, he pushes into you slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by inch until you’re gasping and gripping the sheets. He’s big enough that it’s almost too much for a moment, the pressure sharp and hot, but he holds still, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he breathes through it with you. “Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do, blinking up at him, and his expression softens just slightly when he sees you’re with him, not afraid, not hurt—just full. “All right?” he asks, quieter.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper.

Anthony’s mouth curves, and then he starts to move, slow at first, pulling out and pressing back in with a steady rhythm that makes the bed creak softly beneath you. He kisses your throat, your jaw, your mouth, as if he can’t decide where he wants to be and chooses all of it. You wrap your legs around him, dragging him closer, and he makes a low sound that turns into a half laugh when you squeeze him. “Greedy,” he mutters against your lips.

“You started it,” you shoot back, and your voice breaks when he thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jolt.

Anthony’s hands slide under you, lifting your hips slightly to angle you better. “There?” he asks, and the satisfaction in his tone is unmistakable.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—like that.”

He obeys like it’s his religion, driving into you with more force now, the pace building, each thrust wet and hard, the sound of skin and breath filling the room. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you cling to him, and he groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“No ton,” he mutters, breath ragged. “No family. No knocking.”

You laugh, half delirious, half desperate. “Keep going.”

Anthony’s mouth finds your nipple again, sucking hard enough to make you cry out, and the combination sends heat spiraling through you. Your thighs tighten around him, your body clenching, chasing the edge.

“Anthony—” you gasp, and you can’t even finish.

He lifts his head, eyes blazing. “Come for me,” he orders, and the command snaps something loose in you.

You do, shattering around him with a sharp, breathless cry, your whole body trembling as you clamp down. Anthony swears under his breath, thrusting through it, chasing his own release with quick, brutal strokes that make the bed judder.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked, and then he comes hard, spilling inside you with a strained sound that’s half pleasure, half relief, like he’s been holding back the entire season and finally let go.

He stays there for a moment, pressed deep, forehead against yours, both of you breathing like you’ve run a race. His arms are braced on either side of you, caging you in without trapping you, the perfect balance of strength and care. When he finally pulls back slightly, he looks down at you with a slow, satisfied smile. “No interruption,” he says, as if he can’t quite believe it.

You reach up and brush your thumb along his cheek. “Imagine that,” you murmur. “All it took was fleeing your own house.”

Anthony huffs a laugh, then kisses you softly, a completely different kiss than the ones before—gentle, lingering, almost domestic. “We should do it more often.”

“Run away?” you ask, amused.

His hand slides down your side, possessive and warm. “Both,” he says, and the way he says it makes it clear he means it.

Outside the locked door, the house remains silent, obedient at last, and Anthony stays close enough that you can feel his heartbeat slow against your palm while the fire crackles and the night finally gives you what it’s been refusing: a room with no one else in it but the two of you.

notes: obviously, it's not exact to season 3 (since i didn't rewatch it or look anything up) but i'm like... 90% sure that lady cowper helped cressida write lady whistledown after cressida "revealed" herself to be whistledown... at least i think i'm right. oh well, it wasn't meant to be completely exact

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

[blackcat-9696]

The White Wolf Awakens

Summary: A routine night at Shuri’s lab in New York turns unexpectedly intense when you and Bucky Barnes are forced to face danger together while something inside him begins to awaken, pulling him closer to the White Wolf he’s meant to become.

Characters: Dark Bucky Barnes x Shy Fem!Reader wearing glasses

Warnings: Violence, animal attack, anxiety, sex pollen, primal sex, non-con, r!ape, breeding kink, forced oral, forced orgasms, dubius consent, blood, hunting, forced pregnancy, werewolf

After "Thunderbolts" movie.

Author: Blackcat-9696 / Do not copy, publish, translate my work or claim it as your own.

Author note: Hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Comments and reblogs are really appreciated...🐈‍⬛

MASTERLIST

Chapter 5: Under His Skin

Bucky rolls up his sleeves as he stands in front of the coffee machine in the kitchen. You take care of rinsing the dishes, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He got back an hour ago and started the machine before going to freshen up. Since you’ve been locked in this big house, he’s made it a point to come home as early as possible to have dinner with you. He’s like clockwork. And for once, he didn’t devour you on the dining table.

He's your only source of distraction and you can’t help but stare. His imposing build, his blue eyes sometimes lost, lips so pink you feel like asking if he wears lip balm, his light beard both a little rough and soft at the same time, his raven hair falling to his neck... and his ass. You realize just how nice Bucky’s ass is. You adjust your glasses and the dish in your hand almost shatters in the sink. He turns his head toward you, his white shirt unbuttoned and a tank top hugging his muscles. He frowns, wondering why you’re taking so long to rinse so little.

He runs his fingers through his hair, then keeps stirring the coffee, now lukewarm. You try not to get soaked, deciding to just do the dishes directly. The dishwasher is right in front of Bucky and you really don’t want to start a conversation with him. If you could just avoid each other, that would be perfect. But he has the annoying habit of asking you questions, of wanting to learn everything about you and as talkative as you are, you can’t hold back.

Bucky is starting to seep into you. His scent, his voice, his hands on you, even his snoring at night stays in your mind. You’ve tried falling asleep as far away as possible on the bed, but he always ends up wrapping his arms around you from behind during the night. And in the morning, he leaves before you even wake up. At least since last time, he hasn’t done anything sexual to you again.

You shiver remembering how he scratched your thigh last night, he was having a nightmare. You didn’t know what to do, so you froze. He calmed down when your bodies tangled together, and that’s when he left that red mark on your thigh. It looked like an animal’s claw marks. You can’t stop thinking about him. All the time. This situation is driving you crazy, he’s driving you crazy.

Your dress is a little too tight on your chest; you can barely breathe. Your cold feet leave warm prints on the tiles and you scratch your Achilles tendon with your toes while slowly running a soapy sponge over a bowl. You should be getting your period soon, you have to. Your survival depends on it. You think about what you’d do if you turned out to be pregnant. Bucky would be overjoyed, but you, what would become of your life? It’s not healthy to raise children in a gilded cage. Would he even let them go to school? And where? This house in the woods is lost in the middle of nowhere, you don’t even know where you are. You should’ve taken geology classes to analyze the soil around you. Maybe you could’ve guessed your location.

“I can’t do this…” you whisper under your breath.

Bucky hears. He picks up his coffee mug, leans against the counter, and watches you having a mental breakdown.

He smiles a little, he likes watching you think, like that night when you were studying him. He’s both happy to have you close and sad to see you so troubled. He has a plan to keep you from losing your mind; he intends to tell you later. He lets you struggle with the forks while admiring the curve of your butt. He starts sipping his coffee, then suddenly a grimace of disgust twists his features. He swallows the sour taste with effort and sets the cup down a little too hard on the white ceramic counter. The clink pulls you out of your thoughts. You look at him, he seems furious, arms crossed and you know he’s about to scold the hell out of you.

“What did you do to my coffee?” he growls softly.

“Me?” you point at yourself. “Nothing?” You shake your head, strands of hair falling over your forehead.

You’re holding a cloth, arms at your sides, head slightly lowered but your gaze defiant. Your breathing quickens. You really can’t breathe in this dress. And your breasts look like two globes on your chest. You don’t know how to lie, but you take the gamble anyway.

“There’s a ton of salt in it.”

“I– I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You scold yourself internally for how fragile your voice sounds. He must see you trembling, and your heart is competing in the Olympics of beating.

Okay, it’s immature what you did, but you have no way to escape. After what he did to you last time, you’re very angry. He gave you an orgasm on the Richter scale, sure but that doesn’t erase the fact that he forced you again. You deserve a little revenge sometimes too. He wants to be in a relationship with you, then he can deal with it.

And who even drinks coffee at 9 p.m. anyway? It’s been one week. One week of being bored to death doing Victorian things like reading an old book near the fire. Yeah, you’re well educated, but mostly in topics you’re passionate about, not books about world wars. Watching TV with him appearing on it isn’t ideal either. In a suit or in his new Avengers tactical gear, you can’t escape seeing him on screen. Now that you’ve carried out your vendetta, you’re wondering if it was really a good idea. Bucky pierces you with his blue eyes. He’s unpredictable, you dread what comes next.

“Einstein must have spilled it somehow,” you add, uncertain.

His eyes darken. His jaw tightens. He looks at the cup, then at you. It seems like he’s thinking about his next move. You are too. The bread knife you washed is still within reach. He says your name in reprimand and you lower your eyes. No, you close them. Bucky steps toward you, his aura wrapping around you. Something has changed in him, he radiates something you can’t yet explain, but it’s intimidating, more than before. When you open your eyes, you see his dress shoes right in front of your small feet. You tilt your head up and his face looms above yours. His parted lips are slick, like he licked them before stopping there. The tips of his fingers brush your bare arms, sending a chill through your whole body.

“You shouldn’t push me to the edge, Cherry. You might not like what happens next.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Who?”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

“I’d like you to suck my cock as an apology. My dessert.” His fingers slide down to your elbows.

You’re holding the cloth with both hands. Your wrist brushes against the bulge in his pants. Sirens go off in your head. You should’ve avoided provoking him. As you stutter out a response, he grabs your arm with his vibranium hand.

“Please, Bucky! I’ve never done that before! It’s- I’m so sorry.” You speak so fast you trip over your words.

“Never, huh?”

“Yes!” You nod vigorously.

“I’m being very patient not to rip your clothes off since you’re here. So… don’t push me.”

You hate yourself for getting into this situation. Even with your exes, a blowjob was never an option. You find it degrading, like you’re nothing but a toy. You prefer soft, slow, sensual sex, the complete opposite of what Bucky has shown you since you met. You don’t even dare imagine what it would be like to go down on him. That thing between his legs should be in prison.

“Please, I’m sorry. I swear I won’t do that again. Please, Bucky. Don’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hear you talk.” He sighs and you fall silent instantly. “Why do you refuse to be nice to me?”

“What-” You’re caught off guard.

Bucky shows a whole range of emotions just in the way he looks at you. You feel lost between what your head tells you and what your heart feels. The sadness he carries on his shoulders starts to weigh heavily on yours.

“Do you really hate me?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“You make me feel like I’m the worst person in the world. Maybe I am, but… I’m not as bad as I used to be.”

