My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Sherlock Holmes
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
Your legs shake as your skirts slip from around Sherlock’s head. His cheeks are reddened, his lips glistening, and his curls askew. His hands circle your hips and as your last bastion of strength gives out, he guides you down onto his lap.
You gasp as your legs splay over his thick thighs and your skirts heap all around you. He groans and leans in. His fingertips graze up your corset as a sharp intake hops in your chest. He feels along your throat and frames your chin, pinning your head lightly to the wall.
He kisses you so you taste your delight on his lips. Your lashes hood your eyes as his tongue delves into your mouth. He rumbles contentedly as you are helpless to the vows of your marriage.
His other hand searches the layers of your dress. He slips beneath, scaling along the top of your calf and up your thigh. His hand curls behind your head and he pulls you closer. His fingers stretch across your rear, nails digging into the edges of your pantelette.
He lifts you slightly as his touch descends from your head. His fingers catch in your veil and tug it crooked. He tickles your jawline and long your neck. He follows the angle of your shoulder and guides your hand to his chest.
He parts from your lips and lets you sit back. You heave as your lashes flutter. He leads your hand to his jacket, using you to push it aside. He growls as his smokey eyes swallow you up.
You gulp and shakily bring up your other hand. You feel the lapel of his jacket and push it back on his shoulders. He shudders and lets you remove it, his arms falling down to let the sleeves slacken. The heavy coat falls to the floor.
He tugs at his ascot and lashes it down to the floor. You watch him, awash in a dazed heat. He grabs your hands again and places them on the buttons of his vest. You pluck them open with quivering curiosity.
He reaches around you to the buttons behind your neck. He pops them roughly and you gasp. The dress slackens and slumps to expose the top of your chest, peeking out from shift and corset. He hums and leans in to kiss the full swell of your tits.
You shiver as your hands slip beneath his open vest. You feel his stomach tighten. His hands drift down your sides as he nips at your flesh lightly. He groans and bats through your skirts. He shifts you in his lap as his hand dips beneath you.
He grunts as he jolts beneath you. Frustration bounces you as he lifts himself slightly off his heels then settles back down. He raises his head, glassy-eyed as his tongue pokes out between his lips. He angles you against him as two fingertips graze your cunt.
He glides two fingers between your lip, dragging his tip with them. He rubs against you as his arm folds around you and he grips the back of your neck. He lines himself up with your entrance as his chest fills with fumes. He lets his breath out slowly as he urges you onto him.
You clasp the fabric of his shirt as your thighs clench. He breaks through your modesty as he lowers you in his lap. Your walls throb around his overfull intrusion. You hiss sharply as he breathes gingerly. His lips part and he croaks.
“My love,” he runs his hand up your dress again. “You are… better than expected.”
He keeps a grip on your hip as he guides you in his lap. He lifts you back on his length and pushes you back down, sinking even further as you whine. You tense and slide your hands up to clutch his shoulders. The friction between your bodies thrums in your thighs.
He reaches up your back and pushes the fabric of your dress inside the back of your corset as he growls. The tension of the boning and lace chafes. He bows to kiss your neck and yanks; hard. The laces pop as the corset’s frame digs into you then loosens all at once. His mouth dips lower as your breasts overflow your garments.
He growls as he moves you against him. He tilts your hips over his as he smears spit across your skin. His curls tickle you as he keeps his head down diligently.
You gasp as you lurch forward. He takes you with him and he shifts onto his rear. He bends his legs behind you as he lowers himself flat on his back. He lays crammed into the width of the corridor as he pulls you flush across him.
His hand creeps down to your thigh and he squeezes. He pumps into you from below as your arms are crushed between your bodies. You straddle him like an animal, limps shaking as your head drops down against his shoulder.
He pets the back of your head and inhales the scent of your hair. He groans with each thrust, the toes of his shoes squeaking against the wall. His hand skims up to your ass and he kneads you through your linen pantelettes, fingertips tickling the exposed crease beneath your cheek.
You huffs and once more you’re upended. He rolls you over and pins you beneath his large body. He frames your face and bends to kiss you. You brace his chest as he ruts into you, the floor heavy against your back. You hook your legs around him and lift your hips higher. He plunges even deeper and you moan.
Your head lolls to the side as he growls and groans behind your ear. You close your eyes, battered by his desperation and a storm of awe and delight. Your fear scatters for the heat pulsing in your core.
“Almost…” he murmurs. “My love, you are… spec–tac-u-lar.”
He rams down into you, hips jutting violently as he loses control. He shakes as he fights to keep his motion and his voice unravels from deep in his chest. He slows, dragging himself in and out in long strokes until he’s still.
He exhales and lets his full weight down on you. Your legs slip off him, limp around his hips as your heels hit the floor. His shallow breaths mingle with yours and he gently turns you on your side, sliding his arm under your head as he stays inside you.
“My love, this did exceed my fervent calculations,” he sighs.
Exceeded his calculations? Great. So what happens when she's no longer a mystery? When she's exactly as he expects her to be? Will he get bored and seek to be rid of her?
Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.
Warnings: Angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, explicit language, references to childhood trauma, pregnancy, my own rampant abuse of italics and en dashes - Warnings will be added as needed for subsequent parts. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Series Masterlist
Masterlist
A/N: Aaahhh! You guys! I'm so excited to share this one with you!!
This is usually where I thank @paperweight91 for all of her help, but this time I'm telling you to thank her. Because without her this chapter would be much shorter and would have ended in a place that would have made you all so mad at me. So go thank Chelsea!!
But sincerely, I need to thank her too. She did so much work on this chapter with me, helping me turn it from something I'd kind of thought of as filler or just a bridge in my original plan to one of my favorite chapters in this whole story. You're the best, Chelsea.
Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too! I'm honestly kind of hoping you will! As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜
You didn’t bother checking the time when you got up. You could tell by the lack of light filtering through the curtains and the absolute stillness of the house that it was the middle of the night. This had been happening more and more, waking up at odd hours. And waking up hungry. Since you’d officially made it out of your first trimester and escaped the clutches of morning sickness, you’d been absolutely ravenous.
Even though you did your best not to disturb her, Lola grumbled as you left the bed, opening one eye to glare at you, but she didn’t move any more than that.
As you moved into the hall, you were surprised to find Ransom’s door wide open. The far bedside lamp was on, but his bed was empty. But when you went downstairs, none of the lights were on. You cautiously flipped on the light in the kitchen, checking around, but the whole floor was empty. That was a bit odd, but not enough to interrupt your mission. You went straight to the pantry and got out the jar of peanut butter, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. As you were about to go back upstairs, something outside, by the back door, caught your eye. You stopped and waited until you saw movement again, so you cautiously moved forward and peeked your head outside. Ransom was standing a few feet to the side of the door, his gaze on the trees that lined the yard. There was a glass of whiskey in his hand, but it looked untouched.
You came out to stand next to him, closing the door behind you. “Sorry,” he said, very quietly, “did I wake you?”
You weren’t sure how that could have happened, when he was standing alone in the dark, completely silent. “No,” you answered. “I was just hungry.”
He glanced down at what you were holding. His nose wrinkled. “You’re eating peanut butter straight from the jar.”
“Yup,” you confirmed with a smile. “It was the only thing we had that sounded good. What I really want is a burger to dip in it.”
He raised his eyebrow at you. “A burger? To dip in peanut butter?”
“Uh huh! With extra pickles and extra mustard. And jalapeños.” Your stomach gave a little rumble, as if to cement your position on the matter.
Ransom wrinkled his nose. “That sounds disgusting.”
“Yeah,” you agreed with a sigh. “I want it so bad.”
“So I guess that means your appetite is back.”
“Yeah,” you gave him a relieved smile. “Finally.”
He nodded. “That’s good,” he said, quietly.
You waited a beat, comfortable in the silence, and then asked, “What are you doing up?”
He shrugged, looking back out at the trees. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
“Mmm,” you hummed in response. You could have gone back in, finished your snack, gone back to bed. But you didn’t. You weren’t sure why. But you settled in next to him and looked out at the trees.
After several minutes, he added, “My brain just won’t turn off.”
“Oh yeah?” you asked, not turning your attention to him.
“Yeah,” he said, quietly. There was another very long beat before he continued, “I’m not going to be good at this.”
“Good at what?” you asked softly.
He shrugged, resolutely not looking at you. “Any of this. I have no idea how to be a father.” He swallowed, swirling around the ice in his drink but not taking a sip. “Or a husband. I don’t know how to be good at it.”
“Oh,” was all you said at first, his words landing in your chest. Then, “I don’t know how to do it either, be a wife or mother. Or,” you stopped, remembering all of your mother’s words and advice since you were a little girl and how hard you’d been trying to shut them out recently. “I guess I know how to be a certain version of a wife, but I don’t think that’s the kind I want to be.”
He finally looked at you, his eyes soft, a deep blue in the dark. “Like your mom, you mean.”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
“Hmm…” another swirl of his glass, “was she a good mom? To you?”
“Um…” you started, fully turning your head away, but you still felt his eyes on you. “I don’t know. I guess–“ You sighed. You knew the answer even though you didn’t want to say it. “No. No, I don’t think she was. Not in a malicious way, she just- I don’t think she ever had the capabilities. I think she was too beaten down by the time I came along. She loved me in the only way she was able, but… But maybe that wasn’t enough.” You blinked back a few tears and shook your head. The steady chirping of crickets filled the quiet. You tried to let it calm you.
“My parents never loved me,” Ransom said after a long enough beat for you to pull yourself together. “I know that for sure. They’d tell you they do, but they don’t. I’ve known it since I was a kid.”
You put the spoon in the peanut butter and set it down on the patio next to you. With both hands you cradled your stomach. You were starting to really notice it changing, now that you were officially in your second trimester. Now that there was no reason to try to hide it. “I want to love them so much, but I just, I’m afraid I won’t know how.”
Ransom put his glass down on the ledge behind him and then took a step towards you. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you very carefully. Then he took another step, reached a hand toward your middle and stopped. “Uh, do you mind if– Can I?“
It took you a moment to understand what he was asking for. Then, “Oh! Uh, yeah, sure.” You moved your own hands from your belly to make room for his. He carefully put both hands on you, cradling whoever was inside. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even really look up at you. But he stood there for a long time, holding you so gently, staring at your stomach like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could unlock some secret of the universe.
Eventually, you broke the silence, speaking softly in an effort to not disturb the peace you felt here in the dark. “I think,” his eyes shot up to meet yours at the sound of your voice. You gulped at the intensity of his gaze but kept going. “I think that as long as we try, we’ll be giving them more than we ever got. Maybe it still won’t be enough, but, it’ll be something. We just have to try.”
Ransom visibly swallowed, then looked you right in the eye and nodded. He took a step back and picked up his drink from where he’d left it, but he still didn’t drink it. He seemingly just needed something to do with his hands.
You stood in companionable silence for another long moment. Just as you were readying yourself to leave him alone with his thoughts and go back to bed, he spoke again. “What do you think about this house?”
“What?” was the only thing you could say to the strange abruptness of the question.
He was staring absently into the house now, a pronounced crease between his brows. “I keep trying to imagine a little kid running around here and I just can’t.”
Oh. You remembered back to that first day when you found out you were pregnant. You’d tried and failed to do the same thing. “No, I guess I can’t really either. And–“ you paused, finding your words, and he turned his attention to you, “when I first got here, I remember thinking that there was nothing in this house that seemed to have anything of you in it.”
He looked back into the living room through the large windows. “Linda got me this house when I turned twenty-five. It was already decorated and fully furnished when I moved in. I don’t know, I guess it was just the place I lived. Nothing more. And I never really thought about it.”
You didn’t say anything in response. He was clearly thinking through something. You took the moment to look at him, here in just the light coming out through the window. He looked different, you thought, now that you were actually getting to know him. Softer, maybe. Or smaller? Or, just, more like him.
“Maybe,” he said after several moments, “maybe it could be good to find a new place. Somewhere that fits all of us.”
“Yeah,” you said, quietly, a warmth moving through you. “Yeah, that could be really nice.”
He hummed in affirmation, and finally took a sip of his drink, before decisively putting it down again.
He didn’t say anything more, so you decided it was a good time to head back to bed. You quietly moved to the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Hey, Ransom,” you called. He looked up at you, questioning, ready. “There’s still so much about this that really scares me, but I don’t think I’m scared of doing it all with you. Not anymore.”
The way he held your gaze at that was intense. Like he could really see you. And you could see him too. He swallowed roughly and then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. It came out rough. “Me too.”
You just looked at each other for a few more seconds. Then, with your hand on the door, you nodded back at him. “Okay. Well, goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight,” he said, soft and quiet. You felt his eyes on you until you were all the way inside.
Once you got upstairs, your room was empty. You went across the hall, and sure enough, Lola was curled up next to Ransom’s pillow. You smiled to yourself then went back to your room, leaving the door open, just a bit, a little dog-sized crack, in case either of them changed their minds.
You shouldn’t have been surprised how quickly things moved after that. If you’d learned anything about him it was that once he’d made up his mind about something, he acted quickly. The next week, Ransom had set up a meeting with a real estate agent—completely unaffiliated with his mother—and a week after that you were looking at houses. It felt surreal, actively making plans for your future family. But as the growth of your stomach became more noticeable every day, that future was starting to feel a lot more like your present.
