☃️: "My life span has been steadily decreasing from the moment I met you. I, however, wouldn't have it any other way."
TEARS OF THEMIS—
Artem Wing:
IS THIS LOVE?
💌How much longer did Artem think Elaine would stay silent and go along with his lack of action for fear of doing something wrong? Even the most voluminous jar has its capacity.💌
I'm sorry in advance for what you're about to read 🥹
[Next]
Imagine Ghost who is at his wit's end because you keep giving him the cold shoulder ever since he got back. He know he promised that the mission was only going to be a week long and that he would be back before you even realised. But then something happened and a week turned into three whole months. Ghost had missed your birthday, the anniversary of you two, and even Christmas which he had promised he would spend at your family with you this year.
Ghost understand that you would be mad, but it's been three whole days and you had not even said a single word to him. Ghost wasn't great with words, so when he first came back, he had tried to help you around the house. But whenever he tried to help in any way he could, you just walked away without even sparing a single glance.
At this point, Ghost is straight up desperate for your forgiveness, and he needs it fast. You didn't know but Ghost actually planned to propose to you right after the mission is over. He prepared the rings, planned a honeymoon vacation, Ghost even filled out a transfer request to a desk job because he knew how you always worried about him when he go on missions. Price had smiled when he received the documents, saying how Ghost had finally found the family for himself.
"Yep, she's the one, sir." Ghost remembered saying with a fond smile.
So today, Ghost is a man set on a mission. He wore his best shirt, huh, when did you move all of his clothes to the dresser in the second bedroom, and prepare a fancy dinner full of your favourite food, strange, he went to make a cuppa while waiting and couldn't find his favourite cup anywhere.
But still, Ghost was hopeful. And so far, everything was going great. And while you still haven't said anything to him yet, at least you didn't move away when Ghost wraps his arm around you while watching movies on the couch.
"Bloody hell sweetheart, you really do love this movie ay? I can practically recite the whole damn script after so many times watching it with you." Still no reply, but Ghost wasn't going to give up so easily.
It was later that night when there was a knock at the door, Ghost was prepared to stand up and open the door but you beat him to it. It was a bit of a surprise to see his captain on the other side of the entrance, and Ghost can't help but feel a bit jealous over how you easily hug Price.
"How're you holding up, kid? I know it's been hard for you these couple of days. Johnny and Kyle really wanted to come along today but they had something urgent come up and-"
"I-it's alright John, I understand. Please, come in and have a seat. I'll make some tea."
"No need, kid. I won't be taking too much of your time. But before that, have you been taking care of yourself? You know Simon would hate it if he knew you've been neglecting yourself."
"It's....fine. I just finished eating some takeout and was just watching some movies for.... old time sake."
"Good, good." Price said as he took out a small velvet box. "We, uh, we found this. In his office. And we think that you would like to have this, kid. I'm sorry."
Once Ghost had registered that the small box was actually the rings he bought, he almost ready to jump across the table to take it back but stopped mid way because he heard you begin to cry.
"Oh God, John, I can't do this, John. I-I just can't. Please, John, please tell me that all of this is just a horrible nightmare and that my Simon isn't-! Please, I beg of you, I can't! He can't be dead John!!"
What? Ghost thought. But he's not dead? He's right here though? The mission was a success wasn't it? Ghost finally tracks the enemy down, sneaks through their defense and gets the information needed. Then he snuck back out and went back to the safe house and oh, right, he was shot, wasn't he? Ghost was shot just as he finally reached the safehouse. He never managed to get back to you like he promised before he left, never get to take you on that vacation, never get to propose to you.
It was finally then that Ghost realised you never gave him the cold shoulder, you just couldn't see him anymore.
Not-so-fun fact, I originally planned that instead of Price who knock, it was actually a robber and then Ghost would have been forced to watch his lovie get hurt while not being able to do anything but I feel like that would be too much angst in a single post so you guys have this instead :33 Hope you enjoyed 🫶
Not the comfortable warmth of a blanket pulled too tight, not the dry bite of a heater left on overnight.
This was living heat, thick and amber, pressing against your skin like a second layer you hadn't asked for. The second thing you noticed was the ceiling. Lacquered wood. Red silk hangings. An oil lamp swaying on a chain of hammered bronze.
Not your apartment, the room looks like it's from a completely different time era.
You sat up so fast the room tilted, and the silk sheets pooled around your waist.
A room materialized around you in pieces, a carved vanity, a screen painted with twin phoenixes, shuttered windows bleeding gold light through their slats. A tray of food sat on the low table nearby. Someone had been anticipating your consciousness.
The door opened before you could fully panic.
He was younger than you expected, given the room. Given everything. He couldn't have been more than a few years older than you, but the way he carried himself, straight spine, measured steps, one hand clasped behind his back, made the space rearrange itself around him like the room itself was paying attention. A scar pulled at the left side of his face, pink and permanent.
He looked at you the way someone looks at a problem they have already decided to solve.
"You're awake," he stated with a small smile.
"Where am I?" Your voice came out rougher than you intended.
"The Fire Nation Capital." He moved to stand near the window, not approaching, not retreating. "The palace, specifically. You were found unconscious near the outer gates three days ago. The guards assumed you were a threat." A pause, something flickering through his expression. "You were not a threat."