He caresses your cheek, his left hand still gripping your arm tightly. You can’t escape. You spiral into something unfamiliar. Something unspeakable crawls under your skin. It feels like he’s pulling you into himself, and all you see is exhaustion. You want to help him, support him, give him everything he needs because in this moment, you feel his pain, the weight of the years and the loneliness. Your innocent feelings confuse you. You don’t know what to say as he brushes your skin so tenderly your legs tremble. What if Bucky is keeping you prisoner out of desperation? What if he truly appreciates you as you are, without pretense? No, you refuse to believe that. You mustn’t.

“If you let me go, I won’t tell anybody what you did to me.”

He nods as if he half believes you, but you know he can tell when you’re lying. He tilts his head toward yours, your foreheads touching. Yours is slightly damp, he makes you sweat like crazy.

His lips brush against yours. It’s neither urgent nor rough, but soft. His eyelids flutter, then close, and you do the same. The kiss is chaste, as if he’s kissing you for the first time. You drop the cloth in your hands and clutch his shirt as he steps back with you, pinning you against a cabinet. The pressure on your arm disappears; instead, you feel his hands caressing your back and the nape of your neck. Maybe you forget, or maybe you lose yourself, but you start moving your lips. You kiss for what feels like forever. It feels like you’re in a bubble, nothing exists but Bucky and you. You’re alone in the world.

He uses the tip of his tongue, and you let him slip it into your mouth. His body presses against yours. It’s intoxicating you. You let out a soft moan when you feel fingers between your thighs. A background noise disturbs you, one you’re no longer used to. A phone rings, and Bucky pulls away far too quickly. You’re left there, legs slightly parted, breathing uneven, lips damp with his saliva. He grabs his phone from the kitchen island and puts it on speaker as he holds it mid-air.

“Valentina.”

“James, nice to hear from you again.”

“I was stuck at Congress today.”

“Excuses? Who the fuck do you think I am?”

“You tell me.” He pauses to look at you and smiles faintly. He doesn’t scare you right now, you should scream, shout so Valentina can hear, but you do nothing. You’re frozen.

“Whatever! Did you hear about the killings?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And?!”

“I’m investigating… I remember asking you not to call me when I’m home. I need to sit and relax from work too.”

“The fuck you do. What? We don’t have lives too? I’m astonished at how blind you are to all the danger around us. First you disappear for hours and take my jet to go- I don’t even know where- and now you’re asking for time out. You fucker! It’s a crisis!”

“Why did you call me again?” He narrows his eyes; she’s starting to annoy him, on top of the fact that she interrupted the only moment you let yourself respond to his advances.

“Hydra. They’re back.” Bucky tenses.

“What did you say?”

“You want me to repeat slower, old man? Senators are being murdered and we have two dead congressmen in two days. We have a briefing first thing tomorrow. Listen, you were perfect on the last mission. Almost primal, keep that energy for what’s coming, James. And don’t fuck this up.”

“Why do you think it’s Hydra?”

“The only military assassin fast and strong enough to kill on command with a gun was you. Winter Soldier my ass. Maybe they made a new one! Who knows? There are rumors. He might even have a Russian accent.”

“Where did you get that information?”

“The internet, fucker!” Bucky rolls his eyes. It’s true he hasn’t been very diligent, his thoughts are always on you. He watches you through the hidden cameras in the house, his curiosity always pushing him to see what you’re doing when he’s not there.

“I understand. I’ll take care of it when I’m back. I won’t need the team this time.”

“Wonderful, looks like you’re waking up from your nap. I’m pretty sure you’re drinking your stupid coffee right now.” She laughs on the line.

“No.” He looks at you. “Too salty. Good night, Valentina.” She doesn’t even have time to protest before he hangs up. He turns off his phone and tosses it onto the counter.

Bucky comes back to you, you haven’t moved an inch. Your breasts press against your dress with every breath. He stands in front of you again and leans in to kiss you, but you tilt your head aside to avoid him. He moves your hair off your shoulders. You chew on your lower lip to keep from giving in again. He slowly slides down the straps of your dress, then inhales your scent along your collarbone. You think he’s acting strange but then again, nothing about your story has been normal from the start.

He takes you by the waist, pulling you close. His dark hair tickles your skin. You want to touch him too, but you resist. Bucky opens his eyes, a yellow glint appearing in his pupils. He feels an irresistible urge to mark you. He parts his lips to bite you. You don’t see it, he doesn’t notice it either, but his teeth lengthen by a few centimeters.

“I’m going crazy all alone here!” you suddenly say, a bit louder than you meant to. Now you see him smile, amused.

“Is that so?” He steals a quick kiss and your eyes widen in shock. That same nonchalance that irritates you every time. It’s like he doesn’t take you seriously. “I’ll do my best to be more present for you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that…”

“You’re so important to me, Cherry. I’ll make things right… and you’ll behave.”

“Uh yeah I- okay.”

“Say ‘yes, Bucky.’”

“Yes, Bucky.” you repeat automatically.

He smiles before wrapping his arms around you. You tense up again as he holds you like he cherishes you, like nothing matters but you. His hand cradles the back of your head, his chin resting in your hair. You hesitate, then your hands slowly settle on his back and you hold him too. It’s a comforting embrace. He’s as warm as embers, and that heat eases your tension. After a few minutes of softness, he kisses your forehead. He moves toward the dishwasher, taking off his shirt.

“Shuri knows you live with me. She’ll send work here directly.”

You finally snap out of it and rush toward him, needing to understand this nonsense.

“She can’t possibly think- I don’t understand. What did she say?!”

“I’m too old for you.”

“And she’s not wrong. Wait- she really thinks you and me, we- no, I don’t believe you.” Bucky chuckles as he folds his shirt and places it on the counter. You don’t even know why, you’re already overwhelmed by everything he’s telling you. “Is it with her help that you brought the wolf here?”

“Yes. She’s the Queen of Wakanda, so…”

“I know! She’s my boss.”

“Not anymore.”

“That doesn’t make sense! She-”

“She trusts me.” Bucky clicks something and removes his arm. Your eyes go wide. “Don’t worry about being bored while I’m at work. You’ll keep busy. In your own way.”

“How can you put such advanced technology into the- the dishwasher?!”

“Um… then how should I wash it?” Bucky starts the machine on a steam cycle, then turns back to you. You scratch your head, murmuring under your breath.

“That’s a good question, I guess. I never think about that.”

“Of course you didn’t. Time to examine me. Lead the way. You know where your lab is.”

“You didn’t give me the code to get in.”

“I like to build suspense.” He smirks.

You don’t even try to argue, it would be useless. You cross the living room, then head down a hallway to open the basement door. All of it taking three times longer than necessary. Bucky follows close behind, too close. He has no sense of personal space. He invades you in every possible way. You start going down the stairs, but he pulls you back toward him.

“You walk like a duck.”

“My ankle still hurts. My whole body is sore. The cream you gave me helped, but I fell really hard from the tree and- ahhh!”

“I know.”

Bucky lifts you over his shoulder in one quick motion that knocks the air out of you. You cling to the waistband of his pants, upside down. Suddenly, he smacks your ass.

“Stop!” you snap. He’s getting on your nerves. Everything is his fault, taking your body like there’s no tomorrow. And that wolf lurking outside that attacked you and somehow became his best friend out of nowhere. It’s infuriating.

“It’s funny.” He says and you fume in silence as he carries you like a sack of sand. Maybe it’s a trick so you won’t see the lab’s entry code. You hold your glasses in place so they don’t fall. All you can see is that everything looks new and gleaming.

You land on the spring mattress and bounce a few times before settling. It’s a single hospital bed, covered with sheets and a pillow. He grabs something from a metal cabinet and comes back, offering you his hand. You stand in front of him and he carefully helps you into the lab coat.

“How did you manage to get all this by yourself?”

A research space, computers, a microscope, scientific equipment, even a DNA sequencing machine. It’s a perfect replica of Shuri’s lab in New York, except the wolf’s cage isn’t there, and neither is the greenhouse. Good. You don’t want to hear about that pollen ever again.

“I just asked. Here, it suits you.”

He’s right, the fabric is soft against your skin and you can move your arms freely. And you notice a small detail on the front. Your name is embroidered on the pocket. The calligraphy is cute. It touches you, it’s a kind gesture.

Bucky rolls a chair over for you to sit on; he even thought of placing a lumbar cushion on the seat. He sits on the bed as you drop into the chair. You literally have an entire lab just for yourself. You reassure yourself that at least he doesn’t expect you to become a housewife devoted to raising his children.

“This dress looks pretty on you.” He pulls the cart of medical tools next to you. You avoid his gaze so he won’t see the effect his compliment has on you. You put on gloves, adjust your glasses, then tap your thighs.

“What do you want me to do?” You want to get this over with. Being this close to Bucky is really not in your favor.

“This wolf bite right there doesn’t heal at all, and sometimes it hurts.” He gestures to his right shoulder.

You squint, you can’t see well with his tank top on. He understands and starts taking it off, though with one arm it’s a bit tricky. He manages fine, he’s used to it. Still, you take the opportunity to help him.

“Thanks, Cherry.”

“Do you feel different since you got bitten?” You examine him. The puncture marks from the wolf’s fangs are still open and red. They don’t look infected, that’s the good news.

“Completely. I feel like a new man every day. Something is changing inside me.”

You get to work cleaning and dressing the wound. He watches you as you work. You’re meticulous, focused. Everything you do is precise. You don’t need to look for a vein in his arm, he’s got plenty. It’s like a highway, you think. And somehow, you find that sexy. You take a blood sample to make sure he hasn’t caught anything. At least you’ll have something to study, since you have nothing else to do. Once you’re done, your attention shifts to the metal stump. The skin around it is darker, and you can see the scars left by the arm he had before the vibranium one. You’ve never seen an amputee before. Seeing him without his arm makes him less intimidating.

If he hadn’t gone through Hydra’s experiments, Bucky would’ve had a good life. The thought alone makes you sad. For the first time, you realize he must have lived through horror for decades. If Steve hadn’t pulled him out of that, he would still be a war machine with no memory.

You lift your hand toward his stump. He doesn’t stop you. You touch the skin of his left shoulder with your fingertips and grimace.

“Do you find it disgusting?”

“Bucky! I would never- No- no- I’m just sad for you…” You pull your hand back quickly.

“It looks worse than it is.”

“Is it… painful?”

“It depends.”

“Can I ask on what?”

“My memory. Sometimes I remember, and then it hurts.”

“I’m sorry.” You place your hand over his, and he lowers his eyes.

“Why were you so obsessed with me? The Avengers? What was it about?”