There were some differences, it’d turned out, in how you and Ransom had pictured that future. You’d had your sites set on somewhere in Boston proper. Ransom’s empty neighborhood only added to your feelings of isolation and you were sick of it. You missed your apartment in downtown LA. and you wanted something urban again. You wanted parks and restaurants and walkability and culture. You wanted noise and activity and life.
Ransom couldn’t understand that. Especially with a baby on the way. He wanted privacy and quiet and space. But Ransom had a car he loved driving. Ransom had a job that got him out of the house everyday. Ransom had never had to worry about feeling isolated.
So you silenced the voice in your head that always sounded like your mom and put your foot down. This new life you were starting together would not involve another house that didn’t have neighbors. A house that made you feel like a ghost. A house that cut you off from society. So you stared Ransom down until he threw his hands up in exasperation.
Your real estate agent Deborah did her best to bridge the gulf between you, mostly looking at inner-ring suburbs that were quieter and upscale without feeling dead. You’d seen a few houses so far and at each one both you and Ransom had found reasons to turn them down. You hoped this one might be different. You were ready to have at least one part of your new life with this baby settled.
The car pulled up in front of a three-story, swell-front house in Brookline. It was constructed from red brick with black trim. There were brightly colored flower beds lining the walk up to the front door. It felt homey, at least from the outside. As much as you tried to focus on taking it all in, you were quickly distracted by the sight of Ransom, already there, pacing in front of the property and growling into his phone. You turned to the driver, asking him to wait there for you, as you weren’t sure if Ransom would be coming home when you were done or would need to return to work. As he nodded and got back in the car, you headed to Ransom who’d ended his conversation and now was shaking his head in frustration.
“Everything okay?” you asked him as you got close.
His shoulders relaxed at the sight of you. “Just fucking Harlan,” he said with an eye roll as he greeted you with a hug. That was something he’d been doing lately. Since that awful dinner at his grandfather’s house. It was nice. It was really nice. “He wants the baby to take his last name.”
That stopped you cold. “What?”
“Yeah,” Ransom scowled. “I think if he had it to do over again, he would have figured out a way to get my name changed when he made me his heir. But he didn’t, so now he wants to correct it with my heir.”
Your hands instinctively went to your belly. What if this baby isn’t your heir? a tiny voice asked. A voice that had been getting bigger ever since Harlan’s toast to your son at that dinner. But saying that out loud felt too much like tempting fate, so instead you voiced a safer anxiety. “The baby will have a different last name from us?”
“Hey, no. Don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to talk him down. I promise.” He gently placed his hand on the small of your back. “Now, come on, let’s go let Deborah try to convince us that this is the house.”
You nodded, letting your hands relax at your sides, and let him guide you up the front steps to where Deborah was waiting to let you in.
Your first impression was that everything was very beige. It was staged beautifully. But god, you hated the color scheme. The paint, all the fixtures. All so beige. It was oppressive.
Deborah showed you through the house. The finished basement, the semi-open plan living and dining spaces on the first floor, the bedrooms and en suites on the second. It was nice, you supposed, fine. But it just felt like a house. You didn’t know what would push you over into loving it.
So, instead of looking around at the rooms you passed through, you started watching Ransom. You could see his keen eyes taking in every detail. You wondered what he was seeing. More than you were, it seemed. But you couldn’t tell what direction he was leaning. You still found him so hard to read.
Deborah ended the tour on the third floor. “This floor would make a lovely au pair’s suite,” she said with a soft smile toward your pregnant belly. You and Ransom hadn’t talked about that yet, the nanny situation. Only that you both lamented having been completely raised by nannies. “Or if you decide against live-in help, easily convertible into a set of offices.” She looked to you and then Ransom, who was peering around the small common living space. “Well, I’ll let the two of you explore a bit on your own. I’ll be right downstairs if you have any questions.”
You thanked her as she left, then turned to Ransom who was looking at you, a soft smile on his face. “This is the one, right?” he asked you.
“You think?” you asked back, looking around, trying to see what you were missing.
“I do,” he nodded. “I think it’s exactly what we need.”
You wrinkled your nose at the beige walls that surrounded you. “I hate all the colors.”
Ransom gave you a smile that you could only describe as affectionate. It made your stomach swoop oddly. “That’s fine,” he said. “We’ll get a decorator. Have it exactly how we want before we even move in.” He paused and his expression grew more careful. “You really don’t see it?”
You sighed as you looked around again. “I mean, I don’t hate it. And I’m trying, but…” You gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry.”
One last long, careful look at you had him asking, “Can I show you?” with his hand outstretched to take yours.
You only hesitated for a moment before putting your hand in his. “Okay.”
He quickly brought you down to the second floor, his hand warm and snug around your own. He stopped in the hallway. “We can figure out rooms for each of us eventually. You can have the primary if you want. I–“ He abruptly stopped, then shook his head. There was a look in his eyes that you couldn’t read. But then he gestured to the room directly across from the primary and said, “But that’s the nursery.”
You let him lead you inside. It was a large room with a window directly opposite the door. There were built in bookcases on each side of the window, with a low, padded window seat that ran between them. It was lovely.
Ransom came up behind you, close enough that you could feel a hint of his body heat, and pointed, over your shoulder, to one corner. “That’s where the crib will go. Something to match the built-ins.” He moved your attention to the opposite wall. “Some toy chests over there.” And then back to the space next to one of the bookshelves. “And a comfy rocking chair in the corner here. So we can sit with them.”
“Oh,” was all you could say. Tears had started to prick at the corners of your eyes. It wasn’t just that you could see what he was describing. It was that he could see it. That he had thought of the kind of room he wanted for your child. That he so clearly wanted them to be happy.
“We could do a forest theme. Sage and dark green walls, knick knacks on the shelves, get some big stuffed animals.”
“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your emotion out of your voice. “That sounds really nice.”
He grabbed your hand again. “Okay, come on. There’s more.”
He brought you downstairs next, and into the kitchen.
It was large, spacious, with two sliding doors that could separate it from the rest of the house if needed. There was an island with a large gas range on top of it and stools lining one side. It was nice, with all the appliances you could want in a kitchen.
Ransom was watching you take it in. “We’ll have a housekeeper who can prepare meals, of course, but I want this to be a place you can use whenever you want. But only when you want. When the doors are open, I think the sight lines are pretty good to the rest of this level.” He walked over to the breakfast nook that sat under a large window to the backyard, looking at something you couldn’t see. “I really like this,” he said, quietly. “The kid could sit here and color or play or whatever, while you cooked. Or I could sit here with them, and talk to you. Keep you company. I think this could be a really nice place to spend time in.”
You swallowed harshly around a lump in your throat. He was imagining so much. “Yeah,” you agreed, starting to see what he saw. “You’re right. It really could be.”
“Okay,” he said with a soft smile. “One last thing.” Then you let him pull you, a little dazed, into the backyard.
It was bigger than you’d expected, due to it being a corner lot. But you thought the property must have been extended at some point as well. There was a carriage house with the same red brick and black trim as the main house converted into a multi-car garage in the far corner. A paved drive leading from it to the street guarded by a wrought-iron gate. Nearer to the house, there was a small patio, big enough for a dining area. It was beautifully landscaped, surrounded by a tall, thick hedge screen.
“It’s not huge, but big enough I think. Lola would have plenty of room to run around. And maybe we could put a little swing set or something over there, some sort of play area” he gestured back to the dining area, “and you and I could spend nice nights out here, watch the kid play–“
He kept talking. You know he did. But you were so overwhelmed you couldn’t take in anymore. He hadn’t just imagined his own life in this house, with you as a background character. No, he’d imagined the three of you here, as a family, and the way these walls might contain your whole lives together. You were so overcome with feeling. You’d never felt like this before. You lunged for him without a single conscious thought to do it, connecting your lips to his.
Ransom went very still. Shocked. His whole body stiff against yours. Just as you felt him start to relax minutely, you brain finally caught up with your body and you pulled away, taking several steps back. Your hands came up to your mouth in horror. “Oh my god,” you muttered. What had you done? Why had you done that? “I-“ you started and stopped. You wanted to apologize but you didn’t know how to get the words out. And he was standing there, stock still, just staring at you. “I, um,” you swallowed harshly. “You’re, uh, you’re right. This house is ours. Um. You should go tell Deborah. Get the process started. But I–“ You tried to force yourself to breathe. “I have to go.”
And then you ran away, even with him calling after you. Back to the waiting car and then back home.
You beat Ransom home. Of course you did. Hopefully, he’d be gone for a while, getting things settled with Deborah. You didn’t know how you would face him. You fed Lola and let her out, and then you just paced around the lower floor of the house, round and round, before you finally got out your phone and typed a message.
Shit Steve, I think I really fucked up
The three dots to show he was typing appeared immediately, then disappeared, and reappeared.
Give me two minutes
You reacted with a thumbs up and waited. Two minutes later, on the dot, your phone rang. “Hey Steve,” you answered.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, urgently. “Do I need to come out there and beat someone up?”
“No,” you sighed. “This one’s all my fault.”
“Chip, what happened?”
You braced yourself. “I kissed Ransom.”
Steve didn’t say anything in response. For too long. Oh god. You really had fucked up. “Steve?” you asked nervously.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, sounding caught off guard. “I thought– Is that it?”
Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean ‘is that it?’”
“I– I guess I don’t really understand what the problem is here. You think you fucked up because you… kissed your husband?”
“No, that’s not– When you say it like that–“ you struggled, then sighed. “You know that’s not how we are.”
There was another long pause from him and when he spoke again his voice was shockingly soft. “Are you sure about that?”
“Steve, I– What are you talking about?”
“Chip, I was there. From everything I saw and everything you’ve told me since, it’s obvious he cares about you. And vice versa.”
This time it was you who was quiet for a moment as you gathered your thoughts. “I know that he cares about me,” you said, and you meant it. You could finally admit that you felt his care every day. “But caring about me isn’t the same thing as wanting that kind of relationship with me. We’re friends and–“ you stopped, not sure how to say exactly what you meant. “We’re friends.”
When he paused this time, the silence was thoughtful. “Okay, Chip. I can tell you're really panicking and I want to help you, but I need you to help me understand why you’re so upset."
“I just–“ You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that wanted to form. “I don’t want to have ruined everything.”
“But what if you didn’t?” he asked, his voice gentle. “What if he feels the same way?”
You immediately shook your head, even though he couldn’t see you. “No,” you argued, voice quiet. “No, he can’t. That’s not something I get to have.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, hesitantly.
“I– I’ve always known that that isn’t for me. I– That’s not– Even being friends is more than I ever imagined I’d get to have. I should be so grateful to have a husband who cares about me at all. It feels too greedy to want anything else.”
“Oh, Chipmunk.” His voice was so sad. “It’s okay to want good things for yourself. I want everything good for you. I want you to have it.”
Your eyes were fully watering now. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”
“Listen, you know I hate to say anything nice about Ransom. But I think he really wants to take good care of you. If that’s true, he’d want you to talk to him about this. I think it’ll go better than you expect. I think you can trust him.”
“I want to,” you whispered.
“Talk to him,” he ordered. “Promise me you will.”
“Okay,” you acquiesced, your voice so small.
“It’s going to be okay, Chip.” He sounded so sure. “No matter what happens, it’s going to be okay.”
And for a moment, you were ten again, believing everything your big brother told you. “Okay,” you said. “Thank you.”
“Always,” he said, without hesitation. Then he sighed. “All right. I should probably get back to my meeting.”
“What? Oh no, you didn’t–“
“Stop, this was more important. But I should get back now. Let me know how things go.”
“I will. Thank you, Steve.”
“Love you, Chip. Bye.”
Love you. Bye Steve.” You hung up the phone and tried to hold onto the feeling that things might be all right.
You’d done your best to try to settle yourself down. You’d sat on the couch. You’d picked up the book you were in the middle of and opened it to where you’d left off. But you didn’t read. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed locked on the front door. You had no idea how this was going to go.
Even with all of your attention on the door, you still startled when it opened and Ransom walked in. He froze, a little, when he noticed you on the couch. He was carrying something. Your eyes flicked to it as you stood up, taking a few steps forward, but still leaving a gulf between you.
“I got you something. To eat,” he said, shockingly timid, gesturing at you with the greasy, white paper bag in his hand. He set it down on the kitchen island and took a step back.
You walked to the island and very carefully opened it. It was a burger, absolutely slathered in peanut butter. With extra mustard, extra pickles, and jalapeños. The exact burger you’d told him you’d been craving.
“Sorry,” he said quietly, “it took me a while to find a place that could do it. Because, you know, it’s disgusting.”
You just stared at it for a long moment, ignoring his teasing. Those feelings welling up inside you again. But no matter how he cared for you, you decided, it was enough. No matter what Steve said. You couldn’t fuck that up. “I, uh– I owe you an apology,” you said nervously, your fingers fidgeting on the counter top in front of you. You felt Ransom’s gaze snap to you, but he didn’t say anything so you continued. “I’m so sorry I kissed you. I never should have done that and it won’t happen again. I’m really sorry.”
You kept your gaze on your hands until the silence stretched on far longer than you were comfortable with. Nervously, you looked up, locking eyes with Ransom. His brow was furrowed. He looked upset. Was the apology not enough?
He stared at you for too long, like he was trying to find something in your expression, but you weren’t sure what. Then, finally, he asked, “What, exactly, are you apologizing for?” When your only response was to look at him in confusion—you thought you’d been clear—he rephrased. “Why are you sorry you kissed me?”