“Uh… nothing really. I’m not special. I have a normal family I avoid like the plague. I just like the ‘saving the day’ stuff. And you know, the courage, the cool powers, the sacrifice. It’s inspiring, how fantastic heroes give everything to save regular folks like me.”

“It sounds like you’re about to thank me for my service.” He jokes, and you smile softly.

“You’re taking the words right out of my mouth.” You joke too, and he laughs harder. Somehow, he feels like a little boy starved for affection. “I know you did all you could… all you should.”

“Yeah.” He grabs your lab coat and pulls you closer between his spread legs. You yelp at the sudden movement. “What else? Don’t stop there, I like what you’re saying.”

“I know where the nickname ‘Bucky’ comes from… Buchanan.”

“Damn, Cherry, you really had to say it out loud?” He keeps laughing. “It’s been ages since I heard someone call me that.”

“I mean, it’s really… old.” You smile despite yourself.

“Well, you’re my babygirl.”

“Ugh, sounds like you’re a sugar daddy.”

“Can be, if that’s what turns you on.”

“Oh no, no, it’s gross. I don’t need one. I’m well paid and I get to travel around the world- I mean, I was-” Your mood shifts. “Bucky, please, I’ll pretend nothing happened. I just want to go home.”

“You’re good here with me.”

He grabs the back of your neck and crushes his lips against yours. This kiss is urgent, possessive. He tries to force your mouth open, but you keep your lips sealed as best as you can. His hand roams over your chest. He pulls down the bust of your dress, exposing your right breast. Your nipple hardens in the cold air. You gasp into the kiss, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. His beard scratches your skin. You try to push him away, even with both hands, it’s impossible to make him budge. “Bucky- wait- wait!”

He takes a good part of your breast into his mouth. His tongue circles your nipple. You close your eyes, letting out a silent moan. Suddenly, you cry out in pain and Bucky pushes your chair away, sending it rolling far from him. You pull your bustier back into place, inspecting your chest.

“What happened? What did I do?”

You see four small spots of blood on the fabric, right where he bit you.

“Oh my God! I’m bleeding!”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. Does it hurt? I should clean that up.”

“It looks like- how could you- this doesn’t make sense. I didn’t even feel your teeth… just something sharp- I don’t understand. I have to run a blood test on you.”

“Why?”

You push yourself closer to him with your feet, rolling the chair.

“Because of the DNA of the dangerous wolf you keep on your massive property. By the way, how big is it?”

“Focus, Cherry.”

“Yes, yes.” You grab a small flashlight, shine it into his blue eyes. You drop it without realizing and fall to the floor. You freeze at what you just saw.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Your eyes reflect light abnormally, like an animal at night. Do you feel feverish or some kind of unexplained internal heat?”

“Yeah. Why? Talk to me.”

You don’t know what to say. You’re thinking something insane now. Maybe Bucky is turning into a werewolf.

[tw1sters]

Right to Love (Part One)

Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.

▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex ▸ WORD COUNT: 12.9K ▸ A/N: this fic was truly self-indulgent, all of my fave tropes in one place. this is part of @elixirfromthestars' arcade! i played elixir's hold 'em and ended up with a four of a kind (best friend's sibling, summer fling, sworn off relationships, and fake engagement). thanks for such a fun event mel <3 this is my longest work to date so splitting it into two parts - final one coming next week!! i love seeing your responses so any reblogs/comments/likes are always greatly appreciated mwah!!!

↤ main masterlist | part two ↦

Whoever thought it would be a good idea to spend a week of your precious and extremely limited paid time off in Smallville, of all places, should be pulverized. You could’ve been sipping margaritas in the Bahamas or traipsing around Miami Beach with a scrumptious cubano in hand. You could’ve been sitting at home in your perfectly comfortable couch with your perfectly comfortable air conditioning.

But no, you love your best friend Kara dearly, and she managed to convince you and a few of your friends to do the group’s annual trip in her hometown in Kansas. Oh, how you wish you could be Dorothy in that moment and find yourself on a yellow brick road rather than this sweltering airport.

Smallville in the summer is a far cry from your ideal vacation. The closest airport is two hours away and you’re greeted by the sight of a building that looks like it barely functions and hasn’t been upgraded since the Middle Ages. You had been cramped into a small airplane that you’re convinced does not have all of its nuts and bolts considering how much it rattled (you don’t want to think about the strange tilt of the wings). It takes you a full hour to get your suitcase from baggage claim that has no air conditioning; mind you, it’s because there is no overhead compartment, so they forced you to check your carry-on into cargo (an equally cramped space).

To make matters worse, Kara’s work forced her to delay her trip by one day which means you’re already locked in to arriving a full day earlier than everyone else, thinking that you’d get to spend some quality time with her after being separated for nearly an entire year (it’s been a rough year for both of you).

“How am I supposed to get to your house?” You had asked — more like whined after she told you the bad news.

She sounded even more upset than you. “Don’t worry, Clark will be there!”

Your heart had leapt to your throat at the thought.

Now, you’re faced with this incredibly difficult, exceedingly troubling situation. Said situation is basically being stuck in a car for two hours with Clark Kent.

Clark Kent stands at over six feet tall, sticking out like a sore — but stupidly delicious — thumb outside the airport. He’s in a pair of denim jeans and a t-shirt that appears to be fighting to keep its threads intact around his bicep. His long frame is leaning against a rusty red pickup truck.

The moment you push the doors open to step outside, his eyes spot you. Brilliant, bejeweled blue even from this distance. He covers that distance in no time with his ridiculously long legs, barely breathless as your name falls from his lips.

“It’s been a while,” he beams softly. His hand immediately commandeers your suitcase like the caveman-gentleman that he is. “How was your flight?”

You shudder at the sound of the tumbling cogs still echoing in your ear. “Terrifying,” you mutter, “how do you even fit in those tiny planes?”

The question sounds foolish now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Forget I asked.”

His smile is shy and sheepish as he blinks down at you. “Perks of the job, I guess.”

“I hardly think being an unpaid superhero should count as a job. Otherwise, I’d be reporting… someone to the Department of Labor for withheld wages.”

Then he laughs and the sound is buoyant and clear in this empty parking lot. You feel it spark warmth, tingling to your fingertips.

Girl, get a grip.

You fan yourself a little under the pretense of the disgusting heat. At least the air is cooler out here than inside that sauna. Your bare legs that stretch out from under your shorts certainly appreciate the kiss of the wind. You’re able to breathe a little easier despite the humidity.

An act that is short-lived when you notice how his gaze flickers to your exposed skin.

Clearing his throat, Clark stops when he reaches his truck. He carefully lifts your bag to the bed of his truck and straps it down. You eye it suspiciously.

His lips twitch with the threat of amusement. “It’s not going to fly out. Promise. Flat roads from here on out.”

“Don’t mean to be rude but might be faster if you just flew both of us back to your home,” you suggest with a raised eyebrow.

It would make it easier for you too to avoid being trapped with him for a full hundred and twenty minutes in a car with nowhere to go.

Clark chuckles as he swings open the passenger seat for you, even going as far as to offer you a hand to help you climb the height of the vehicle. You almost imagine the ghost of his hand pushing you up by your ass, but that’s just distasteful dreaming.

“I’d rather keep our mayor in the dark about how Superman had landed and was raised in Smallville. I don’t think that’s the kind of marketing the other guy would be interested in.”

“The other guy is really only popular in Metropolis so maybe he could use a bit of a boost from a bumfuck small town.”

He laughs again and you have to stomp on those ridiculous little flutters.

The drive is peaceful. With both hands on the wheel, Clark taps his finger against the leather to the rhythm of some pop song crackling through the speakers. He makes small talk to fill the silence. He asks you about life, about your job, about the tiny apartment you’ve been trying to furnish for the last few months. Cordial. Polite. Safe. All conversational topics that are reasonable for two friends.

That is, until he asks whether you’re seeing anyone.

It should be a normal question to ask a friend. Hell, even a stranger. But you know Clark better than that and you know the underlying curiosity underneath.

Heat creeps up your neck again. You feel as if you’re back in that cursed airport as you find your voice to respond to him. “No, not seeing anyone right now.”

He doesn’t even look at you when the corners of his lips tip up into a pleased smile. You knew what he was asking — and you basically gave him the green light. He takes your confirmation as permission.

His right hand slides off the wheel and lands on your thigh. His very large palm stretching across your leg.

You swallow thickly.

“This okay?” His voice is soft. Genuine worry laced into his question.

Instead of verbalizing your response, you only manage a nod as you prop an elbow on the door. Your face turns towards the deserted road outside to hide your embarrassment. To hide the racing of your heart. The anticipation bubbling beneath your veins.

It doesn’t take him long for his hand to slide higher and higher until you feel his fingers toying with the button on your pants. Deft fingers that pop it open easily. It’s terribly sexy how good he is at that.

He reaches down your pants, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he finds your clothed slit. A delighted hum slips past the seam of his lips when he finds you already damp. His fingers trace along your sensitive lips, featherlight, but you’re eager enough that you find your hips jerking upwards in search of his touch.

Your chest rises and falls with the breath that hitches in your throat. “Are we really doing this already?” You rasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to prevent the moan from escaping.

You hate how responsive you are to him. How your body’s been trained to respond to him. That familiar touch eliciting those familiar sparks of electricity. No matter how many times he’s done this, how many times you’ve fallen apart in his hands, you’re no less receptive than the first time.

Clark chances a glance your way and simply murmurs, “Missed touching you.”

A whimper actually does crawl its way out of your throat this time. How are you supposed to say no to that? You let your legs fall open, hips lifting off the seat just enough so he can tug your pants a little lower, sneak his fingers in even deeper. He applies a little bit more pressure on your slit, you can feel your panties soaking up your juices.

“So wet already, honey,” he whispers.

Honey. The first time Clark used that pet name on you, you’d told him absolutely not. However, like everything else he’s done, you’ve grown used to it. Your insides turn gooey when he uses that sweet little nickname. Something so syrupy when he’s doing something oh so filthy.

“It’s been a while,” you mutter under your breath.

“Were you waiting for me?”

At that, you can’t help the defensive scoff that spits out of your mouth. “No.”

Maybe.

“When was the last time someone touched you?”

You don’t want to answer that. It’s an embarrassing answer — one that you fear will inflate his ego too much.

Unfortunately, your non-answer is answer enough.

“Been a while,” he echoes your earlier sentiment.

“Don’t get too full of yourself.”

“Why? Didn’t find anyone you liked these past few months?”

You press your lips together. The day that you admit you can’t seem to finish with anyone else, not when you’ve already had a taste — or ten — of Clark, is the day this world comes to an end. Not even Superman can pry this information out of you.

“No,” you answer easily.

Clark’s thumb presses down on your clit and you immediately jolt forward with a groan. His fingers tug the gusset of your panties to the side as he slides his fingers easily along your slick folds. He moans when he finds how quickly you coat his fingers.

“Me too,” Clark admits. “Haven’t been — gosh, you’re dripping — haven’t been with anyone since, you know, last time.” Whether it’s to save you from your own confession or Clark is just being his honest self, you don’t know. Still, you appreciate the thought.

Your face warms again with his words and maybe any other time, you would have the self-control or decency to stop him. However, in that moment, when you’re pent up from your frustrating flight and months of reaching your orgasm only by your fingers alone, you can’t help but appreciate his fingers on you.

You slide down a little further on your seat, granting him access to finally push his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that curl that delicious flash of friction in your pulsing cunt.

It’s criminal how good he is at this. At sex in general, really. You know that it’s partly attributed to his superpowers. Clark knows the rhythm of your heartbeat like it’s his own. It’s how he knows exactly when whatever he’s doing is working on you. How he’s learned what your body loves, what makes it burn. He can hear how your heart rate skyrockets when he slides his fingers deeper, when he does a slow drag out to pull a moan from your chest. He knows when he’s doing a good job, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy hearing you admit how much you want him out loud anyway.

He takes some sick satisfaction in making you ask for it.

“What do you want? Tell me.”

“You know what.”

“I need you to use your words, honey.”

Curse whoever ever said Clark is the good boy next door, the one who buys you flowers and opens your door. He does all that and can be so sweetly condescending in the sexiest way possible. While you’re usually irritated by any form of male patronization, there’s something about the way Clark does it.

Like he’s doing it for you because he knows you like it.

“Fuck me with your fingers, Clark,” you gasp as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.

Your vision of the road is a blurry mess, greens and browns melting together as your eyes roll to the back. Your head slams against the chair as your hands curl around his wrist. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, keeps stroking you with his fingers like it’s his purpose.

His eyes dart between the road and you, conflicted now that he’s started this game that he has to finish. He drinks you in, the sight of your neck stretching out as you tip your head back, as your hips lift to chase his fingers.

“I can’t— I’ll finish you when we get back. I need to drive—”

“Pull over.”

“What?” He balks.

“Pull over somewhere,” you pant, tightening your grip around his wrist to keep him there. You roll your hips to rut against his hand. The ball of his palm pressing against your clit as he finger fucks you until your brain is turned to mush. “Clark, please.”

You swear you hear him curse before he takes a turn down an abandoned dirt path. He uses his hand covered in your slick to put the car into park and, before he can utter anything, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing over to his seat, straddling his thick thighs.

Clark’s eyes widen, pupils blowing up as he looks at you. He groans almost painfully. “I’m so hard. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

“All night?”

He eagerly nods as he helps you shimmy out of your shorts, leaving you in your drenched panties on top of him. “Knew Kara and the others were coming later. I couldn’t stop thinking about having you like this. Or at home. Wherever you’ll let me have you. Missed this pussy of yours.”

Your heart slams against your chest as your cunt traitorously throbs with the kind of desperation that would be concerning to feminism. “Yeah? Did you jerk yourself off thinking about me, Clark? Hope you kept your voice down so your parents wouldn’t hear you stroking this fat cock of yours to the thought of my cunt.”

“You—” he growls, “Sometimes I wish I could just slide myself down your throat to stop you from saying such filthy things.”

A smirk curls on your lips. “You like me filthy. You like me dripping all over you.”

Your fingers fumble with his pants this time, hurriedly yanking the fabric down to free his cock for your access. You’re quick to position yourself on top of him, tip hot red and angry dipping into your entrance. Your slick is already rolling down his length when Clark’s hand squeezes your hip.

“C-condom?” He asks. The reluctance in his voice is obvious. It’s not that he won’t fuck you without one. It’s that he doesn’t want to.

“I’m clean, are you?”

Clark nods and his expression morphs into parted lips and blue eyes blown wide as you sink on him. With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, you begin to ride him — slowly at first as you adjust to his size again.

He’s big. Too big sometimes. You’re lucky with how wet you are right now that the slide eases the burn of the stretch. His thick cock has your pussy tightening in resistance, but you keep going, all the way until he’s buried deep inside you.

“Feels so good,” he moans, “you’re always so tight, but you always make it fit, don’t you? You take my cock so well.”

Your pussy clamps down around him, your pace faltering with his words.

“Look at her. She’s swallowing me right up. She’s greedy, always taking me all the way in,” Clark coos as he watches his cock disappear into you over again, each time you burrow him deeper and deeper inside you. “My favorite pussy. She’s so pretty taking me in like this.”

You lean back and place your hands on his thighs as you roll your hips to drive him in deeper. “Fuck, Clark. Every time I see you, feels like you've gotten bigger.”

“No, honey, it’s just because your pussy tightens up,” he chuckles, fingers brushing your hips. “She just has to get used to me again. I’ll stretch you out, don’t worry. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”

“Play with my tits,” you rasp. “Want your hands on my tits.”

You know what you’re doing. This is both for you and him. You’ve always loved seeing how big his hands are, how they cover your breasts entirely. How he can be both delicate and rough when he toys with your nipples.

His fingers unbutton your shirt slowly and, the more he does, the wider his eyes go.

Clark lets out a moan when he sees your nipples in the open air. “No bra?” He squeaks. “You went through TSA like this?”

Your lips tip up into a smirk. “Don’t worry, nobody gave me a pat down.”

“Better not have,” he growls low, “these are mine.”

Your pussy and heart flutter with his possessive declaration. You nearly bite out a snappy retort, asking him since when am I yours but the words fizzle out behind your ribs when Clark grabs your hips and begins to earnestly fuck up into you. He’s careful not to hurt you, but tests your limits with how hard he’s gripping you. You’re sure to bruise but these kinds of marks, he knows you don’t mind. You like when he stakes his claim.

His head dips to take one nipple into his mouth, one of his hands rising along your torso, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he lifts it slightly. His tongue circles the peaked bud, hot and wet until you’re throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another whine from your throat.

“So pretty. You’re always so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Pussy feels like heaven. So tight around my cock, honey. All mine. Tell me your pussy is all mine.”

You gasp when Clark thrusts up particularly hard, keen eyes searching yours. Swallowing, you hold on to the last thread of your pride as you resist the urge to cave into him.

“Come on, tell me. I won’t let you cum if you don’t say it.”

“Clark,” you whimper, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean,” he murmurs, “just want you to tell me that this pussy is mine. That nobody else has touched it. That nobody else will ever touch it.”

It’s a terrifying admission, even in the heat of the moment. Deep in your gut, you know that no one else will ever feel as good as Clark. No one else will ever get you to finish the same way he does. Fireworks and heat streaking across your skin.

But you give in to him so he will give in to you.

“My pussy’s yours,” you cry out.

“Say it again.”

“My pussy’s yours. Only yours.”

“No one else can touch it. You’re always saving this pretty, tight pussy for me.”

“Fuck, it’s yours, Clark. Please, please, fuck— hnng, need to— I want to cum, please.”

Clark groans as he angles his hips just right so that he’s fucking into that delicious spot inside of you over and over again until you can’t find it in you to think or even breathe. The gasp is wrangled from your throat as he rips the orgasm straight from under you, your back arching as your fingers dig into his shoulders, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shudders against him as you feel him spill inside you, warmth painting your walls as he jerks a few more times.

You slump forward, forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cum inside you. You can feel the cum leaking from where you’re joined, too much for you to keep inside yourself. It trickles down your thighs, dripping onto Clark’s jeans as evidence of your little tryst.

A giggle slips past your lips as you sigh against him.

His clean hand (he knows you have a thing against it otherwise) reaches up to stroke your head as he turns to press his lips on your temple. “What’re you laughing about?” He mumbles against your skin.

“Just— this. We really couldn’t wait to find a bed to fuck.”

His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Well, my ma and pa are home too so we wouldn’t have had a chance until tonight.” He pauses, then says, “And we both know you can’t keep your voice down.”

You launch yourself back with a glare, hand weakly swatting his chest. “Hey, speak for yourself. If I sucked your dick, you’d be crying and begging for me to stop because you can’t handle it.”

“That’s just because I want to cum inside you instead of your mouth.”

Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing. Traitor.

“You like that, don’t you?” He grins easily.

“Whatever,” you mutter. Wincing, you extract yourself from him and feel more of his cum leaking from between your puffy pussy.

Before you can move back to the passenger seat, Clark sits you down on his lap. His hand settles on your inner thigh, thumb pressing against your swollen pussy lips to open you up to him. He watches as his cum dribbles out of your cunt, before he uses his fingers to fuck them back into you.

“Don’t want to waste it,” he smiles boyishly.

This fucker.

“You’re the worst.”

“You won’t be saying that when I tell you I’ve figured out the many other stops we can have along the way — you know, if you wanted a second or third round.”

You’re warm to the tips of your ears. “You’re insatiable.”

“It’s been a while,” he chuckles.

Clark’s parents greet you with a good dose of midwestern charm, followed by a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and Earl Grey tea. He regards you with mild amusement as you glance at him in alarm when his mother wraps you in a massive hug, telling you that she feels as if you’re one of her own.

“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from Kara and Clark! It’s such a joy to finally meet you, honey. Come on in. Are you hungry? Did you want to clean up first? I’ve got some extra towels in Kara’s room for you. Clark, be a dear and show her around, will you? I just need to pull out the cinnamon loaf from the oven.”

It’s like a tornado, a whirlwind of movement all at once. A very pleasant tornado. Clark ends up giving you the comprehensive tour of the farmhouse. The Kent house looks fully lived in — well-worn vintage furniture with stitched florals, family photos dotting the walls and shelves to show any guest how loved the two Kent kids are, and touches of an old-fashioned home with typical cliché quotes hanging in frames or sewn onto throw pillows.

Clark blushes when you stare a little too long at the live, laugh, love painted onto a piece of wood above the toilet. “Ma loves that kind of thing. She buys a new one almost every time she goes into town.”

“Wish I had known, I could’ve gotten her another one for her collection,” you grin. “It’s sweet, Clark. Very charming.”