“Because–“ It felt like your breath was caught in your throat. The moment suddenly felt charged, for reasons you didn’t fully understand. “Because I know that’s not something you want and I–“
“I think,” he cut you off, voice low and so serious, “that you have no idea what I actually want.” And then, before you could parse what he meant, he surged forward, taking your face in both hands, and kissed you.
It took a moment for your brain to register what was happening, it was so far beyond anything you’d expected. But then you caught up, feeling his soft lips on yours, his hands gently cradling your head, the warmth of his body seeping into you. You let out a little gasp, finally understanding, feeling it for real, and he took it as invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue tentatively entering your mouth. You sank into it, taking everything he was giving you. You’d never been kissed like this, never with such feeling. All you could do was ride its wave.
Far too soon, Ransom pulled away. But not far. He pressed his forehead to yours, his lips still so close, and whispered, “What I want is whatever you’re willing to give me. Not a single thing more, but not anything less, either. I want anything you might want.”
“Really?” you asked, your voice so small, overwhelmed. You could feel the tears starting to gather in your eyes, and you futilely tried to blink them away.
“Really,” he answered, and the certainty in his voice moved through you, as he brushed a tear off your face with his thumb. “I promise. Anything you want. Always.”
You took a deep breath. “I want to be a family with you,” you whispered. And with those words, you felt something inside of you, something that you hadn’t fully realized was undone, settle for the first time since you’d sat in Joseph’s office and been forced to sign that contract.
“Me too,” he whispered back. “Let’s be a family.”
And then he kissed you again. Like he meant it. And you believed him.
A/N 2: 😭😭😭 It only took eleven chapters but they finally did it, you guys!!!! I hope you love this as much as I do. Please let me know what you think!
Pairing: DILF!Neighbor!Steve x Reader
Word count: 10.6k
Warnings: cheating (steve is in a loveless marriage), voyeurism, peeping tom!steve, reader plays with this man wayyyyy to damn much, masturbation (m&f), age gap! (reader is like mid 20s, Steve is pushing 40), sweat kink, size kink, fingering, finger sucking, "we shouldn't", mention of a daddy kink, reader is pervy too, p in v, car sex, mentions of road head (m receiving), mating press.
Summary: Your neighbor Steve just wants to make sure you're safe, surely, that's why he's always watching you. And what kind of friendly neighbor would you be if you didn't at least give him something pretty to look at?
+fran: all I have to say is that I meant to only write a single scene out of all of this and somehow this monstrosity came to be. terminal case of yappitis.
dt: my cuteness aggression queens: @epiphanyrogers and @pinksplace, thank you for letting me pick your brains and giving me feedback on some of these lines.
Steve was a good man.
He's always been kind, none of his high school or college ex-girlfriends even had a bad word to say about him. He was a good friend, always willing to lend a hand and help.
He was a good husband, Peggy had no complaints. He was a neat guy, gorgeous in his own way, humble, and great in bed. Except the spark had died about 4 years into their now five year marriage.
Nothing specific just... A roommate situation.
In a last ditch effort to save the marriage instead of fully separating, they got drunk, trying to find the spark that brought them together senior year at Columbia again, and... Jamie came to be.
The now eight month old boy was the light of Steve's life. Named after his best friend, who he thought couldn't be anymore smug about it, Steve loved being a dad. He loved showing his kid how things in the world work for the first time, even if Peggy would dismiss it with a simple "he's not gonna remember this, darling".
The thing is, Steve was a good man.
Which was why it was so hard to come to terms with the fact that whenever his eyes weren't fixated on you, his mind would be imagining all kinds of things that included your perfect existence.
He was sure you came into his life to test him. Test his discipline, his will. Test the strength of the vows he exchanged with Peggy years ago, which now were not strong at all.
It started simple, harmless almost.
He'd see you when he was out for a run early mornings, usually doing yoga in the sunroom of your parents house, the one you moved into after college while you saved up to buy a condo in the city.
At first, he'd avoid his gaze, tell himself this is not how a married man behaves.
Then he'd find excuses.
They started to replace the sidewalk on a patch at the end of his run, so he'd have to stop halfway, and come back the same way, just in time to see you on the elliptical that faced the window, and the beads of sweat dripping down your chest between your breasts in that skimpy sports bra.
He was running more often, while Peggy had Jamie and was adamant on sleep training him. Steve couldn't bear to listen to her let him cry it out.
One scorching day he came back from a run, sweat darkening his grey tank top, checked the mailbox on his way in, grabbed a couple packages that we're sitting on the doorstep and bee-lined to the cupboard to grab himself a glass for ice water.
He really needed to like treadmills more, at least then he'd have his water bottle next to him.
As he gulped the last few sips of the cup, he went on about his day, waiting for his heart rate to come down a bit, waiting to stop sweating enough for a shower to be productive.
He went through the mail, threw the junk mail out, put the things needing attention in a neat pile on the kitchen isle to take care of later.
Then, came the packages.
Mindlessly opening them, a couple were things he'd got for a new little greenhouse project, different things to keep bugs away from the out of season flowers he was trying to grow, then an Amazon package had some new pacifiers for Jamie, and when he got to the last one, Steve choked on his own saliva.
The tiniest thongs, all sorts of colors, themes, just... there.
A pale pink lacy one, another light pink with mesh on the front and cherries embroidered in it, some black ones, white ones with pretty little blue flowers on them, and even a crotchless one.
The tissue paper crinkled as he went through the box more and more.
Was Peggy planning something? These aren't even her sty—
His thoughts got cut short by the doorbell, and he put the box back on the counter.
He wiped his palms on his hands and crossed the kitchen and living room, and when he opened the door, there you were.
In your little yoga wrap top, and leggings, looking like you just got demolished by the elliptical in the best way.
“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said, all breathy and sweet, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think a package of mine might’ve been delivered here? FedEx picture looked like your porch.”
Steve stared at you. Just for a second too long, he was dumbfounded. What were you— oh. Oh.
The Victoria's Secret box wasn't his wife's. It was yours. He just went through his neighbor's thong shipment like a fucking creep.
Your cheeks were a little flushed from the heat, there was a bead of sweat on your temple, and you looked so young, standing there in the bright morning light, all bright eyes and no idea how hard his heart was pounding.
"Mr. Rogers?" You pulled him out of his trance and he almost wished you didn't. The inside of his head was less tempting than whatever could happen with you this close to him, even with his wife in the nursery with his kid.
"Uh, yeah—I, uh—hang on.”
He turned around to get the box, deliver his guilt to you wrapped in pretty lace and pink tissue paper. You shamelessly dragged you eyes over him. The sheen coat of swet on his arms, the damp hair on the nape of his neck, the way his shirt was sweaty enough your pervy little brain wanted to suck on it until it was dry.
Meanwhile, he was cringing at the thought of delivering you the box. He couldn't even pretend he didn't go through it. If it was any other type of merch it would be fine, but it was lingerie, and it was you, and now he'd have to physically stop himself from picturing you in them.
Should he apologize? Say he opened it on accident? Say he thought it was Peggy’s? Say nothing?
“Here,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Sorry—I didn’t check the name before opening.” You took it with both hands, your fingers brushing his.
You took one look at the box and shrugged. “That’s okay,” you said, meeting his eyes now. "Just regular underwear. Everyone wear 'em, right?" A playful chuckle left your lips and a light went off in the back of his mind.
So this was just your everyday? You were walking around smelling like roses and waffle cones, looking teh way you did, and under all of that, some sort of skimpy thong?
Steve’s brain short-circuited.
You turned, walked away down the driveway with a little sway in your hips, and Steve stood there like an idiot, still half-hard, with guilt bubbling like acid in his throat.
He let the door click closed behind you, his forehead touching the cool wood while he tried to pull himself together. He pushed away from the door with a dissatisfied goran, barely there, ready to shower the afternoon off.
When he turned around, Peggy stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, holding an obviously freshly up from a nap Jamie.
She had one of his old college tees on, worn soft from years of sleep and laundry. Jamie was gnawing on the corner of a stuffed giraffe, looking around with wide curious eyes.
“Who was at the door?” Her voice was light, worriless. Just making conversation after a well deserved Saturday nap.
“Uh… just a delivery mix-up. One of the neighbors.” Steve tried to keep his voice even, indifferent.
Jamie babbled something unintelligible, and Peggy kissed the top of his head before heading into the kitchen.
"You'd think a delivery company would check an address more closely." She chuckled.
Steve gave her a nervous chuckle back and followed her to the kitchen. Jamie cooed at him, wanting to speak so bad but not quite having the words for it yet.
A few days later, Steve thought to himself, get a grip.
This isn't how a married man behaved, he reminded his stupid brain, and his even stupider cock, this isn't how a married man behaves towards a girl half his age and not his wife.
So he went on a run earlier. Not too much, just about an hour.
The air wasn't as warm now, he has to run a little harder to get the same sweat going, but the fair noise of the critckets through his earbuds soothed him. Mixed with the deep indigo of the sky lightening by the hour, it was like the world slowed down for a moment.
And it came to a full stop when he was at the end of his run, almost to his house, passing yours, and the lights in your room were on, your curtains being forgotten wide open and inviting the wandering eyes of a guilty ridden new father next door.
Lit from the side by the soft, amber glow of a lamp—skin flushed, still dewy from a shower, he saw you drop your towel, and walk around your room looking for things. Just a little thong stretched across your hips, your body relaxed, soft, beautiful in a way that felt dangerously intimate.
That was enought to stop him dead in his tracks. You gathered your hair up into a loose, careless bun, strands falling free at your temples, at the nape of your neck. The kind of messiness that made him ache with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to tangle his fist in it, to pull, to put you exactly where he wanted you.
He wathed you pump lotion into your hands and rub it all over your chest, your breats, shoulders, and all the way down your legs, turning around to look at yourself in the mirror and put some on your ass too.
He wondered if that's what smelled like vanilla and roses and a dissoluting marriage.
He should have looked away. He knew that. The thought barely registered anymore, drowned out by the way your nipples were visibly tight, pebbled, the way his body reacted instantly, predictably, traitorously. His cock stirred in his shorts, heavy and insistent, and shame flooded him right alongside desire.
And then you looked.
Straight.
At.
Him.
There was no confusion in your expression. No panic, no scramble for the curtain, just recognition.
He was already blushing from the run, the heat of his blood pumping faster to move his muscles, but the way you grinned and waved your fingers instead of looking ashamed had him turning a whole new shade.
He held your gaze for a few seconds, enough to get his cock to stir in his pants, until the light on the house next door came on. His house.
He saw you quickly draw the curtains closed, and he sheepishly made his way in the door and up to his shower.
Steve had just finished changing Jamie’s diaper when Peggy appeared in the doorway, arms crossed gently, that familiar half-smile on her face.
“We’re going out tonight.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Dinner. Just us. I made a reservation at that place on Monroe. The one with the garden patio you like.”
He scooped Jamie into his arms and straightened. “Peg, I don’t think we—”
“We need this, Steve.” Her voice stayed calm. Measured. “It’s been a while since we did anything just the two of us. You said you wanted to try.”
His jaw flexed. Guilt already tightening in his throat.
“There’s no one to watch Jamie.”
“Already handled. I asked the girl next door. She’s got babysitting experience—says she used to nanny when she was in school. And she’s always been so sweet when I’ve run into her with him.”
Peggy stepped closer, brushing her hand over Jamie’s head, then turning to the pile of onesies to her left.
“She offered to babysit,” she said casually, while folding Jamie’s tiny laundry into perfect stacks. “She’s got experience, and she’s so sweet with him. Honestly, I think he lights up more for her than he does for your mom.”
The second he agreed without putting up much more of a fight, he knew he stepped into a trap of his own making.
“What time?” he asked, voice barely steady.
“Seven-thirty.” Peggy kissed his cheek. “She’ll come by a little after seven.” He forced a tight smile. Nodded. Said nothing as Peggy walked off to pack the diaper bag just in case.
He stared down at Jamie, who was blinking up at him with the easy, gummy innocence of a baby who didn’t know his father was a fucking mess.
The hours that followed crawled.
He was sure she knew of all of it. But what all of it was there to know? Nothing had, or would, happened. The only proof of his existing temptation was the throughts swimming in the groves of his brain, and he kept those under lock and key at the bottom of the article ocean.
Steve couldn't focus. He kept wiping the counters even though they were clean. Rearranging mail that didn’t need touching. Every sound from outside made his heart stutter.
At 7:04, the doorbell rang its usual tone, and he answered the door, Peggy still upstairs finishing getting ready, and Jamie on his play pad in the living room.
He was met with the sight of you in the plainest clothes he's ever seen, black leggings that hugged your lower body just right, a white tank top, and an oat-colored cashmere wrap sweater over top, holding a tote bag and a warm smile that made his stomach flip.
“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said brightly. “I brought some books and little toys. Hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “That’s… yeah. Thanks for doing this.”
“Happy to help,” you chirped, stepping past him, your shoulder brushing his arm, pretending the sight of him in a dark dress shirt and his beard looking like he just trimmed it, and hair pushed back didn't make your knees weak.
Peggy appeared just behind him, purse in hand, perfume light and citrusy and familiar.
“Thank you again for doing this,” she said warmly. “He just needs his bottle around 8, he might fuss a little, but he’s been good all day.” She gestured to the living room, making sure she had the right belongings in her purse.
“He’s an angel,” you replied, reaching for Jamie, watching him extend his arms to you like it was second nature. “We're gonna have a good time, aren't we, sweet boy?” Jamie cooed and curled into your chest like he’d belonged there all along.
He wanted to stay. Wanted to sit too close on the couch. Watch you bat your lashes while pretending to focus on cartoons. He wanted to watch your hands move, wanted to feel the weight of your gaze, wanted to see if you’d say something—anything—about that morning. About the window. The wave.
But instead, he took Peggy’s hand. Walked out the front door.
And wondered if hell felt exactly like this.
The restaurant was beautiful. Romantic, even. Everything Peggy said it would be.
Flickering candles. String lights woven through ivy. That faint, expensive smell of rosemary and wine and fresh bread. Soft music and even softer chatter all around them.
Peggy was saying something about a new gallery opening. Or maybe it was her Pilates instructor. Steve wasn’t listening. He was trying.
Really, he was.
He nodded at all the right moments, let out soft mhm’s and chuckled where appropriate. But every time he blinked, it wasn’t her voice he heard. It was yours.
He took a sip of his wine and Peggy sighed, noticing the distance, the distraction behind his expression. “I brought the monitor,” she said, proud. “See? We can still relax. Nothing to worry about.”
She turned the small screen to him, low volume to not disturb anyone else as the waiter refilled their waters. And there was Jamie.
Sitting up in the crib, like he just woke up from what should've been an entire night's sleep, whimpering softly like he was about to start fussing. Little mouth twisted in that almost-cry, fists rubbing at his eyes.
You came into frame like something out of a dream—hair tied up, neckline of your soft cardigan slipping just slightly off your shoulder. Your hands moved with such careful affection. No tension. No rush.
“Hey, hey… sweetheart, what’s the matter?” you whispered gently. “Oh, bubba, you had a bad dream?” you cooed, scooping him up into your arms. “I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re okay, honey.”
Jamie’s cries softened the second his cheek hit your shoulder and you swayed back and forth, his tiny little fists quickly finding the cashmere fabric you wore and clutching it.
“You just missed some snuggles, huh? It’s okay. I get it. Me too sometimes.”
His eyes stayed glued to the screen, chest tight. Something heavy pressed behind his ribs as he watched you whisper something to Jamie.
Your hand curled around his foot, absently rubbing over the little sock, and Steve didn’t even realize his jaw was clenched until his teeth ached.
Because Peggy—Peggy, whom he loved, or used to, or wanted to love again—never touched Jamie like that. She never murmured soft things for no reason. Never stroked his cheek or held him just because.
She followed the schedule. Let him cry it out. Laughed when Steve said he wanted to rock him longer. She mothered, but she didn’t nurture.
“See? Nothing to worry about.”
The house was dark when they got home. Just the warm, amber glow of the hallway lamp spilling faint light across the hardwood floors.
Peggy slipped in ahead of him, kicking off her heels with a little sigh. “God, I forgot what it feels like to eat without a bib being thrown at me.”
Steve chuckled lightly as he put the keys in the key bowl by the door, both of them walking towards the living room where you were, watching the sizzle of the TV light washing both your face and Jamie's back in all kinds of colors.
You were curled up on the couch, socked feet planted in front of you so your legs could be flexed, Jamie fast asleep on your chest while one of your hands lightly grazed your nails over his back.
His cheek was pressed right above your heart, his little hand fisted in the fabric of your top, thumb resting in his mouth. You had a cheek flush with the top of his head, enjoying whatever movie you had put on.
“Sorry,” you whispered, a little sheepish when you saw both of them. “He's just so cute, I didn’t want to move him too soon. I kinda… love baby cuddles.”
Peggy smiled, already walking over. “Oh, no worries, honey. Thank you so much for staying late. You’ve been such a help.” She reached down, carefully gathering Jamie from your arms.
Jamie stirred a little, let out a sigh, and curled right back into her like a habit.
You stood, smoothing your top, brushing invisible wrinkles from your leggings. “He’s so sweet,” you said softly. “You’ve got such a good baby.”
"He's all Steve's personality." Peggy turned around and, already halfway up the stairs with Jamie cradled in her arms, called over her shoulder, “I’ll go lay him down. Be right back.”
Silence fell between you two, and it didn't take long for you to turn to Steve, who as now looking everywhere except you.
“You guys have a good night?” He blinked, swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, it was nice.”
“That restaurant’s supposed to be amazing.” You shifted on the balls of your feet, eyes raking over him, and finally stopping at his, holding his gaze like both of you knew what unspoken words wanted to be said. He just nodded, not trusting his mouth to say anything. “I’ll, um—I should go.”
“Right,” he said, but didn’t move. You gave him one last smile, then stepped past him, grabbing your bag from the side table. “Night, Mr. Rogers.”
And with a soft click of the front door, you were gone.
Gone from his house, but not from his thoughts.
He didn't see you for the whole weekend.
You spent it in the city with your best friend, something about watching Hamilton, having rooftop cocktails, and dancing until your feet hurt.
He heard you come back the same night Peggy left for her monthly girls' dinner, which consisted of wine, fine dining, and their own version of a book club in someone's house after.
He watched the shadow of the leaves outside on his ceiling, almost staring a hole into the floral texture he let Peggy so carefully pick. It was 1:32am.
He knew it becuase he looked at that clock probably four times in the last thirty seconds, hoping it would say it was four hours later so he could wake up and get his day started.
He tried closing his eyes, letting his mind wander into more peaceful scenarios, a quiet day at home, drinking tea, snow outside and just watching some random show while the fireplace ran.
Except you also quickly intruded into those thoughts.
And before he realized, he was imagining forcing your back into the plush cushions of his couch as he buried his face between your legs, lapping up between your folds like he'd never get the chance to again.
His hand palmed himself through his grey sweats as he imagined your moans, getting more and more high pitched by the minute, as he drove you closer and closer to the ed—
Ring! Ring! Ring!
He heard the soft ringtone and vibration of his phone on the nightstand, groaning in disapproval, thinking it was Peggy calling to tell him she was on her way home and talk through her drive. It made her feel safer, but also right now it definitely made his frustrated he couldn't take care of himself.
He turned on his side, picking up the phone without paying much attention. "Hello?"
His voice was dripping with annoyance, a feeling he tried to keep at bay when talking to the woman he was supposed to be trying to have a happy marriage with.
“Hey, Mr. Rogers. Sorry—it’s late, I know.” Your voice came through the speaker and he actually closed and opened his eyes a couple times thinking he was dreaming.
"Is everything okay?" He cleared his throat when his voice failed him for a beat.
"I keep hearing this noice outside my window, can you see anything from yours? Maybe a branch or something?"
It was pathetic how he did whatever your sweet voice told him to. Like a sailor to a siren, luring him to his own demise.
He threw the covers off of himself, the shuffle being audible on your end of the line, and as soon as he stopped in front of his big bedroom windows that faced the side windows of your room, there you were.
Your bed faced the glass, soft glow coming from your barthoom light being on and the street lights coming in, and your frame was spread on the bed like you wanted to invite the Devil through the gates of Heaven yourself.
The gates of Heaven, in this metaphor, being your spread thighs, pussy only covered by the white cotton of your thong, getting more sheer by the second, the more you touched yourself, rubbing two fingers up and down, making the fabric dance over your slit.
Steve could hear your shaky little breaths through the phone, no point in trying to keep your voice level now. "What the fuck are you doing?"
He watched you shuffle a little, trying to angle your body in a way that you could steal glances at him if you contorted your neck enough. "I missed you the other night."
You let out a shaky breath when your hand finally dared to go under the fabric, touching the wet heat of your slit, dragging your fingers up and down.
Steve was speechless. What in the actual fuck was he to do?
"I'm married." He didn't know if he was trying to reason with you or himself. Either way, there was no talking sense into this situation.
You gave a dismissive huff, reacing down to pull the thong off and throw it somewhere across the room, spreading your thighs wider. "I don't think either of us cares about that right now."
Steve’s free hand braced on the windowsill. The other still held the phone to his ear like it might collapse otherwise. “You shouldn't be doing this,” he rasped. That just made you chuckle.
"Oh? You're gonna talk me through what I should be doing?" You bit your lip at the thought.
Steve groaned. "You should be hanging out with people your age, not—"
"Not my obscenely hot neighbor?"
"Married neighbor."
You sighed. "You keep saying that like you're trying to convince yourself you're not enjoying this… a pretty young thing just wanting you." You heard him breat heavily, like he was absorbing the truth in your words.
"C'mon, Steve. Let— fuck," you inserted your middle finger into yourself, a moan breaking your sentence in half. "Let your hand wander… just… touch yourself, don't make me do it alone."
As if he needed anymore guilt to eat him alive.
Steve’s hips shifted forward without thinking, his breath coming heavier. His cock pressed hard against the front of his sweatpants, throbbing with every shallow inhale.
You moved a little faster now, fingers slick, lips parted, and he could see the exact second your brows pulled together, your thighs tensed, and your chest heaved.
"Please, Steve…"
He shoved his sweats down just enough, cock springing free at full attention, getting redder with want, a hiss of relief leaving his lips as he wrapped his hand around himself, pumping slowly.
"God, I bet you'd feel so good —" You kept going, making him dizzy with your words, to the point where he forgot the circumstances for a moment. "I'd keep you warm, Steve, wouldn't be able to pry me off of you."
"Wouldn't want you to —" He spit in his hand, the filthy sound coming into your ears and shooting straight into your core. "Would keep you filled up, always, sweetheart."
You whined. "Want you to, oh God, Steve—ah!"
"You're close, aren't you?" He taunted, stroking himself faster. You nodded as if he could ssee you, and then realized he couldn't.
"Yeah, yeah, yes—"
Breathy and shaky and out of your mind was how you came around your fingers, imagining they were his, as he choked on his own spit across the way, watching you pump your pussy until he came on his hand, ragged breaths coming through the phone.
You wanted to giggle to yourself, but settled for a quick "Good night, Mr. Rogers." and left him, quite literally, standing with his dick in his hands.
Somehow, the next day brought more shame along the sunlight.
Steve didn't know what had possessed him to cross the line. A look here and there, he had convinced himself, was fine. People looked, you could admit someone was objectively attractive without being attracted to them.
Jerking off on the phone with your hot, younger neighbor while watching her finger herself thinking of you?
There was no mental gymnastics that could morally justify that.
He commanded himself to keep his head screwed on straight, better and tighter than before. So he started the day gardening.
And since God hates Steve Rogers, He made you be at your parent's pool, in a nice little bikini, getting eaten by the warm sunshine like Steve wanted to devour you.
You looked at him from a distance first. The hose is coiled around his forearm, the water spraying in slow arcs across the flower beds. You let your eyes shamelessly linger on his arms, the beads of sweat around his neck, his hair, his beard… You gave his groin all the attention it seemed to want from behind your sunglasses.
And then, like the living divine punishment you were, you decided to get up from the tanning chair and approach him, slinging your arms over the fence and looking around him aove your sunglasses.
“Morning, Mr. Rogers.”
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes from the roses he was trying to keep alive in the summer heat.
Maybe you loved playing with him a little too much. “Doing what?”
“This.” He nods toward the street, toward the sidewalk, toward you. “Flirting. Teasing. Whatever game this is.” His voice was hushed, rightfully so.
You raise a brow. Innocent. “I’m not playing anything.” Then your voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And I think we're way past flirting… don't you?"
“You are. You have been for weeks.”
You tilted your head, looking for him to meet your gaze. "You're gonna tell me you didn't like it? I thought it was pretty clear when guys did."
You were going to be his demise. He was sure of it. Just might as well get the shovel and start digging the six feet he'd need so Peggy could bury his ass.
“You should be going after guys your age,” he says suddenly. Quiet. Bitter. “Not married men twice your age with babies at home.”
You chuckled, turning your gaze to the street and back at him. "Boys my age are boring."
“You think I don’t lie awake every night wishing I could stop thinking about you?” He finally gave into admitting it, hoping the pathetic confession would make you want to at least help a man keep his dignity.
He was about to keep going with his rant, when he saw you look over your shoulder and wave. "Oh! Hi, Mrs. Rogers!" You gave her a beaming smile, like you weren't trying to tangle her husband in your vines.
Steve stiffened. Turned his head just in time to see Peggy walking across the yard with a tote bag in one hand and Jamie bouncing on her hip, dressed in a little onesie with stars on it.
“These flowers are so pretty,” you chirped, stepping back toward the fence line like you hadn’t just told Steve he was unraveling under your fingertips. “Did you plant these? They’re gorgeous.”
Peggy beamed. “I did, yes! But Steve keeps them alive. I just pick the colors.”
Jamie clapped softly, and you waved at him. “Hey, cutie.”
Peggy stepped closer, shifting Jamie to her other hip, and smiled wide at you. “Hey, we’re doing a little thing for the Fourth—just some food, neighbors, maybe sparklers in the driveway. You should come.”
Fuck me and all my life, was what Steve thought.
“Oh!” You put a hand to your chest. “Really?”
“Of course. Bring a friend if you want. We’ll have a kiddie pool and a grill and probably too much potato salad.”
“That sounds so fun,” you said sweetly. “Thank you. I’d love to come.” You nodded.
Peggy turned to Steve then, completely unaware of the tension vibrating off his skin.
“Babe, can you grab the sunscreen from the patio table? I left it when I brought Jamie’s snack out.”