His smile softens slightly as he guides you to Kara’s room. “I’ll let you get settled in then. I have to help pa out with a few things, but let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”

Kara’s room is similar to the one she had in college. Posters of her favorite rock bands, pink wallpaper painted over with abstract murals that you find all too familiar. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room with frilly pink sheets that you doubt she picked herself. For the next hour, you unpack all your belongings, finding yourself dreading stepping outside and facing the music.

You had met Kara in college, freshman year, and the two of you were bonded for life. It started with a snooty remark from another student, and you and Kara had intervened at the same time, finding your sister-in-arms on day one. Two of you were similar in that you were both bull-headed, a little bit temperamental, but fiercely loyal. You loved her the moment you met her.

Sophomore year found the two of you unsurprisingly rooming together. The two of you were truly inseparable then. You thought you knew everything about her. That was until she said—

“My brother needs to come by,” she groans.

“You have a brother?”

That was when you were introduced to Clark Kent. Before you even met him, you had a strong inkling that you wouldn’t be a big fan of the guy. He was a year older than Kara but he was in a frat. Not that there’s anything wrong with participating in social activities on campus, but Greek life? Yes, you had formed your own preconceived notions about him.

So when Clark finally “swung by” to pick up one of his jackets while Kara was gone, you were caught off guard by the sight of this bumbling six-foot-four-mess who kept fidgeting with his thick-rimmed glasses. Clark, with his nervous smile and constant shifting, was a complete antithesis to Kara who had a permanent scowl and a sharp tongue.

Then you started seeing him everywhere on campus. You’ve seen him around before but now you can’t stop noticing him. He’s the mop of curls trying to shrink himself at the front of your English literature classroom, he’s the light laughter ringing across the dining hall, he’s the designated driver who physically gathered up the drunkards and piled them into the group’s car to send them home at the end of the night.

But he’s also the guy who’s always surrounded by some of the frattiest guys on campus and the guy who’s constantly swarmed by women grabbing at his biceps and running their hands down his chest.

“Your brother’s a bit of a player, huh?” You pointed out once to Kara, your eagle eyes focused across the room on Clark, who was humoring Bonnie from psychology as she yapped his ear off.

He didn’t seem to mind, laughing at whatever she was saying, which had her beaming.

Kara turned around, eyes following yours as you witnessed the atrocity that was Bonnie straight up flattening her manicured palm on his left tit. “Who? Clark?” She snorted, “The furthest. You can’t see it but that man is plotting the most polite escape route. Give it a second.”

Sure enough, the moment his eyes landed on you, they burned a brighter blue. He said something to Bonnie that had her pouting, turning to look at your table, before he made a beeline in your direction, sliding into the empty seat next to you.

“What happened with Bonnie?” You cocked an eyebrow.

“You know her?” Clark raised one right back. “She was, uh, talking about the frat’s winter gala thing.” His face distorted in a wince. “Asked me if I had a date.”

“Oh, while groping you?” Kara snickered.

Clark threw her a look. “Be nice. She meant well.”

“She meant she wanted your dick,” Kara noted then winced, “I don’t know why I just said that. I take it back. I don’t want to know about your sex life.”

His neck flushed a deep red as his eyes darted toward you for a brief second before he whipped his gaze away with a cough. “Anyways, I didn’t want to lead her on. So I told her I was already going with someone else.”

“Well, now you have to show up with a date,” Kara noted.

“Yeah.” Clark scratched the back of his ear then flicked his gaze towards you again. “Funny story.”

Dread sank into your gut. “Clark, no.”

“I’m sorry,” he flinched, “but she wanted to know who and I saw you and obviously I couldn’t say Kara so… here we are.”

“I have to go to your frat’s winter gala? Over my dead body.”

“It’ll be fun! Drinks and food. I’ll cover your ticket, obviously,” Clark pleaded. His blue eyes were shining in a way that made you melt. It was hard to say no to Clark Kent.

That was how you ended up as Clark’s date. That was how you ended up meeting your first ex in college. A fratboy of all people but he won you over with his sense of humor and charming smile. That was how you ended up with the most devastating heartbreak with a breakup that lasted all of one second over a text.

That was how you ended up swearing off relationships forever.

That was how you ended up in Clark Kent’s bed the summer you graduated college. One time turned to two turned to fucking on the kitchen counter while the others were asleep upstairs on your group’s annual trip. This “summer fling” became a recurring, annual rendezvous. As long as the two of you were single, you somehow always ended up in each other’s beds — or any other viable surfaces.

However, what was made very clear from the very beginning was that you were not looking for a serious relationship whatsoever. The last thing you needed was to get your heart broken again when you promised to focus on your career.

So this arrangement works.

You’re brought out of your reverie when a knock sounds on your door. Clark pops his head in, curls damp and glasses sliding down his nose again. He’s a little pink when he catches you midway through changing into a comfy t-shirt. A smirk curls on your lips. Even after seeing you naked all this time and talking like a fucking porn star during sex, Clark still blushes whenever he unintentionally catches you in a… compromising position.

“Um, ma wanted me to tell you to come down whenever you’re ready. We usually eat dinner as a family. If that’s okay with you.”

You finish shoving your arms through your shirt before bending down to reach for a pair of shorts. You hear the hitch of his breath behind you. Smirking, you slowly roll yourself back up. “Like what you see, Kent?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles under his breath. Your eyes fall to his sweats where he’s currently adjusting his not-so-little problem. “I can be quick. And quiet. If you want to.”

A laugh rises from your chest. “Keep it in your pants. I don’t want to be late for my first dinner with your parents.”

With a slightly disappointed sigh, he nods and guides you downstairs.

Dinner is as you expected — delicious food with a side of chaos. While Clark’s dad keeps mostly to himself, nodding along to whatever his wife is saying or whispering with Clark, his mother peppers you with endless questions about your life, your job, and your relationship with her children. “I’m so sorry we’re only meeting now! I hear so much about you from both of them. It’s such a shame.”

“I hope Kara only has good things to say,” you tease.

“Oh, Kara adores you but Clark also won’t stop talking about you.”

That catches you by surprise and you shift your attention to Clark with a curious look. “Is that so?”

There’s that pink again. Endearingly embarrassed. “Oh, yes,” his mom gushes, “tells me all the time what a sweetheart you are and how smart you are, how he enjoys watch—”

“Ma, how about some more mashed potatoes, hm?” Clark distracts her, offering a massive dollop of her potatoes. “How about you tell me what’s going on with the kitchen sink? Thought you wanted me to take a look.”

His mother is successfully distracted when she instead begins to fuss over everything wrong with the farmhouse. His father tries to reassure Clark that he’s got it under control and that he should just enjoy his vacation. Clark only nods along, partially listening. You know the look he has when part of his mind is far away from the conversation.

You can’t help but wonder what his mom was going to say.

After dinner, you insist that his parents get some rest while you and Clark do the dishes. It’s a back and forth for a bit, debating on whether guests should be doing chores, debating on whether you’re guests at all. Thankfully, you win when Clark manages to urge them out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Clark is the actual winner when he also pushes you out of there for you to get cleaned up

You do a full scrubdown, washing away all the grease from the flight. The water is warm on your skin, much needed after a long day. You almost slide yourself into Kara’s mattress to sleep when you realize Clark missed one part of his tour.

So you tiptoe down the hall, careful not to wake the Kents with the creaking beneath your footsteps as you sneak into Clark’s room, closing the door behind you.

He has a towel wrapped around his waist, chiseled, bare chest on full display, as he frowns at his phone. He looks up, fumbling with the device when he sees you. His arms quickly go to cover his stomach and his legs, as if he’s at risk of exposing an ankle to a Victorian lady.

You roll your eyes. He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?”

“You never showed me your room, I wanted to see if you had anything embarrassing in here. Like Superman plushies or something. Or your old porn collection. Maybe a Playboy or two.”

“I don’t… have any of those,” Clark says, pink to his ears.

“Sure, you’re telling me if I look in that drawer over there that I won’t find a couple of risque magazines?” You begin drifting in that direction and Clark is immediately in your path. You’re face-to-face with his pecs.

“Take my word for it.”

Sighing, you cave and instead wander around the rest of the room. It’s a quaint room. Small bed that you’re not even sure would fit him. Two small bookshelves with some reference volumes and novels you’ve heard him talk about before. Giant poster of the Mighty Crabjoys who Clark insists is very punk rock. Then there are a few trophies for a spelling bee, debate club, and a science fair — none for his athleticism, because you know for sure Clark would never use his gifted powers for selfish purposes. His desk has an ancient monitor that looks like a stack of brick and more books — comic books, more novels, and CDs (no doubt of the Mighty Crabjoys).

It’s simple and sweet. Kind of like him.

While you’re busy absorbing every inch of his bedroom, Clark has crept up behind you. His arms wind around your waist, lips pasting on your neck. You instinctively tilt your head, a moan bubbling up your throat. “Clark, your parents are down the hall,” you murmur.

“I can be quiet. I’ll make sure you are too,” he whispers as his hands begin to wander. One to cover your mouth and the other going between your legs. “I’ll make you feel good, honey.”

And that he does.

Your second day in Smallville starts off early. And warm. Incredibly, horribly warm. Your eyes flutter open to the wide expanse of creamy skin. Creamy skin on a very, very wide chest. Grunting, you try to push against him, to get his hefty arm off you, but he doesn’t even budge.

Clark grumbles quietly, tucking you deeper into his chest. “Sleep.”

“Clark,” you whisper-yell, “come on. I gotta get back to the room.”

“You’re already in a room,” he mumbles.

You peek up only to find him still with his eyes closed. “Your parents—”

As if on cue, your worst nightmare plays out in real time. You hear the creak first. You try not to panic, praying that it’s someone walking away from the door rather than towards it. But then you hear the knob twist. You feel Clark stiffen in real time, his entire body going taut like a board as his eyes slam open. The two of you don’t move fast enough; in fact, your legs are still tangled together when the door swings inwards.

“Clark, honey—” his mom’s words die out, undoubtedly when her eyes land on not one but two bodies in the very tiny bed that barely fits her son. Clark holds you in closer, tugging the blanket higher to cover your bare back. Your shirt is abandoned somewhere in the room — along with your underwear that hopefully isn’t visible to his poor mother’s eyes. Thankfully, you’re not facing the door, so you don’t have to subject yourself to whatever disappointed face she’s making. “What in the—”

“Ma! Why didn’t you knock first?” Clark coughs, sliding up only to bury you deeper under the blanket.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have company at this hour, Clark.” There’s a sternness to her words that sends shivers snaking up your spine.

Not even a full twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to ruin your entire reputation with his mom. But if you could just explain this, then maybe—

“We’re engaged, Ma. Alright. We’re engaged!”

What the ever-loving fuck—

“Engaged?” Her tone has shifted significantly, delight clinging to every letter. “Oh my, oh goodness, what wonderful news! I want to say I didn’t see it coming but I did! My boy did talk about you all the time so it’s not much of a surprise.”

“I do not, Ma,” Clark retorts quickly.

She barely pays him any mind. “I have to tell your pa. This is exciting news! My first son! Engaged!” Then she’s scampering out of the room and Clark can only call out, “I’m your only son, Ma!”

The moment she’s out of earshot, your hands immediately fly.

“Ow! Ow! Stop that! Come on, stop it!” Clark flinches as you continue to barrage him with smacks from all angles. Not that it actually hurts. His hands immediately whip out to pin you down, his body hovering over yours. Your chest rises with every heaving breath while Clark just frowns at you, probably concerned that you’ve hurt yourself in your fruitless attempt to hurt him. “Are you done?”

Even in this situation, you can feel that familiar heat stirring between your legs. Clark’s handsome face above you, his one hand pinning you down, the other one on your hip, his stupid, big, beefy chest in front of your face. You hate it.

Unfortunately, this means Clark picks up on your heartbeat, the way your blood rushes beneath your skin at the sight of him.

His lips tip up. “Good?”

“Why in the hell would you tell your mom that we’re engaged?”

“I love my ma. Wonderful woman. Loves everyone dearly. Love is love, she believes in. She’s all about love.”

“So you tell her we’re engaged?"

Clark sighs, “Even with all that, she is very much still an old-fashioned woman from the Midwest. She would not approve of me… bedding a woman outside of wedlock. She would never forgive me if she knew what I’ve been doing.”

Or who he’s been doing — you.

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Because you don’t want your mom to know that you stick our dick inside girls before marriage, you drag me into this and act like we’re getting married?”

Clark frowns, lips pinching together disapprovingly. “Girl. One girl. You. And yes, I panicked, I’m sorry. It’ll just be for this trip, alright. We’ll… explain it all away after.”

Another protest sits on the tip of your tongue, but the look on his face reduces you into a puddle. A puddle that molds according to whatever container Clark pours you into. 

“Fine, okay, but what are we going to tell Kara? Or Lois and Jimmy when they arrive?”

He opens his mouth then promptly closes it. Thought so.

“We should think fast because I know for a fact Kara’s supposed to come in anytime now—”

Then you hear the screech, followed by the hurried footsteps, followed by the door once again banging open against the wall with the brute force of her strength. You’re surprised it’s still on its hinges.

And there she is.

“What the hell, dude? You’re engaged to him?”

Clark gives the two of you some space; that is, after he kicks Kara out long enough for the two of you to be decent.

This is the first time the two of you have ever woken up together.

In the years you’ve slept together, the countless nights you’ve spent in a pile of messy limbs, this is the first time.

The awkwardness that follows hangs heavy in the air.

“I’ll, um, I’ll give you time with Kara. I’m going to calm my parents down first, tell them not to overwhelm you. I’ll see you later?”

He says it like a question, like he isn’t sure if you would even see him again after this incident. And you know that it’s mainly his fault but you should’ve also been more careful. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you snuck in, you knew what you were looking for when you went to find him last night.

“Yes, Clark, I’ll see you later.”

Mild relief sinks into his features as he nods and exits the room.

It takes a bit of time to get Kara to stop hyperventilating or talking for even a second for you to get a word in. She’s still reeling at the fact that she saw her best friend and her brother in bed. Together. Naked. She may have also attempted to rinse her eyes with bleach.

After talking her off the ledge, you finally give her the basic answers.

“Yes, I’ve been fucking your brother.”

“No, we’re not dating.”

“No, Kara, how would we be actually engaged if we weren’t dating?”

Lois and Jimmy arrive shortly after and you thankfully get some reprieve from Clark when he goes to pick them up. Fortunately, Clark gives them the quick SparkNotes version of what transpired this morning. Unfortunately, you have to do the full run-down to once again emphasize that you are not actually engaged to Clark Kent. 

Dinner is only an awkward affair for the people in the know. Clark’s parents remain blissfully ignorant, instead focusing on gushing about how thrilled they are that Clark has found somebody.

“You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home. It’s only right that you’re his fiancée! Now, I want to hear it from both of you — when did this all start? How did you know you were in love?”

Kara chokes on her chicken. Lois and Jimmy share wary looks. You shoot her a dirty look. Clark coughs, eyes sliding over to you for a nanosecond before returning to his mom. “Love at first sight when I saw her that first time.” Clark should be an actor, he sounds terribly convincing.

All you can say is “same.”

Clark kicks you under the table and you have to swallow your yelp. A dirty glare his way does nothing to deter him when he gives you a look that insists you give his mom an “actual” answer. 

You wrack your brain. Beyond the good sex, Clark has mostly existed in your periphery. He’s Kara’s brother. Lois’ best friend. Jimmy’s partner in crime.

But he’s always been just Clark to you.

You just happened to be smart enough to put two and two together on him and Big Blue and, for some reason, that brought you closer. 

But if you were to pick a point in which you could were to fall for Clark Kent, it would be that.

“I think it was around the same time. A first year was struggling through orientation week. First week jitters. Clark was an orientation leader at the time. He didn’t have to but he stuck with that kid almost that entire week. Saw him invite the kid to join for lunches with his friends, encourage him to make friends. It was sweet.”

Mrs. Kent looks absolutely awed. She whispers about how endearing that is.

However, all you can feel is the weight of Clark’s gaze on you. Steady, heavy. You risk a glance up. 

His eyes are soft, a little misty if you squint. Lips with a slight up curve. 

“I don’t know if I remember you back then.”

Heat kisses your cheeks. “That was before we were introduced.”

“You knew me?”

“Hard for you to not stand out as a six-foot non-football player.” 

Clark chuckles.

“That’s so very romantic, dear. I’m so glad to hear,” his mom coos, “now all of you off to bed. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? So much good news! And you two should stay together — future newlyweds!”

You choke the same time Kara protests. “But she’s rooming with me!”

Needless to say, Kara doesn’t win this fight and, while Lois gives you a sympathetic look as she enters Kara’s room, you’re suddenly being shoved back into Clark’s room. The same room that got you into this mess to begin with. 

“Clark, we need to get our stories straight if we want to be convincing.” 

“Hmm, sure.”

“We need to talk about when we started dating and when you proposed — not to mention how you proposed! And the details matter, you know, so we should— are you even listening?”

Clark hums again, clearly not listening. “Sure, yeah. We should talk about it.”

He’s taking one step towards you then another and another until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Clark,” you warn, “talk.”

He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours. His proximity is intoxicating. What were you saying again? Something about talking.

“Fell in love with me before you even knew me, huh? That’s cute,” he murmurs in a breath that you sharply inhale. 

You bite back your embarrassment. “It’s just a story.”

“But you—” kiss “—noticed—” kiss “—me.” 

“It was just, um, I was only, mmm, answering…” Your words trail off as Clark navigates his mouth south along your neck, laying you down on his bed, as he drops to his knees, hands parting your legs. “Clark, we need— ah.”

“Did so good today, honey,” Clark mutters, pressing wet kisses up your bare inner thigh. His teeth nip at your skin. “Now, let me take good care of you tonight.”

Your body is still sore and tingling when you wake up the next morning. When you stretch your hand over, you find the other side of the bed cool. 

You pad out through the creaky front door to find three of your friends enjoying the crisp, unpolluted air of Smallville with cups of coffee, ones that Lois doesn’t have to douse with a whole can of sugar. Clark is still nowhere to be seen. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Kara yawns. 

“Morning,” you mumble quietly. “Has anyone seen Clark?”

“He’s helping out at the barn,” Lois answers first, eyeing you with a strange twinkle in her eye. “Better yet, how about you tell us how long you and Clark plan on being engaged? Are we invited to the wedding?”

You give her a look. “If I ever get married, please know I’ve been kidnapped and cloned.”

“Is it really so bad?”

Cocking an eyebrow at her, you ask, “You of all people are saying that? Miss Independent?”

“Hey, I am voluntarily a solitary creature.”

“That’s because she bites the head off anyone who tries to approach her,” Jimmy chimes in, then turns back to you, “Clark’s not a bad pick. You know, if you were to get married.”

“No, he’s not,” you mutter — and it’s a truth that just slips out. 

When you look up, Kara’s got her eyes narrowed at you but Lois — she’s got a curious yet strangely warm look in her gaze. It’s not an expression that you expect to see from her. 

And Jimmy, well, he’s still half dizzy over the fact that you and Clark are fucking. 

“I need to talk to him, we need to get our stories straight,” you clear your throat, glance wandering over to the barn some distance away. 

“You guys still haven’t discussed that?”

“No, I tried talking to him last night but we got—” The ghost of Clark’s curls between your legs, soft strands tickling your inner thighs. The hot, wet drag of his tongue between your folds. His muffled moans, nose glistening.

“You taste like nectar from the gods.”

“I don’t wanna know!” Kara yelps, slapping her hands over her ears. “I see your face and I don’t wanna hear it. While I enjoy hearing about your sexual encounters, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s.”

You cough again, ignoring the warmth that’s flooded your cheeks. “Right, anyway, I’ll go look for him.” 

While you’ve never experienced country living, you imagine this is close to what it’s like. The unappetizing aroma of manure, the constant croaking of nature, and the sight of Clark Kent in overalls.

Nothing but overalls. 

Shining golden skin. Not a single drop of sweat. Curls mussed up only from the heat, but his breathing is stable even as he lifts bags of soil on his shoulder. Hundreds of pounds. Biceps flexing, veins taut. 

Fuck.

“You’re awake,” he brightens when he sees you, dropping the bags off to the side. “How’d you sleep?”

Your brain short-circuits when he dusts his hands off. Now that there are no bags in the way, you can see everything. Broad, round shoulders. The curves of his arms. Lines running down the length of his forearm, you can practically taste the texture on your tongue. When his overalls shift just right, you get a glimpse of his dusky nipple that you’re desperately needing to wrap your lips around. 

All you can picture is how good it would be to put your hands on his shoulders, bolstering you up while he presses up against you. 

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.” 

Clark’s in front of you. His fingers curving around the back of your neck, thumb on your jaw to tilt your face up. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing his irises. 

“We should—” your breath hitches as his thumb goes down, pressing down on your pulse point on your neck. It jumps. You know he feels it.