Steve nodded mutely and stepped away without a word, fingers twitching at his sides. When he got inside he watched you two through the window, watched Peggy get Jamie closer to you and the little boy beam at you, and he wondered just how he was supposed to get out of this.
It was the hottest day of the year, like the sun and warmth Gods were shining upon all the little kids who wanted to play in the water all day.
And like the Devil himself wanted to drag Steve Rogers down by the balls.
Plastic chairs scattered across driveways. Coolers open. Kids shrieking over bubbles and popsicles. The scent of grill smoke hung in the air with fireworks anticipation, and patriotic bunting flapped lazily on every porch.
Little by little, everyone arrived. And with each clink of the backyard fence, Steve caught himself looking towards the sound to see if it was you.
Exactly twenty-three minutes into the party, it was.
You had a flowery sundress on, red roses in the print contrasting with the white background. The sleeves were short, barely there, white lace straps, really. And it had a white lace trim to the sweetheart neckline.
To anyone else, you waved at him like you'd wave to Mr. Pierce down the street, or Stark Sr on the house next to his.
To him, he knew you were looking at him like you wanted to unhinge your jaw and swallow him whole.
He manned the grill with such precision one would think he was trying to cook the burgers by staring them into broiling.
You said hi to Peggy. Hugged her. Kissed Jamie’s cheek and cooed at him like you were made for it.
And Steve knew, in the marrow of his bones, that if he didn’t get himself under control, someone was gonna notice how tense he was. How the veins in his forearms were flexing under the weight of a thousand unsaid things. How his eyes lingered too long on your collarbones, your thighs, the slight sway of your hips when you laughed at something Peter Parker said across the lawn.
Steve hated how easy it was for Peter to make you laugh. And he hated that he hated it.
He dropped another patty on the grill, the sizzle matching what his brain sounded like ringing between his ears, trying to be distracted by anything and everything that didn't smell like roses, didn't smile like an angel, and didn't sound like the Devil.
You came up behind him slow. Soft. So that no one noticed. Not Peggy chatting at the lemonade table, not Stark keeping score on the cornhole game, not Peter pretending he wasn’t watching.
“Mr. Rogers,” you murmured, the title curling at the edges like sin, “Can you make me a rare one with double cheese?”
You stepped in closer—too close for propriety, not close enough to look suspicious. Just enough to press the lightest drag of your fingers along his lower back, right above the waistband of those godforsaken powder blue shorts.
Your nails trailed up his spine like you had every right to be there. Like your touch was casual.
You leaned in like you were checking the condiments. Your voice was so low only he could hear it. "I like mine a little more raw."
“You don't know when to fucking stop, do you?” You didn’t pull back. Instead, you picked up a paper plate from the stack and traced your thumb over the rim.
“I figured I’d get the good cut, since you’re the one handling all the meat.” That got him. He inhaled visibly and before he could say something back, your demeanor changed, and he heard someone call out your name from the other side of the party.
A couple hours later, between watermelon margaritas and little mini quiche, Steve saw red.
Peter was too touchy, too eager, too young for you. You'd eat him alive. There's no way he could handle you in the way you deserved.
Everyone was still having fun, mingling at the party, and Steve, disastrouns bull-in-a-china-shop-Steve, bumped into Peter while he was carrying a bag of charcoal for more grilling, making the red liquid from Peter's glass splash all over your pretty dress.
Peggy wasted no time, getting you a cloth and a handy tide pen, pointing you to the washroom way down the hall inside, tucked around the living room and the stairs that led to their room upstairs.
Your footsteps were quick, not wanting to stain the fabric you knew would be a pain to clean, and as you waited for the sink water to warm up a little to make your cleaning easier, you admired your own reflection.
Seconds later, the doorknob rattled, and you turned around.
The door opened quickly, and closed just as fast. Slow enough that Steve's big frame was now occupying the small washroom facing the mirror, your backside now pressed to the marble counter as you braced your hands on it.
Steve stood there for a second, dressed in the blue shorts and white tank top, blue eyes burning through you like he could see through skin and bone straight to the part of you that was waiting for this.
If you were Superman, you'd be able to see the cogs turning inside his skull, almost like he was trying to talk himself down of whatever he came here to do.
There was still time to turn back.
Pretend he didn't know you were in here, wrong door, let out an apology and move on with his life. His jaw flexed like he’d bitten the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, and he ran a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what else to do with it.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” you murmured, even as your fingers smoothed over your neckline. “Someone could see.”
His eyes dropped to your hands. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Your lashes fluttered with mock innocence, tilting your face. “Fix my dress? The fabric is delicate, y'know.”
"I'm not talking about that and you know it." He paused, just to see if you'd admit it. Admit you were evil and horrible and living to ruin his life. When you didn't, he kept going."
'You think this is funny? Flirting with Parker, prancing around like that, like he has a chance, in front of—”
“I think you told me to hang out with people my age.”
The audible sound of air fuming out of his nostrils was enough to make heat travel down to your core. You could feel his restraint looser and looser by the second, you were almost there. Almost getting what you wanted.
"You’re staring," you said lightly, fingers drifting down the cleavage of your dress as if tempting him to tear at the lace trim. "I thought it was the young guys who were supposed to have trouble keeping their eyes up."
Steve blinked, as if coming out of a fog, finally realizing just how close he had gotten to you, almost flush with you, as your eyes looked up at him with innocence that was surely long gone from your mind.
Your breath mingled with his. He could feel it, light and teasing and so damn warm. You raised your hand to graze your fingertips on the side of his wrist, gauging how far he'd let you go.
Once you were met with no resistence, you grabbed his hand, your gaze never leaving his face while he didn't know if he should look at your clevage, your lips, or your eyes. You brought his hand under your dress, his thick fingers making contact with the wettening cotton, making you let out a shaky breath.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you murmur, searching his eyes for any sort of feeling but haze. I mean, it’s polite to check on your neighbors, right?”
His lack of response was even more inviting. Like he was some helpless fool walking into a trap, only to realize he wanted to be caught.
"Doesn't it feel good? Mmm?" You tilted your head the other way. "Feeling someone who actually wants you?"
“It must be so exhausting,” you whispered, “pretending like you don’t think about it. Like you don’t wonder.”
And that's when his control fully snapped.
His right hand came up to grab your face, squishing your cheeks together, while his left kept its place between your thighs, his trance broken now.
"Shut the fuck up." Steve spoke through gritted teeth but being more mad at himself for not pulling away than anything else.
"C'mon, Steve—" Your voice was arrogant even thought you looked downright silly with your cheeks like that, and he finally looked you in the eyes.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says. “And you know damn well I’m the one paying for it.” He held you gaze for a second, and the rotten part of him took over.
His index and middle fingers, previously still, moved in tight, slow circles around your clothed clit, making you let out a low chuckle against his mouth. You watched the shift in his eyes—that flicker of something hot, dangerous, uncontrollable—and you knew you had him.
“This what Peter does to you?”
A sharp little whimper escapes your throat.
“No?” His voice is cruel now. Mocking. “Then why are you dripping like this, sweetheart?”
He presses just a little harder through the cotton, dragging two fingers along your slit, slow and mean, until your knees start to buckle.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors to see what a filthy little thing you are. Can’t even make it through a block party without begging for attention.”
You tried to snap back—something snarky, something bratty, but he took his hand away, and put it back on the inside of your panties, the feeling of the pads of his fingers through your folds enough to shut you up instantly.
“Go ahead,” he whispers, eyes blazing. “Say something smart now.”
He slipped two fingers past the fabric, found your bare, swollen folds, and you went limp with a soft, broken sound. He held your face in place, watching every single twitch and tremble like he was memorizing it.
“God, you’re so desperate,” he groaned. “You want everyone to see what I do to you? Is that it? Want me to fuck you through your pretty little sundress while Peggy serves talks about cocktails twenty feet away?”
You whimpered, shaking your head even as you grind down on his hand.
“No?” He laughed, dark and malicious. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”
“That’s what I thought,” he whispered. “My good girl’s all mouth until someone makes her use it.”
You were trembling, trying to breathe. Not even bothering to hide how hard you were clenching around his fingers, how badly you wanted him to give in, pull his hand out and unzip his jeans and just ruin you right there against sink.
You shake your head, gasping.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Knew you were walking around this party leaking for me.”
You try to answer—try to say something—but his grip on your face wasn't giving up, and the slow pump of his fingers grazer the sweet spot inside of you was agonizing.
“Bet you were hoping I’d see you with him,” he sneers. “Bet you wanted to make me jealous.”
You nod, and that’s all it takes.
“So fuckin’ needy,” he breathed, lips just a smidge shy of being against yours. “So wet for your neighbor. For a marriedman. You know how sick that makes you, baby?”
You choke on a moan.
“Use your words.”
“I don’t care,” you whisper, brows furrowed, sweat forming on your hairline from the sheer effort of staying as quiet as possible. “I don’t fucking care, Steve—please—”
That breaks something in him, and he finally kisses you, tasting the strawberry flavor of your lipgloss, little specks all over his lips.
His tongue explored your mouth, not even making ceremony of the fact that he was comandeering you as a whole.
He pulled his fingers out, and presses harder, teasing circles over your clit with one hand while the other slips behind you to cup your ass, grinding you down on his fingers shamelessly.
“You wanna come right here, whil'e they're all out there?” he hisses. “While Peter waits for you inside, wondering where you went?”
You nod frantically, and he chuckles darkly—mean, condescending, filthy.
“Yeah, of course you do. My filthy little girl just can’t help it, can she?” He leaned in, breath hot against your ear.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Be a good girl and come just like this, too desperate to wait for my cock.”
Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your whole body spasms, hips stuttering, thighs trembling, eyes rolling back as slick coated down his fingers and your own inner thighs.
Steve watched.
He watched like he was starving.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. One. By. One.
He straightened your dress with infuriating care. Smoothed the fabric over your hips like nothing happened, slipped out without raising suspicion and left you to look at your wrecked reflection in the mirror of his house.
The fireworks were long over.
Peggy had been asleep for hours, curled up with a sleep mask and earplugs while Steve wandered back outside to finish putting away the chairs and rinsing out the pool house. The air still smelled like charcoal and chlorine and jasmine—the last ghost of a summer night that didn’t know how to quit.
He was halfway through folding up the last tablecloth when he heard it: soft footsteps on concrete. A shuffle behind him that was barely there.
When he turned, there you were.
Barefoot with your hair tied up, lips shiny with reapplied gloss. Wearing the same little sundress from earlier, only now it’s loose and rumpled, slipping off one shoulder like you couldn’t quite decide if you were getting ready for bed or not.
“Forgot my sunglasses,” you say, but your eyes are fixed on him, not looking anywhere else.
Steve straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, trying not to show the way his pulse kicked up.
“They’re on the counter by the grill,” he says, gesturing toward the pool house. “Probably with the other stuff people left behind.”
You walked past him without another word, your shoulder brushing his arm.
The pool house was dark, except for the amber glow of the overhead string lights Steve hung last summer. You stepped inside like you own the place, lean over and easily find the sunglasses in their little makeshift "lost and found" bin, dress riding up just enough to show the backs of your thighs.
Steve lingered at the door, watching, wanting.
“Find ’em yet?”
You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’re in here somewhere.” You were 100% lying and he knew it.
It’s quiet again. The kind of quiet that buzzes with everything unspoken.
Then you straighten, slowly, holding your sunglasses, and turn to face him—closer now than before. Too close. Steve can see the shine on your collarbone, the little mark he left on your inner thigh with his knuckles, the hint of lace peeking out beneath your hem.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on them,” you murmur. “You always watch so carefully.”
Something in his face flickers. He knows he should leave, knows he should walk further from the line he crossed earlier, but now that he has, he couldn't bring himself to care.
He couldn't not wonder if you tasted as sweet from the source as you did on his fingers. Couldn't stop imagining your moans if he had his cock in you, since you lost your mind over only his fingers earlier.
He's painfully aware he should bring the trash inside, and go sleep in bed next to his wife.
Instead, he let the door swing shut behind him. He stared at you. Your face, your mouth, your eyes.
“What are you doing?”
You tilt your head slightly. “You tell me.”
There’s a long pause. Steve breathes out slowly, like he’s holding back the last thread of the rope he's gonna hang his sins with.
He doesn't answer.
“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be good right now.” His hand caught your wrist and he leaned in.
His mouth crashed into yours, swallowing the smug smile that adorned your face, his hands grabbing at your body like he could anchor himself to your skin. You gasped softly into him when he pressed you flush against him, and you could feel his hard-on through his shorts.
He fisted the back of your hair and tilted your head until you gasped again. “You knew what you were doing,” he hissed. “Wearing that little sundress, letting him follow you around like a damn puppy—”
“I only ever wanted you to see,” you interrupted, voice shaking as he backed you against the little sofa in the corner. “You were the only one I was trying to make jealous. I didn’t even like him like that—I never wanted anyone else.”
It unravels something in him.
Steve narrowed his eyes and turned you around, pressing you down into the cushions. The gold of the lights inside mixed with the lights reflecting off the pool made it dirtier and more secret in his mind.
As if pulling your hips up and flipping your dress up to rip your thong down your leg wasn't dirty enough.
He slid two fingers between your folds, taking way too much time for someone who was sneaking around, and saw your cunt clench around nothing at the feeling
“Soaked,” he growled. “You were like this when I had you at the party, weren’t you?”
You whined, hips rolling back into his hand, and that’s all the answer he needed. His fingers breached your opening from behind, curling towards him and rubbing the pads of his fingers over the spot that had shivers running up and down your spine.
He draped himself over you, other hand curling around your jaw pressing hard, your eyes fluttered open, glazed over, pupils blown to hell.
“Say it,” he whispered right in your ear. “Say who you were wet for. Who you wanted.”
“Y-you—”
He pushed his fingers in deeper, curling just right, making you try, and fail, to hold back a whine.
“That’s right. You wanted me. Not Peter. You wanted a man to ruin you.”
He gets you right at the edge, where he can feel your body trying to pull him in closer, throb around him, and pulls his hand out.
You were so dazed you barely let out a little hum of a question before your ears picked up on the shuffle of a zipper, the drag of clothes down his legs, and finally, the squelch of him running the head of his cock up and down your soaking pussy.
You’re half draped over the pool house couch, dress bunched at your waist, panties pulled to the side while Steve fucks you with his hand like he hates you for it. Like he hates how badly he wants you.
"Steve—"
"You wanted it, huh, sweetheart?" He pushed, not even inside, just dull pressure. "Wanted to make me jealous?" The hand that was previously fingering you is stroking his cock, and the one on your face moved to tangle into your hair, making you arch your back more and tilt your head towards him.
"Then take it."
He pushed inside you in one slow, hard thrust.
You sobbed at the feel of him finally buried inside to the hilt, feeling him twitch at the sound that left your mouth.
“Tight little cunt,” he groaned into your shoulder. “Fuck—of course you feel like this” You moaned, high-pitched and desperate.
“Too loud,” he warned, hand coming to press hard against your mouth. “Wanna wake Peggy? Huh? Wanna get caught getting split open by your married neighbor?”
You choked on a sound behind his palm—half cry, half yes. He pounded into you harder, jaw clenched, breathing ragged right at the junction between your neck and your shoulder.
“Spent so long— fuck, imagining what you'd feel like,” he muttered suddenly, angry. “Fucking tease.” You pressed your hips back into him harder, his other hand tugging a nipple, then the other, absolutely trying to drive you insane.
How the fuck did Peggy let this man leave the bed? At all?
One of your hands reached back to tug at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and his kept wondering, until it found your clit. And God, did he.
"Gonna come— fuck, inside—"
You nodded behind his hand, your own coming to pull it off of your mouth as you whispered as best as you could. "Please, Steve, cum— cum in me, fill— oh God— fill me up."
It doesn't take much longer of your dirty talk and his body for both of you to see starts blooming behind your eyelids, his sweaty body draping over yours as you both caught your breaths, his cick throbbing inside of you while he shot ropes of while along your walls.
It was never supposed to go past that. Not in his head anyway.
Steve couldn't erase the sound of your moans, the vibration of your whines, or the sight of you dripping with his cum from his mind even if he tried.
So it quickly morphed from a one time bad decision into a pattern. A need. A terrible, addictive rhythm.
He was always the first to step back after—voice rough with guilt, muttering something about how it couldn’t keep happening.
But then came the next excuse. Another late walk. Another locked door. Another night when Peggy was out with friends or upstairs asleep and he found himself drifting toward you like gravity had chosen sides.
And the worst part? You were kind, warm. You made him feel wanted. You were good with Jamie. You folded Peggy’s dish towels after book club and helped her clean up. You looked like innocence wrapped in summer dresses and vanilla lotion—but when you looked at him, Steve felt anything but pure.
Steve adjusted the cuffs of his button-down, the soft click of the watch clasp echoing faintly in the quiet of the house. Jamie was already asleep, and Peggy sat on the couch, flipping through her latest book club pick, legs curled under her and a glass of wine half-full on the end table.
He stood near the hallway mirror, pretending to check his reflection one last time, even though his mind was far from the dinner he claimed he had. The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, until finally, he cleared his throat.
“I’m heading into the city tonight,” he said, straightening the collar unnecessarily. “Couple people from work—there’s a dinner. Could be good for networking.”
Peggy looked up, her expression unreadable. “On a weeknight?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Short notice. You know how Stark gets when he wants to talk shop over steak and scotch.”
She let out a quiet laugh, amused but distracted. “Well, try not to get too drunk. You still have to take Jamie to swim class tomorrow.”
He gave a tight smile, grateful she didn’t ask more. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Except "work dinner in the city" was actually driving you to Cipriani for a nice, candle lit dinner away from everyone else.
The radio buzzed softly, some easy classic rock playing low, and you shifted in your seat, getting already a little impatient on the drive over when he looked that handsome and so close to you.
“Steve?” Your voice was soft, syrupy. He hummed a little in acknowledgment, eyes on the road. You leaned in, hand resting lightly on his thigh. “You’re tense.”
“I’m driving,” he said matter-of-factly, confused with your sentence, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Mhm.” You let your hand slide up just a little higher, almost unbothered, thumb stroking the inseam of his pants. “Just wanna help you relax…”
“Sweetheart,” he warned. But his voice cracked halfway through your name.
You grinned. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? I’ve got two hands and a very soft mouth.”
He shot you a look. Dangerous. Heated. “You trying to get us killed?”
“I trust you to keep your hands on the wheel,” you said sweetly, already toying with the button of his pants. “But I am gonna need you to pull over soon if you want me to take care of that properly.”
He groaned, head thumping back against the headrest briefly. “Jesus Christ.”
You giggled, fingertips brushing over the growing bulge beneath the zipper. “That’s not who you’re gonna be thanking in a minute.”
And just like that, the turn signal clicked. The SUV veered off the main road and into the shadowed entrance of a secluded overlook. Trees above, stars flickering like witnesses, and your name already forming rough in the back of his throat.
The velvet booths at Cipriani glowed under golden lighting, the hum of polite conversation and clinking glassware wrapping around the two of you like static.
You looked too pretty for your own good. That dress should’ve been illegal—silky, deep navy, spaghetti straps, something about the way it hugged your body made Steve’s pulse throb.
You leaned forward, arms folding delicately on the table. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking,” he muttered, eyes on your collarbone. “About how I’m gonna keep my hands off you for another forty-five minutes.”
You grinned, biting the inside of your cheek. "You had me like, not even an hour ago—"
"That doesn't count." He interrupted you playfully, "And if I remember correctly, I was the one that had the most fun in that."
Ah, yes, road head usually only has one beneficiary. You shrugged. "I still like it."
Steve raised his brows, and the waiter arrived, taking your orders. You watched the way Steve’s voice dropped an octave when he said “thank you,” the way he held your gaze across the table like the two of you were in on a private joke no one else could hear.
After the waiter left, you chirped up again, “You’re still hard, aren’t you?”
Steve narrowed his eyes slightly. “Keep your voice down.”
You giggled behind your glass, sipping your wine. “I think you like this,” you murmured. “Lying to your wife. Sneaking around. Getting off with someone who actually wants to be seen with you in public.”
His nostrils flared. His jaw ticked. “Careful,” he said roughly. “You won’t make it to dessert.”
You smiled like you weren’t even slightly afraid of that. And beneath the table, your foot slowly slid up the inside of his calf.
It's exactly shit like this that made you be bent in half in his backseat somewhere along the backroads on the way back, panties somewhere unknown inside the car, legs over his arms until your feet touched the car ceiling, and his cock drilling into you like he wanted it to take.
“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His voice was low, dark. Rough with restraint. “You get off on making me lose my mind, don’t you?”
You only smiled, biting your lip—barely, wickedly—nodding and tilting your hips up in response.
Later that month, he told Peggy it was a work trip. Just a quick overnight conference two towns over, some panels, a couple meetings—nothing she needed to worry about. He kissed her on the cheek, slung his bag over his shoulder, and drove off with the windows down.
But the real destination was the little bed and breakfast tucked off the highway, where no one knew your names. And where you were already waiting for him wearing nothing but a smile.
That weekend was unhinged. No hiding. No pretending. No risk of being overheard except by the wind through the trees and the nosy old couple in the room next door. You got to be loud—really loud—and he let you.
Hands all over you like he’d been starving for weeks, grunting in your ear as you clawed at his shoulders and moaned his name without apology. You didn’t need to pretend you were just neighbors.
Didn’t need to worry about muffling the headboard or shoving panties into the glovebox or slipping out the back door. You were his, fully and openly, for forty-two stolen hours.
And God help him—he wasn’t sure he could go back to pretending after that.
Steve, however, should be careful what he wished for.
Two days after he came back, to be exact, Steve was working from home, in between meetings all day.
Peggy took the SUV to run errands and take some time for herself, a facial, a massage, and unexpectedly, getting pulled over.
The sun was starting to dip behind the trees as Peggy merged onto the main road out of the neighborhood, humming absently to the radio while the SUV rolled through the quiet, late-summer traffic.
She didn’t even notice the patrol car behind her until the lights flashed.
“Damn it,” she muttered, glancing in the rearview. She pulled over, flicking on her hazard lights and turning down the radio.
The officer approached on the driver’s side, polite and calm. “Evening, ma’am. Just a heads-up—your left brake light’s out. Thought you should know before dark.”
She let out a breath, already reaching for the glove compartment. “Oh—thanks for letting me know. Let me just grab the registration.”
The latch stuck a little. Steve always said he’d fix it. She jiggled it loose with a soft grunt, and it popped open—sending a few old napkins fluttering out, the registration half-tucked beneath a folded flyer from Jamie’s swim class.
And then she saw them.
A delicate tangle of blush-pink lace.
At first, she didn’t register what she was looking at. Her brain processed the color, the texture, the vaguely familiar shape. She blinked. Tilted her head.
Then her fingers reached for it before she could even think better of it.
Her stomach turned over—first in confusion, then in something sharper. Something hot and cold at the same time, crawling up the back of her neck like an insect made of betrayal.
She gave the papers to the officer, and as he made sure it was all up to date on her end, she sat there, completely still, the car quiet around her except for the gentle hum of the A/C.
She stared down at the scrap of lace in her hand, trying to rationalize it.
When she saw the reflection of the officer coming back, she quickly put the lace in her purse, smiled at the man, and drove off towards home.
By the time she got back, Steve was out on a run.
She waited patiently by the kitchen isle, the panties neatly folded on the cool marble, and as she looked at the minutes go by on the clock by the stovetop, she realized both her and Steve had been trying to ressucitate something that had been dead long ago.
She didn't feel hurt, sad, or mad.
Peggy was relieved.
And when she heard the front door open, heard the creak of his spine as he exhaled from the run, and saw him come in, sweaty, and ready to gulp down a gallon of water, she didn't even feel the fire in the pit of her stomach that she used to years ago.
“Hey,” he said, breath still a little ragged, getting a glass and then water from the fridge. “Did you get the—”
He stopped as his eyes moved to the counter. To the panties. Then slowly, up to her.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t raise her voice. She just cocked her head slightly, one brow lifting, “You forgot to clean out your glove box.”
Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader
WC: 10.5k
Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort.
Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other.
+fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr.
⤷ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify
"Absolutely not!"
Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve.
One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.
"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel.
Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"
Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"
You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."
"That's what I thought."
The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”
Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.
Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"
You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?
"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.
A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."
He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission.
The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day.
It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.
Instead, the air was thick.
Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.
Well, you and Steve.
At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.
It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.
Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve.
Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.
Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.
It infuriated the hell out of you.
He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased.
It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other.
By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off.
Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.
Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.
Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.
Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.
"Come to daddy."
The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red.
In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart.
But also… you fucking hated his guts.
Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down.
His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.
"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.
You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed.
You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain.
"Who's your daddy now?"
Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"
Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice.
He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."
The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.
Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning.
The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.
The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own.
You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash.
Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."
You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.
He sighed. "If we crash—"
"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.
What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care.
He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were.
Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath.
"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."
The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already."
"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather.
“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.
He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.
“After you, sweetheart.”
You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.
ding-dong. ding-dong.
You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.
You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.
Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.
Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.
Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors.
He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—
“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler.
He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”
“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
She lit up.
“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”
You faked confusion. "Ben…?"
He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."
You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”
“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.
You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”
Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”
Of course they did.
You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.
“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again.
His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.
"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.
“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”
You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.
“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”
“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”
Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”
“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.
Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”
Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait.
It started with waves.
Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up.
Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.
Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”
It was unsettling.
Steve got pulled in first.
Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.
“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”
Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”
Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”
That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.
Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.
From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.
But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.
You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.
Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.
You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.
You played the part. Perfectly.
But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".
About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.
Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways.
“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”
“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”
And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.
Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.
Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.
“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.”
Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”
The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.
Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing.
Well, who does? He thought.
He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.
Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.
Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused.
By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else.
Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.
“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.
Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”
Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”
For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”
Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.
Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.
“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”
Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”
Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”
Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.
The back nine loosened things.
Or at least, that’s what it looked like.
Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.
Way less about business.
Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.
“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”
One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.
Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.
“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”
Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”
“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”
“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”
“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."
Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.
A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.
The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.
He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.
He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on.
Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—
Of course.
A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side.
The motherfucker had surveillance on your house.
In your house.
The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.
You were humming, soft and absentminded.
Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.
He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.
He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.
Five.
Hell, two.
But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.
Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared.
Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.
He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.
Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you.
With you.
All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—
"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.
We're being listened to.
"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"
Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there.
His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water.
“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”
Your breath hitched.
Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"
"Everywhere." He confirmed.
Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.
“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”
Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.
“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.
Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”
You were pretty good at… faking it.
Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.
The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.
As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway.
Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.
The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure.
You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.
Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.
You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.
You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed.
Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him.
You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be.
Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still.
Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.
He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."