“I can hear your heart racing,” Clark murmurs. “I like hearing it. I like knowing what you like — and you like my hand on you.”

“Clark, please,” you rasp. 

“What do you need?” 

“You.”

“How do you want me?”

You swallow, the image so vivid in your mind, like it’s a memory. “Holding me up.” You barely get the words out when Clark wrangles your legs around him, holding you up firmly with one arm as his other hand touches your cheek. 

“What now?”

“I want you. Inside.”

“I can do that,” he smiles, leaning down to suckle lightly on your neck. “Anything else?”

“Must I tell you everything?” You grunt.

“I know what you want. I just like hearing you ask for it.”

With your lips pursed in defiance, you cross your arms over your chest. “If you ask me one more time—” 

A yelp is wrenched from your throat when he finally (finally) brushes his thumb over your sensitive nipple peaking through the thin cotton of your shirt.

He gropes you gently, somehow manhandling you in a way that makes you feel desirable rather than disgusting. His blue eyes are shadowed, drinking in the way you shiver with every tug, every pinch.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs to the wind. 

Clark tugs the shirt over your head, leaving you completely topless. Your arms immediately wind around your body in embarrassment, but he moves faster to extract them and deliver you a chiding look.

You’re sheepish when you tell him, “Someone might see us.”

“Mhmm, let them. I’m taking care of my fiancée.” His lips tug into an amused smirk when you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”

“Please, you like brats.”

“You know me so well.”

He dives forward and takes your tits into your mouth, showering them with cautious but delicious attention. His tongue is hot on your skin. You throw your head back as he drags his lips across your neck. 

With swift hands, your shorts join your shirt in the pile of hay and Clark has unbuttoned his overalls to fall at his hips. His mouth stays on you the entire time — sweet and spicy at the same time. 

Greedy hands lift you slightly higher, only to position you right above his straining cock. The vein in his neck jumps as he grits his teeth.

Clark eases you onto his cock, moving you up and down along his length like a toy, like you’re his personal fleshlight. Your pussy stretches around him, soaking his cock until you’re a whining mess. 

“‘M gonna need you to keep it down,” he grunts quietly, neck flushed red as he bites down his own moan. 

On cue, and as if to prove a point, a moan crawls up your throat. Clark’s hand flies up to slap over your face. Large palm over your mouth, your eyes wide at him. A whimper slides up your throat at the stern, scolding expression on his face. 

“Honey, what did I just say?”

Your pussy clenches around him. His words are almost demeaning, but the gentleness with which they are delivered has you shivering and melting into his touch. “S-sorry,” you stutter pathetically, “I‘m sorry.”

“I know,” he whispers, “I know, but I need you to be quiet, okay. I don’t need my parents coming out and seeing us like this. They might make us marry on the spot.”

Heat spreads throughout every nerve in your body at his comment. It’s a joke, you know it is, but the idea of Clark claiming you as his with his cock buried inside you, painting you in bridal white inside out, has you tightening around him. 

“Is that what you want?” Clark murmurs softly, his blue eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that has your fingers tingling. 

“No,” you scoff a little too quickly.

“Could put you in a dress. Marry you in this barn right now. Afterwards, I’ll take you outside against the walls while my family’s in here celebrating us. We’ll consummate our marriage.”

The image is painted so vividly in the back of your mind. You in a simple dress, hiked up, Clark fucking you into oblivion against the walls outside. Good god. 

“I can feel her tightening around me, honey,” Clark chuckles. “She likes the idea.”

“Stop being silly,” you clear your throat, “you gonna fuck me properly or what?”

He mutters something about your mouth before fucking you in earnest once more. His thrusts are sloppy but no less powerful, his desire leaks through his stuttered hips, the uneven staccato of his breaths. 

Pleasure builds and twists, coiling tight inside your stomach as Clark’s grip remains firm on you. Moans continue to pour from your lips like prayers to the god before you. He slides his hand up your throat again, squeezing gently, before bypassing it and covering your mouth once more. 

“Gonna need you to keep quiet, okay. I love hearing your pretty moans but I can’t share that with anyone else. Can’t have my parents coming out here and seeing you like this. I can’t have them thinking you’re a filthy little minx, spreading your legs for me anytime, anywhere.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as another groan chases your tongue. His name is muffled behind his hand and you gasp for breath when Clark gives you some room to inhale.

“She feels so good around me. So tight. She’s been waiting for me all morning. Greedy thing, isn’t she? Fed her so much last night and she still wants more.”

“C-Clark, please. Shit. Oh fuck.”

“So good to me. I have so much to give her, she knows that, doesn’t she? That’s why you came looking for me. Wanted one more time even after last night. Maybe I’ll taste myself on you later.”

Jesus Christ. This man has a way of making you picture the most deliciously repulsive images in your mind. Him cumming inside you, his face between your legs, licking you clean until there’s no trace of him left. Maybe even coming back up and kissing you. The taste of him tangled in your tongues.

Clark’s hands tighten. His grunts shorten. His pleas desperate.

Before long, you’re coming apart in his hands, Clark tightens his hold around your jaw to muffle the sound of your cries as he spills inside you. He buries his own moans into your neck as he presses you deeper against the wooden beam. With how hard he fucked you, you’re surprised this barn is still standing. You had felt the pillar rattling behind you.

He huffs a breath before leaning backwards. His hand reaches up to brush away the sweat-dampened strands of your hair from your face. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”

Even after years of this arrangement, Clark is always so careful. You know he holds back his strength when he’s screwing your brains out. He could go a lot harder and sometimes you wonder what it would feel like for his patience to snap, for him to fuck you with no abandon. 

You don’t think you’ll survive that.

But you also think you would deliriously enjoy that. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Clark murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you swiftly say, “just— nothing.” Warmth floods your cheeks again. You’ve only just finished getting your brains turned to mush and here you are thinking about how much harder he could go. 

“You’re thinking about something.”

“I’m thinking how we should really get our stories straight.”

Clark regards you thoughtfully, a contemplative expression carved into the creases on his forehead. Then he presses into you more, cock pushing back in. You can hear the squish of his cum inside you, an indecent little sound in the quiet of the morning. 

“Okay, do you wanna talk now?”

“Clark,” you deadpan.

“What?”

Your cheeks are hot again. “Obviously not like this.” 

“Alright, later then.”

Clark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, lips stretched into a wide grin. He’s much too gleeful for a man who’s foiled your plans to be responsible again — with his dick. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Instead of spending the day puttering around the farm and watching Clark do manual labor in nothing but overalls (which isn’t necessarily the worst way to kill time), the Kents propose going to the fair that’s in town.

Clark insists that his parents could use his help while he’s around.

They insist that he should spend time with his fiancée.

The five of you pile into Clark’s truck; to avoid suspicion, you ride up front with him, throwing his parents a tight smile as you wave at them as the car treks down the dirt path. The three of them are bickering about something related to agriculture in the backseat while you — you find yourself once again distracted by Clark who looks far too good driving.

Sometimes, you think you need to get your brain rewired for being too easily stimulated by the sight of him. It’s like your brain is wired to tune into him, to every little detail from the way his eyes crinkle, how his lips pucker when he whistles, or that one vein along his arm that jumps every time he turns the wheel.

Your plan backfires when you stare at him a little too long, trying to think of how you could get the two of you to talk to get your stories aligned, and Clark ends up noticing how your eyes never stray too far from him. The corners of his lips tip up, pleased, then his free hand slides over your thigh once more.

It doesn’t do anything. It just stays there. A grounding presence.

The back of your neck warms and you blame it on the mid-morning sun.

The fair is nothing too crazy, you didn’t expect anything grand from a small town near Smallville. It’s more like a community event, with faces familiar to the Kents dotting the crowd. A small market lines the entry area, selling all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks. Clark bumps your shoulder with his arm as you walk down the path.

“Don’t you like those things? You wanna take a look?”

You cock an eyebrow. “I do like them, how do you know that?”

“I see them all over your apartment,” he shrugs, “especially the flowery-looking ones.” You’ve started collecting miniature toys and figurines with flowers on them. Since you can’t seem to keep plants alive, your little addiction to buying the most useless pieces of paperweight is fulfilled by the replacement of real live decor.

“Oh. Yes, well, I have too many now so I don’t think I should even look at them. Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to buy.”

Beyond that, the fair opens up to game booths — your classic ring toss, darts, and shooting a water ducky — and attractions like pony riding, a petting zoo, and so on and so forth. It’s cute. It’s quaint. Nothing like what you see in the big cities. In fact, big cities have no carnivals like these. So maybe you’re a teensy bit excited. 

“Wanna play?” Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm on your face. 

Before you can answer, a shrill voice calls out to Clark. Well, it’s not really shrill, it actually sounds rather sweet — like the tinkling of bells — but you see the source of that sound and you feel an irritating itch in your chest.

“Willow! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Oh, so he knows her. That ugly part inside of you wonders if he also has the same arrangement with her. But no, she seems nice. Like the girl next door. The kind of girl you marry — and not with a fake engagement. 

They chat for a little bit and you’re on the sidelines watching them. Kara nudges you by your side. “We’re going to try the dunk tank. Jimmy has agreed to be dunked as long as we can aim. Wanna come?”

Your gaze flicks over to Clark for a second but find that he’s still eagerly chatting with this girl, so you put on your biggest smile and turn back to your best friend. 

“Let’s do it.”

The four of you busy yourselves with the various games. Lois manages to dunk Jimmy four times. Jimmy then proceeds to win a free t-shirt to change into from the ring toss. Kara absolutely destroys Lois at basketball and you absolutely annihilate all of them at darts (pub nights are coming in handy after all). 

You’re having a great time — a wonderful time — until you realize that Clark still hasn’t caught up. Every time you look over in search of him, he’s there helping a new person. First, it’s the old lady with her bags of groceries. Then it’s the little boy with his cat in the tree. Next, it’s the farmer who needs to unload his van of dozens of boxes. 

And then it’s that girl — Willow, was it? — who is apparently a florist and is setting up the most beautiful little booth in the market. 

It’s thoughtful, it’s kind. That’s who Clark is. But then you see him laughing and smiling and just being Clark and all you can feel is pissed. He’s here for you — all of you — so why is he busying himself with others? It’s incredibly selfish and guilt gnaws at your chest. 

So you bite down that terrible feeling and instead focus on the others. You’re fine with this. It’s not as if you have anything with Clark, really. You’re friends who happen to fuck every summer. That’s all. 

Maybe Clark is simply looking for something more long-term.