He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin.
As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out.
You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.
The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.
His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.
Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.
You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.
“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”
From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.
You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.
His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it.
“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name.
His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.
Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.
His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.
“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”
Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”
You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.
It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside.
Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience.
His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—
He should really take this shirt off.
And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much.
"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?
"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."
Oh.
He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—
The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy.
"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.
That earned you a scolding look.
"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."
Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”
He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.
You scoffed. “You do not.”
“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you.
"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear.
It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there.
“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.
“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.
“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.
Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge.
You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over.
“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”
“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”
“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”
The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."
Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper.
You nudged him again with your heel.
"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."
What in the fuckity fuck?
Steve?
He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well.
Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock.
"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."
That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.
And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes.
His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed.
You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.
Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying.
You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.
Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling.
"Are we—"
“…go to sleep,” you muttered.
Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood.
Right at the belly of the beast.
The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine.
String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance.
The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.
It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.
Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing.
You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.
And there she was.
Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.
Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.
“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”
“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.
Julie laughed. “Exactly.”
Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.
Of course he hadn’t.
He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”
You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."
“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”
Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”
Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible.
His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.
“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.
“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”
She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.
“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.
“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.
“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”
“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”
“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”
Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.
“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”
Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.
His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”
For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident.
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt.
Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.
They cost you everything.
You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.
You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks.
You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen.
Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more.
You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.
He clocked the men immediately.
And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.
“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.
“They’re looking for someone,” he said.
“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.
“They’re closing exits.”
And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.
Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down.
“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”
He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.
“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”
“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.
“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.
He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.
A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.
“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”
“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”
“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.
The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.
Perfect.
Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.
“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”
The back door burst open under his hand.
Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.
Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.
One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.
His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he.
The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned.
"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure.
“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.
You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”
PRESENT
“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.
And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel.
Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.
“A little.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."
Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office.
The party swelled around you.
Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.
Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold.
Steve.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen.
You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.
You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.
You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.
You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.
“What—”
“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat.
A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.
He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.
“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.
Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and—
The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.
You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.
You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.
“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.
Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out.
Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.
“We were just—”
“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.
“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."
You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again.
“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.
You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house.
Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.
Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn.
You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”
You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.
“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him. “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."
You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"
He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."
You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you.
For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb.
And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours.
Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter.
He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.
Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."
He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision.
Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh.
His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.
"Steve… People might see…"
"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"
You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day."
That did it.
Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.
His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.
His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"
He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.
Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue.
"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.
"Steve, what the—"
He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.
Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.
He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.
Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair.
"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."
Fuck him and that nickname.
His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing.
His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission.
You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips.
The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.
At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"
He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.
Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded.
Not at all.
He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."
He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming."
Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage.
"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.
Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit.
Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you.
"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"
You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue.
He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it.
He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you.
In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers.
Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.
And hard.
Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.
He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist.
And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness.
Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further.
You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"
He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."
He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge.
“Steve, please put it in…”
"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any.
You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"
"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."
And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:
There's more?!
"Oh God…"
That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."
"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.
"Barely half." He grunted.
You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again.
"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."
You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"
After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice.
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.
“Steve, please, please let me—“
Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”
You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.
As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.
You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.
“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”
“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”
You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”
His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”
“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.
Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.
As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.
After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."
He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”
You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.
“I could do this all day, Cap.”
final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh
Love RG men and healthy bdsm forever 🖤 but what if you dropped them in mafia world how do they meet their Readers?
OH! Oh hoe hoe hoe! 👀
Just let me be clear - I will forever keep Ruby Garden as a healthy, consensual space and all the Doms in it will remain good Doms (with their imperfections). BUT this is such a fun ask and I allowed my imagination to run wild! 🤭
under the cut for length
Steve would be a mafia boss - just, but ruthless in executing his law and expectations. He went through a lot when he was a young boy and some of the men conspired against his father, leading to a massacre. For years, Steve worked hard and bloody to regain his birthright kingdom. He has certain trust issues, which is why he's not taking any advances from the mafia princesses who in his eyes are often controlled by their fathers or brothers. Then, unexpectedly, Darling appears like a breath of fresh air and catches his eye. Her parents were within the close circle, but both died when defending Steve's father. Darling went away to live with her mother's family, returning many years later as a grown woman. She doesn't feel like she belongs, especially with the women she used to know as girls but who grew up into a different shape (both physically and mentally) than her. To Steve, she's perfection.
Bucky and Curtis are mafia enforcers under Steve's rule. They were loyal throughout the years and formed a specific bond between each other. They shared women occasionally, though it wasn't something they commonly did. Until a certain mafia princess draws their attention. Fawn isn't an outright brat, but she is more wild and playful than most of the women Bucky and Curtis know in the mafia's specific environment. It starts when she wants to train for cross-country run and talks Bucky and Curtis to go on those trainings with her, otherwise her father won't allow her. That's where primal play starts sparking into a hot, real possibility.
Lloyd is a hired mercenary, showoff and a little unhinged, just like the Lloyd we know from canon. He's finishing off a target, his team swiping the place, when he registers a sniffle. He investigates the sound, only to find Pumpkin - curled and shaking in a huge walk-in closet, hiding behind coats. She's scared of him yes, but she's also clearly been hurt by the man Lloyd had just killed. His soft coo doesn't reassure her much, but she knows there's no way she could escape anyway. He takes her onto his plane. Actual care he displays mixes with sweet degradation and mindfucking, that will slowly develop into turning her into his personal toy. A well taken care of, protected toy.
Ari leads another crime organisation. Appearing easygoing and charming on the outside, he can be merciless and exceptionally evil in his retaliations. He never felt the need to settle, though mostly due to the fact no one held his full interest. Also, most of his partners couldn't handle his intensity for long. When he notices a curvy, sequined-entity arguing with one of his bouncers in front of the VIP section at his club, Ari walks closer to check the unexpected ruckus. Cherie keeps sassing the bouncer, trying to convince him that she merely wants to see the pretty crystal chandeliers in the VIP sections. Ari signals the bouncer to let her in, then observes in amusement (and astonishment) that she actually was speaking the truth - she wasn't interested in powerful men mingling there, she wasn't planning on killing anyone, not even stealing. He decides to approach and let her look at the chandeliers while he has he spread beneath him on the couch in his own lounge. One taste of that sparkling woman and Ari decides she's his, no matter how fiercely she fights him. He has ways to make her obedient and pliant.
Andy is Ari's consigliere, a respected, cutthroat lawyer who can be as dangerous (or maybe even more) as the mafia enforcers. He's also one of the mafia men who treats tradition with serious respect. Which is why he had been meticulously assessing mafia princesses to pick a perfect wife for himself. At first, Birdie wasn't high on his list of candidates, because as much as Andy wanted his wife to be a softer type of woman he though Birdie's too innocent and shy to stand beside someone like him. However, when at one of the events they share a brief interaction, Birdie's slight trembling and sweetness lure a very dark beast in Andy. He can't stop imagining how responsive she'll be, how deliciously it would be to ruin her and then have her still a docile, warm housewife.
Ransom's an heir to a generations-long corrupted family that provided the mafia men with all sorts of necessities, which gained them even more profit. He's spoiled and selfish, but he's also incredibly smart. A few steps ahead of his own family. While his mother creates intricate plan to pick a wife for Ransom which she could control, and thus have influence on the power and inheritance Ransom alone will gain after Harlan's death; Ransom schemes his own victory. While posing as the usual careless trust fund prick, who goes through meaningless fuck buddies situations, he's been already sharpening his claws for that one woman. The one no one expects. Leaf is a widow. Older than him nearly a decade. Though for many mafia men this poses as a "don't touch" sign, Ransom sees her as the key. Because she's named the sole beneficiary in a certain man's will - her biological father, who left when she was a kid and looked after her from afar.
Nick is considered one of the most dangerous men in Ari's mob. Not even for his killing skills, but because he's very perceptive and strategic. Many tried to find out how he learns even the best kept secrets. They failed. Women tend to gravitate towards him - his charm, sunshine smile, blue eyes, and the way he's respectful. The only one who glances his way with yearning, but pretends to be indifferent and even defensive when he approaches, is Bonbon. An orphaned mafia princess which Nick himself escorted, per Ari's request, from her family's lands abroad after her father got killed. They formed a particular bond, which she stubbornly tries to fight. He won't allow her to win, playing multiple fronts to get what he wants - he will thaw her out with a patient yet relentless approach, at the same time securing all the right approvals and Ari's order for the marriage.
Part One in a series of Pete’s Place regular one-shots.
main masterlist | meet the regulars
✧.* ೃ⁀➷ pairing: Andy Barber x female!reader.
word count: 803 | series rating: explicit. ༊*·˚
warnings: daddy kink, prostitution (kinda), light smuttiness, andy being sweet (although not really).
this is a dark au. minors are not welcome here.
“Knock, knock,” Andy called out, stepping into the dressing room where you were finishing up some final touches to your liner, eyes lightening up at the reflection of a large bouquet of roses in his arm and a large, sleek black bag dangling from his hand.
You whirled yourself around, liner clattering amongst the mess of the vanity. “Chanel?” You gawked, a grin breaking out.
Andy had a habit of showing up with gifts; clothes, jewellery, flowers, whatever he could think of for his favourite girl of the week, but you had managed to keep his undivided attention for well over a month now. Had he been any other man in the club, you would’ve already propositioned him, offering yourself for a night, but he was too close with Pete; although the more attention he gave, the more you found yourself toying with the risk.
“For me?” You feigned surprise, “I could never— Gimme, gimme, gimme—“
Andy chuckled as he strolled over, bag outstretched towards your grabby hands and pressed a soft, brief kiss to the top of your head. You leaned up as you shook the box open, grinning and letting your lips ghost against his— the closest you had ever gotten to kissing him before. Each gift, each kind word, each longing look; every new tale you heard from the girls about how attentive he was in bed, how calling him ‘Daddy’ kept him hard for hours, how he rambled filth when he was close… it all just kept shoving you past a line you were trying desperately not to toe.
“You know I love spoiling you,” Andy said softly, pulling the chair from the neighbouring vanity closer so he could perch next to you as you pulled out the small, intricately designed black bag. “I chose something simple, didn’t know exactly what you would like—“
“Bullshit,” You giggled, cutting him off which resulted in a bashful smile spreading across his face. “You knew I’d love it.”
“Yeah, I did,” Andy laughed, placing the roses on your vanity and reaching for your hand, thumb rubbing over the dainty diamond ring he had gotten you the week before.
“I love it,” You told him honestly, placing the bag back in the box and carefully placing it down on the floor. “And I love the roses, you always know exactly what to get me.”
“Think I’ve earned a little one on one?” Andy asked, hands moving to your hips as you got up, resting your hands on his shoulders for a moment before letting them cross behind his neck, hand bending up to card through his hair.
“Pete doesn’t let me in VIP, and… I don’t really feel comfortable—“
“Oh! No! Not that,” Andy quickly cut in, eyes wild with fear that he’d caused you any kind of discomfort. He slid his hand up and down your back while the other massaged the meat of your hip. “Not that I wouldn’t want— Ah, fuck. I know that’s not your thing. I just wanted some time with you. What about after—“
“I can’t,” You replied woefully, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the deep red of the VIP rooms. “Pete doesn’t allow it. I’m sorry.”
“What? I can’t even buy you dinner? In your free time?”
“You’re a club client,” You explained, your eyes locked on his. “Pete’s client. I’m not…”
You trailed off, staring at him for a moment. His blue eyes were kept on yours, waiting earnestly for you to continue talking. His white shirt, ruffled from his day stuck in an office, clung to chest; taunting you with the defined muscles that hid underneath. The hands heavy on your body clouded your senses and made the devil on your shoulder jump for joy when the last of your resolve broke.
“Fuck it,” You murmured, more to yourself than to Andy.
You slid yourself into his lap, not giving either of you a second to think, before you slotted your lips against his and immediately melted into him. His hand found the back of your neck, keeping you anchored to him as he slid his tongue against yours, and used his other hand to rock your hips down against his.
“Let Daddy have you, baby, please. I’ll be so good to you,” Andy begged, almost breathlessly against your lips as your eyes flicked towards the door to ensure you were still alone. “Please, pretty baby—“
“Do you know where I’m staying?” You asked, letting a small smile slip when Andy hastily nodded, his hands coming up to cup your face, trying to pull you back against his lips. “Meet me there, park around the back.”
“Can’t wait, Sugar.” Andy sealed your fate with another swift, messy kiss before reluctantly letting you slide off his lap. “I’ll see you on the floor,” He said softly, standing and leaning down to steal a final kiss before rolling out his shoulders and loosening his tie a little as he headed towards the door. “Bye, baby.”
“Bye, Daddy,” You teased.
“I will fuck you right here on this floor,” Andy threatened quietly, finger pointed out to you, turning in the doorway before taking a few steps back and disappearing with a grin.
Steve is telling Bee that all the fireworks around the city are for his birthday. And our sweet Bee believes every thing he's saying because why wouldn't everyone celebrate her godfather
Now Bucky has to arrange for fireworks on her birthday. He has no choice. (Mal tried to tell him that no one is making him do that and he just laughed and gestured towards a wide eyed, happy Bee gazing up at the colors blooming across the night sky)
Ari is still running past Sunshine's place wearing nothing but short shorts. She is not well.
However she is fighting back by wearing sundresses to work. She's quickly learning which ones are Ari's favorites. And Ari is thisclose to violating a few HR policies. Especially if she finds one more reason to come in his office and tease him.
P.s. again im sorry for sending you messages back to back... if you tell me to stop i will, I dont want to be a pain in the ass for you 😟
Heavy on the "this is the only boys sweatshirt you're going to own" 🤣
All Bee has to do is mention something once and Bucky is on it.
She says she's cold, he has a jacket ready for her.
Her little legs get tired from walking, all she has to do ia put her arms and he's bending down to pick her up.
Its the summer and she's getting hot—Bee didn't even say anything, just let out an unhappy sigh and that was all Bucky needed to hear, he has an ice cream cone on the way, one of the guys is pulling out a portable fan, Bucky's taking off his suit jacket to hold over her so he can block the sun.
Mal watching all of this unfold over a sigh, knowing that she picked the perfect man to have babies with
What would be Ari’s reaction if Bird jokingly said she wants to see other people? 😂
Errors In Judgement
Summary: Ari reminds you that he’s a possessive bastard who doesn’t fucking share… Be sure to check out the sequel, Errors in Brat Taming.
Warnings: Ari Being A Menace, Possessive!Ari, Jealous!Ari, Brat!Reader, Bad Decisions, Social Media Pranks, Talk Of Open Relationships, Manhandling, Chase!Kink, Praise, Spanking, Cursing, Minors DNI
A/N: Since I’m still indisposed, I’m going to continue spamming you all with new content. Part of my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, all mistakes are my own. Likes and Reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading.
—————
Ari’s in his garage, minding his own business, when you decide to drop your tiny, playful bomb. It was harmless, really. Just a little something you’d seen while mindlessly scrolling on your phone.
You honestly can’t remember what social media app you saw it on. All you know is that it wasn’t TikTok - which meant you couldn’t possibly get in trouble with your man.
Ari hated TikTok with a passion. Mostly because in the past you’d used it as a way to torment him with funny little pranks. The last time you’d tried one — which had involved scissors and hot dog — the unamused brute had not only taken his closet door off the hinges in an effort to get to you — he’d also spanked your ass.
The big meanie.
But this wasn’t a prank. It was a question. So he couldn’t get mad. If he did, you would tell him it was against the law or something.
You bring him an ice cold glass of lemonade as he’s tinkering away. While you’d never been much for carpentry or power tools, whatever he was building looked pretty cool.
“Thank you, baby.” Ari rumbles, removing his safety gloves before accepting the drink. He gulps it down, obviously feeling parched. So much so that you make a mental note to fetch him another one once you’ve finished with your game.
“You’re welcome. Whatcha’ building?”
“A brand new workbench.” He responds, stepping back to survey his work. “I think it’s coming along fine.”
“I agree.”
You make a show of nervously looking around as you prepare to ask your question. You knew just how you were gonna do it too.
Ready. Set. Go.
“You know, I was just talking to my friend, Erica, a little while ago.”
“The paralegal, right? How’s she doin’?”
“Fine, fine.” You tell him, moving to the side so he can make sure a shelf is even. “Nothin’ much to report really.”
“Good.” He mutters, not really paying attention to you as he uses his pencil to mark a wooden board.
“Although, she did tell me that she’s been seeing this guy for a while.”
You fold your arms across your chest as you make a show of looking around the room. His garage door is open, allowing fresh air into the space.
“Anyway, things have been going great. But she was telling me life has gotten even better when she asked him if they could start seeing other people - like open their relationship. And ever since things have been going amazing for them. She’s got a second boyfriend. He’s looking for another girlfriend. And I was thinkin’…” You trail off as you bite your thumb.
At this point you have your bounty hunter’s complete and undivided attention. And the look he’s currently giving you would have any sane woman backtracking with the quickness.
“Duchess.” Ari takes a deep breath, wiping his hands on his tan Aerosmith t-shirt as he sets aside his drill.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Just where the fuck are you goin’ with this?”
The need for self-preservation has you taking a few tentative steps back. So you choose to rest an elbow on the hood of his truck, propping your chin on your hand.
“Well, I was thinkin’…” You give him an innocent shrug. “Since it’s workin’ for them, I might want to…”
“You were thinkin’…what?”
There’s no mistaking the incredibly dangerous gleam in his eyes, which is only overshadowed by the alarming tick in his bearded jaw.
“That I might want to try the whole seein’ other people thing.”
The smart part of you wants to duck behind his Nissan Titan in an effort to protect yourself. But the other part of you - the bratty, more impulsive side of you - decidedly aims to see your joke through.
Ari silently nods his head, his pursed lips letting you know he’s struggling to remain in control. Rising to his feet, he removes his baseball cap and begins lightly fanning himself.
It’s a few moments before he speaks, but when he does, his deep voice remains deceptively calm.
“You wanna see other people, Bird?”
“I mean, I thought we could try it.” You respond, anxiously shoving your hands in the back of your denim shorts.
“C’mere.” He beckons you closer, placing his cap backwards on his head. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe. If anything, I just want to take a walk. Maybe figure this shit out.”
“Okay, but you seem mad.”
“I promise, I’m not.” Ari smiles at you then, but it’s the slightly unhinged look in his vibrant blue eyes is what worries you.
When you don’t obey, he comes to you, snagging your arm before you can dance away.
“Let’s go on a walk.” He hums cheerfully, although his grip on your wrist is anything but gentle. “A short one. To the end of the driveway.”
“Umm…”
“Hush, goddamnit.”
Your Bounty Hunter whistles as you make your way to the end of the driveway and onto the sidewalk.
“Hey, Darren!” Ari calls out, waving to your forty-year-old neighbor who just moved in last month. “That yard’s lookin’ good, brother.”
He was definitely easy on the eyes, his body was packed with lean muscle, along with a nice set of dimples, and a great laugh. If memory served, he worked as a dietician at the local hospital.
“Thanks, man!” He yells back. “You and your lady should stop by for a beer some time. I’ll even throw some steaks on the grill.”
“You got it, fella!”
With a well-timed laugh, Ari moves on, dragging you with him down the sidewalk. A few minutes later, you come across Jim, a recently divorced, single father who is out teaching his son how to ride a bike.
“Ari.” You hiss, wincing when he abandons your wrist in favor of wrapping one thick arm tightly around your waist. “Why are we—?”
“Hush. Up.” He snarls under his breath.
Jim immediately lights up when he sees you both, greeting your man with a hearty handshake, and you with a polite hug.
“I see the kiddo here is a natural.” Ari says, pointing at the little speed demon currently zooming on his bike.
“That he is!” The proud father chuckles. “You two just out on a walk?”
“Yeah.” Your man responds, his large hand roughly squeezing your hip as if daring you to disagree. “We just needed a little fresh air, but I think it’s about time we head back. Don’t you agree, baby?”
“Uh, yeah.” You mumble, pasting on a smile. “It was great seeing you.”
—————
The walk back is short and tense, what with Ari refusing to relinquish his hold on your waist. Neither one of you utters a word as he guides you through the garage and into the house.
Your pulse kicks up as you reach the kitchen. And it only gets worse when your bounty hunter orders you to take a seat at the table.
Alright. Clearly you’d fucked up.
“Are you happy now?” Ari grumbles, his voice coming out rougher than what you’re used to.
“I-I don’t understand.” You tell him, feeling completely lost, but also rightfully nervous. “Why did we just—?”
“You said you wanted to see other men.” He leans back his chair, his eyes glittering dangerously. This man was pissed, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. “You saw ‘em. So now you can call your friend, Erica, and tell her you’re all good.”
“Okay, about that, Ari…” You raise your hands in surrender. “I just meant…uh…well shit.”
Ari grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white as he battles his temper. He didn’t want to yell, but he was two seconds from doing it anyway if it would help him make his point.
“Sweetheart, if you ever, EVER, bring another man in this house, under the impression that he’s about to end up in my bed, enjoying my woman, then you have my word that you’ve just bought yourself a deadman.” He snarls through gritted teeth.
“Ari, I was just—“
“I thought I made it clear from the beginnin’ that I do not share. You got yourself a possessive bastard for a fella, Duchess.” He continues, his voice deepening the longer he speaks. “And I ain’t about to sit here and apologize for it either.”
“I know, baby. But—“
“The only butt you need to worry about is yours, sweetness. Because all I can think about right now is bending you over this table reminding you just who the fuck you belong to.
Knowing you need to come clean, you bury your face in your hands and mumble out: “It was a joke.”
“Excuse the fuck outta me?!
Time slows down as your world goes quiet. Ari just sits there, his head cocked to the side as he tries to make sense of what you’d just said. Aware that you now only had seconds to try to save yourself, you shoot up from the table and make a mad dash for the living room.
Seriously. When would you learn?
“Now, Beast, wait!” You exclaim the moment he gives chase.
Thank God you managed to put the couch between you two. If there was ever a time you needed a buffer between you and your man, it was now.
“I’m afraid your Beast doesn’t wanna wait.” He fumes, his chest heaving as he prowls closer. “Because if you think I ain’t about to tan your ass before I make you choke on my dick — the only dick you’ll be enjoyin’ from here on out—you have lost your beautiful mind.”
“Just calm down.” You plead, silently promising that you’ll never pull a prank on this man ever again. “I was kidding, okay? I just wanted to see your reaction is all.”
“You want my reaction?” Your bounty hunter snarls softly. “How bout you come bend that disrespectful ass over the edge of this couch and I’ll show you my reaction.”
“I swear I don’t want any other man but you, baby.” You reassure him, all the while ready to run again if you need to. “You’re it for me.”
Still not satisfied, an annoyed Ari lunges as you take off again, leaping over the couch like it’s nothing. Now out of options, you find yourself back in the kitchen.
Fuck!
Out of desperation, you make a beeline for the sink. Creativity has you turning on the water before grabbing the sprayer, holding it in front of you like a weapon.
Your beast of a man needed to cool down, and you knew just how to do it.
However, aware that you have nowhere else to go, Ari takes his time joining you in the kitchen. You shiver when you get a good look at him. His hair is all mussed and his body is tense, his corded muscles on display. The things this man was going to do to you…
“Stay back!” Any other time you would be laughing your ass off. But not this time.
“You know, Duchess.” Ari begins, acting as if you hadn’t just apoken. “I accidentally prayed for you. Bet you didn’t know that.”
“Huh?” You almost put down the sprayer before thinking better of it.
“Oh yeah. It had to be about five, six years ago. I was drunk in this seedy motel room.” He says with a grin, scrubbing a hand along his beard. “And I found myself wishin’, or prayin’ rather, that fate would send me a woman. But not just any woman mind you.”
Ari continues moving closer, stalking you like every bit of the predator he was.
“I prayed for a sweet little thing, someone I could love and cherish. A woman who could keep my attention, and hopefully know her way around the kitchen.” He smiles at you then, but you know better than to trust it.
“And then, wouldn’t you know it? Fate sent me to this podunk to give me you. Everything I asked for, a little spitfire gift -wrapped with a pretty smile, gorgeous curly hair, and a body boasting the kinda curves that oughta be illegal in at least eleven states.”
You didn’t even know what to do with that. Because it was hands down the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to you.
“Fate gave you to me. Challenged me to learn how to handle you with all that sass.” There’s a feral gleam in his eyes as he speaks. “But, baby, you are my gift. And I don’t care how crazy it sounds, because I ain’t givin’ you back.”
“I don’t want you to give me back.” You tell him, feeling both stunned and overwhelmed. “If you tried I wouldn’t go.”
“Hm.”
You’re not sure if he believes you, but when your handsome beast approaches you this time, you almost put down the sprayer. Almost.
“Put that shit down and come talk to me.” Ari orders, his tone a combination of softness and authority. “Be a good girl and come see to your man. It’s high time you apologize for this bullshit.
You eye him warily as he begins to undo his belt. He either wanted to fuck you for being a brat, or he was planning to…oh God.
Ari sets it on the counter, keeping it in arms reach. And then he reaches for one of the wooden spoons you kept on hand for cooking, followed by a spatula.
Absolutely not.
“You look a little worried, Duchess.” The smug grin gracing his lips widens in anticipation. “I just wanna make sure you have options. Best way to learn your lesson.”
Just when it looks like he’s about to make a grab for you, you close your eyes and click the button on the sprayer. It hits him in the face on full blast, leaving him wet and sputtering.
Once you realize what you’ve done, you immediately drop the nozzle and back away from the sink. You know that you just fucked up even more.
“Oh God! Beast I’m so sorry. I-I panicked and then I…well, you know. Are you okay?”
You watch nervously as he uses a dish towel to wipe his face and neck.
“It’s okay, Duchess.” Ari coughs as he goes to remove his shirt, revealing his well-muscled, hair covered chest. “Don’t worry about me.”
You open your mouth to speak, only for him to cut you off again.
“I’d be more concerned about what this Beast is about to do to your disrespectful ass. Or the way I’m gonna wreck that tight, fickle little cunt when I’m done.”
“Ari…let’s just talk about this.”
“You wanna talk about it? Sure. When’s the last time I spanked that pussy?” He asks, using two thick fingers to haul you forward by the front of your shorts. “I mean, when’s the last time your man really made it cry?”
“I-I don’t remember.” Comes your timid little whisper, only for you to rise on your toes when he smacks your ass hard.
“Well, lucky for you, baby.” Ari presses a heated kiss to your damp brow. “Your man just decided he’s gonna use the rest of the evening to take you and this body on a nice, long walk down memory lane.”