Your eyes wander to Lois. You’ve always thought that they would be a thing. Two incredibly smart people who work together, who have great chemistry. You know that Clark respects and adores her deeply, as evidenced by how much he talks about her. It seemed to be a matter of time.

Your anger doesn’t ease. Instead, you channel that rage into this shooting game. Clark has only just shown up, standing next to Kara with his gaze on you, a dopey smile in place. 

You hit the target dead center again and again and again. 

“That’s the first time today! You’ve got quite the skills, miss.” The guy at the booth says, both impressed and terrified. “You can pick any prize you want from the top.”

Clark whistles with his fingers and grins. “Good job, that was incredible.”

You hate yourself for immediately blooming with excitement at the compliment, especially when he’s left this group to tend to other people. How pathetic can you be?

The next words out of your mouth are not your best moment. 

“Well, seeing as my fiancé is too busy to get me anything.”

You can see the moment your jab lands and the smile wipes off his face, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. You turn on your heel and make your way to the next game, teddy bear tucked safely in your arms.

It’s not that you’re immature. You’re not. You’re an adult. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a teensy bit petty.

Every time Clark tries to come close to you, you’re linking arms with Kara and traipsing off. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear by cheering for Lois as she slams a hammer down on a strength-based game. 

It’s an exhausting endeavor and you’re this close to giving up. Plus, the heat isn’t exactly letting up and you’re starting to feel a little woozy. 

So when Clark approaches you again, you almost cave and lean on his broad frame for support.

“Hungry?” He asks carefully as his long legs finally catch up to you alone.

Your stubbornness nearly denies him once more but your stomach wins out when it growls. Loud. 

Clark doesn’t tease you; he simply takes your hand and whisks you away to the little makeshift food court. He sits you down and begins going from stall to stall, collecting one dish after another until you’ve got a spread in front of you.

It’s all your favorite things — or similar ones that he thinks you’ll enjoy; he would be right.

You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice Clark wringing his fingers in front of you, fidgeting as he tries to get your attention. 

“What?” You finally ask when you peer up after his nth time repositioning himself, shrinking so he would be in your line of sight. 

“Can you tell me why you’re sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.”

He gives you a look. 

“I’m not! I don’t care who you spend your time with.”

“Who?” Clark perks up, irises bright with curiosity.

Shit. You and your big mouth. Now you’ve gone ahead and given away too much, so you clamp your lips shut and shake your head. You shut down his every attempt to pry by focusing on eating instead.

He only seems to relent when he thinks he’s pushed hard enough, but, knowing Clark, he isn’t going to let the matter slide so easily. 

You continue your day unscathed for the most part. You cling close to Kara who doesn’t seem to mind that you’re sticking to her instead of her brother. Of course, she shoots you questioning looks but the shake of your head prevents her from pushing. 

You’re in the middle of cheering for Lois and Kara when a cloud of pink appears before you. You blink at it before you trace back the source of the dessert. Unsurprisingly, Clark stands at the other end of the cotton candy.

“You like this, don’t you?”

You mentioned once that you’ve always liked cotton candies. It’s all sugar, but that childish part in you relishes the way the fluffy treat melts on your tongue. 

“I do, thank you,” you confirm, ripping apart a piece before popping it in your mouth. The strands dissolve into syrup on your tongue.

Clark looks at you expectantly, a tinge of anxiety in the slight fold of his brows. “Good?”

“Good,” you smile at him.

Perhaps you’ve been too hard on him today. He’s being a good neighbor and you’re giving him shit for talking to someone else.

The two of you aren’t exclusive. That’s the whole point of this arrangement. If he happened to find someone that he wants to actually date seriously, then you’d let him go. 

Somehow, the thought makes your stomach churn. 

“I got you something else.”

You look up at him and he digs around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a thin silver band. A crystal sits in the middle of it, sparkling no less brightly than a diamond. It’s simple, it’s sweet. It’s characteristically you. 

“It’s nothing extravagant but you wear silver jewelry, right? I think this should fit.” Then Clark is taking your left hand and sliding the promise over your ring finger. The band sits perfectly snug. The crystal catches light and twinkles like it’s winking at you. 

For all your pouting, Clark seems to know the perfect remedy. 

“Just, you know, until the trip is over,” he adds nervously. “If that’s okay with you.”

You bring your hand up, watching as the ring glimmers underneath the afternoon sun. Your lips tip up in a small smile. 

“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”

“And, if it’s any reassurance,” Clark adds, quieter, low enough that the others can’t hear — eyes trained solely on you, sharp and honest, “I only have eyes for you.”

Your heart beats against your ribs. Heat frames your face at the same time he smiles softly at you. 

You don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.

The chill beneath your fingertips rouses you from sleep. When your eyes flutter open, Clark’s big, warm body is nowhere to be found. You remember falling asleep cuddled up to a living, breathing heater and now you’re shivering as you tug on an extra sweater. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad out into the hallway in search of him, navigating through the darkness until your eyes land on him, bathed in the moonlight on the bench outside.

Clark turns before the door even swings open. He must’ve heard you.

“You’re up early — or late,” he notes.

“So are you, what’re you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t really sleep, you?”

“Must’ve been all the cotton candy,” you say as you slide into the seat next to him.

The midnight air in Smallville is brisk, you’re beginning to regret not throwing on an extra layer. Clark senses your shivers and immediately scooches closer towards you, draping his flannel over your shoulders and tucking you in close. The draw of his warmth is too tempting to resist and you end up nuzzling into his shoulder.

“Could’ve stayed inside,” you flag quietly.

“The fresh air helps me think. Plus, it’s nice to take advantage of this away from Metropolis. Breathing in fumes doesn’t seem conducive to my health.”

“Good thing your only weakness is extinct,” you tease, bumping shoulders gently.

Clark smiles at you, soft and knowing. “It’s not my only weakness.”

You raise an eyebrow but he doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t press. Instead, you ask him what’s plaguing his mind.

“My parents,” he begins, “I worry about them. They’re getting older, things with the farm aren’t easy and we’re not in a position to hire any extra hands.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking if I should move back.”

Your heart plummets, all amusement evaporating. You don’t know why you’re so disappointed by the thought. Although you don’t live in Metropolis, although you don’t see Clark very often, you’re only a city away, and even then, he still feels light-years away. “Move back?”

“Here to Smallville. I’m not sure yet.”

Your throat is tight when you attempt a joke, “What? And leave your fiancée behind?”

Clark’s lips curl. “Never. I’ll take you with me.”

Oh. Your chest warms. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”

“I’d just have to convince you,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his forehead against yours. His next words are soft, but they have your heart pressing against your ribcage. “And I can be very persuasive.”

A giggle falls from your lips. Clark shrinks himself, bending himself at a slightly odd angle to accommodate your height as you lean your head on his shoulder. The quiet moon is company you don’t want to humor tonight and Clark seems to agree when he rises to his feet and offers his hand.

The two of you drift back into his bedroom. Light still spills across his hardwood floors that whine below his heavy footfalls. But Clark shields you from the stark brightness, engulfing you in a comfortable night against his chest.

When you tip your face up, he’s already looking down at you. For a moment, he only searches your eyes. Looking for something you’re not sure you can provide.

However, he seems to find whatever it is he wanted when he leans down and slides his mouth over yours.

The kiss is soft. Slow. None of the usual heat and messiness that leads to hours of tangled legs and sweaty limbs. This one is patient, it’s kind. Clark tastes like tea and sugar, the kind of concoction that lulls you slowly back to sleep.

Before your consciousness slips away again, Clark murmurs a promise of sweet dreams.

You think you may already have that.

This farmlife experience is much more taxing than you expect. Hours of Harvest Moon on your old game consoles do nothing to prepare you for the ache between your fingers and the soreness of your shoulders. However, you suck it up and keep going because there’s no greater sight than Clark who delights in showing you the ropes.

You’ve fought off chickens all morning to feed them and take their eggs for breakfast. You’ve milked cows, delicate fingers wrapped around the hefty udders until you fill a whole pail. You’re grooming the horses and trying not to get your hair chewed out.

Again, it’s all worth it when you see Clark beam at you like the morning sun.

His eyes also keep wandering to your finger where he has already pointed out — “You’re wearing the ring.”

You blame the fever on your neck on the sun that’s barely risen. “I thought it would be best to wear it so your parents don’t get suspicious.”

The two of you do end up talking, agreeing on points in time that align for your supposed romantic development. It isn’t a hard task, not when you actually do remember those moments when you felt your strongest attraction towards Clark. The first time you slept together was redesigned as your first date. The arrangement of your… arrangement was reconfigured into a conversation about official labels.

Clark is close to your side, arms brushing as the two of you make your way back to the house. The basket of eggs hangs from Clark’s hand as his other one shifts to the small of your back — it hovers, present, but doesn’t touch.

He’s telling you a story from his days of youth and you’re throwing your head back in laughter. The emotions come easy here — honest in the early hours of dawn when it’s only you and him.

When you arrive at the house, you two spot Lois already nursing a steaming coffee mug in her hands. Her eyes dart between the two of you carefully, curious — almost calculating. Her lips quirk upwards at the sight and you’re almost shy by her response.

Unfortunately, Clark’s reaction has you stiffening. He clears his throat and takes a step out to the side. Away from you. Distance. You try not to let your hurt show but it feels as if there’s a giant stone sitting in the pit of your stomach that’s weighing you down, slowing your steps.

“What’s going on?” Clark asks, brows puckered.

It’s your turn to regard the two of them. Clark has always been comfortable with Lois. Kara’s teased him before for having a crush on her; perhaps that feeling still lingers. Worse yet, perhaps those feelings have only strengthened.

Once again, you reckon with the fact that Clark Kent is not yours. You have no right to be jealous, to feel possessive over a man who doesn’t belong to you. You were the one who put your foot down and swore off any actual romantic relationships, and Clark was never an exception.

If Clark wanted Lois — and if, by some luck, Lois wanted Clark back, who were you to stand in the way of true love?

So you force a smile and shake your head. “Nothing. I’m going to get cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait—”

But you’re already turning on your heel and heading back inside the house.

+ sam: tumblr hit me with the block limit for the full fic so i figured this is a good separation point while i edit the second half!! happy ending i promise <33

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602

+ add yourself to my taglists!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Goddamn, Manchild

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, oversitmulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 13.5k✦

✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦

He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.

Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.

You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-

“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.

You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[baucumdumpster]

For fucks sake can someone upload a hotch fic why can't I find any