Fire Nation Capital? You have never heard of a palace like this before in geography.
Three days. You touched your own face, half-expecting to find something different.
"I don't... I'm not from here. I don't know how I got here. I don't know where here is, exactly, I mean I've never heard of..." You stopped. That sentence had no safe ending.
He watched you flounder with patience that didn't quite look like kindness. "You'll stay in the palace," he said, as if the matter had been considered and settled long before this conversation. "Until we understand how you arrived and where you belong."
"You don't have to do that."
The sentence was said with a desperate voice which sounded like 'Please don't throw me out!'
"I know. But it is not honorable to leave a lady in need."
He left before you could find the words for the particular feeling that sentence left behind.
--------
Weeks became a month.
The palace was enormous and you were given a corner of it: the room, an adjoining bathing chamber, a small garden terrace that looked out over red rooftops cascading down toward the harbor.
You were not a prisoner. No one said you were a prisoner. But the world outside those walls was entirely illegible to you, the currency, the customs, the way people spoke around you like you were something fragile that had arrived without instructions.
Also people bended elements like Zuko who bends fire, and bending is something you are unable to do in any way or form.
And so you stayed.
Fire Lord Zuko or simple Zuko, you kept having to remind yourself, which felt absurd and then slowly stopped feeling absurd, checked on you with a regularity that was either conscientious or deliberate.
You hadn't yet decided which. He answered your questions about the world with the directness of someone who had run out of patience for anything indirect, and you found that, unexpectedly, you preferred it. He didn't soften things. He didn't perform warmth.
When he sat across from you at dinner and told you the history of the war like it was something he needed to say out loud to someone who had no prior judgment about it, you understood it was a different kind of intimacy than most people offered.
You thought, sometimes, that you were beginning to understand this world and it might not be that different from the world you came from.
But mostly you understood Zuko.
Or at least you thought you understood him.
-----
He came to your terrace one evening near the end of your second month.
The sun was going down and taking the heat with it, and the harbor below had gone from silver to copper to something deeper, and you were watching it with the specific pleasure of someone who has learned not to take anything for granted.
You heard his footsteps before you saw him, as you had learned his footsteps patterns.
"You look like you're thinking," he said.
"I'm always thinking."
He came to stand beside you at the railing. For a while he said nothing, which was one of the things about him you had come to understand.
The silences were never empty with Zuko. They were weighted, working.
"There is something I need to discuss with you." He said it to the harbor.
"Okay."
"The servants talk." He paused. "The court notices things. You've been living in the palace for two months. You eat with me. You walk the grounds with me." Another pause, shorter. "They have come to certain conclusions about the nature of your stay."
You turned to look at him. "What kind of conclusions?"
His jaw moved. "The kind that have become difficult to ignore. Word travels fast in the capital. There are rumors in the city now about a woman living in the Fire Lord's wing." He finally turned to look at you. In the low gold light, the scar looked less like damage and more like topography, just part of the landscape of him. "It puts you in a complicated position. Without status and protection."
Your stomach did something uncomfortable. "Zuko..."
"I've thought about this carefully." He said it with the clipped certainty of someone who had, in fact, thought about it carefully, and did not want to be interrupted mid-conclusion. "The most practical solution, the one that resolves the problem entirely, is marriage."
The word landed in the warm air between you and just sat there.
"Marriage," you repeated.
"You don't know the outer city. You don't know how things work here. If you were to leave the palace without status, you would be..." He stopped. Looked back at the harbor. "Vulnerable. People would take advantage. The simplest way to protect you, to make it impossible for anyone to use your position against you, is to give you a position that cannot be questioned."
You stared at the side of his face. He stared at the harbor.
"If you don't want that," he said, and something in his voice changed register very slightly, "I'll find another solution. But it would be more complicated."
You thought about the city below, which you didn't know. You thought about the currency you didn't have, the language you were still learning at the edges, the fact that you had arrived here with nothing and been handed warmth and silk and someone's careful, unasked-for attention.
"Okay," you said.
He finally looked at you. Something moved behind his good eye and vanished before you could name it.
"Okay," he repeated, quieter.
The sun went below the harbor. Somewhere in the city below, lanterns were beginning to come on.
----------
There were no rumors.
His head secretary, would have mentioned it. His advisors, who watched the city's pulse like old men watching weather, would have brought it to council.
The servants' gossip ran through the palace like water through stone and none of it, none of it, had ever surfaced in any report about a woman in the Fire Lord's east wing.
Zuko knew this.
He had known it when he rehearsed the conversation on his terrace the night before, parsing the words until they sat right.
Zuko had known you would agree because you had the faith of someone who did not yet understand how the world here worked, who was relying on the one person in it she knew.
He stood at the window of his own chamber long after you'd retired for the evening.
It wasn't something he was proud of, exactly.
But you had arrived with nothing, out of nowhere, and the palace was the only world you knew, and he had watched you for two months learning to trust this place, learning to trust him, and the thought of you leaving, of someone else finding you first, of you being out in the city where he couldn't...
He stopped that thought, it's already decided that you would become his wife.
He was the Fire Lord. He had spent enough of his life doing things he wasn't proud of for reasons that seemed, at the time, like the only available reasons.
Zuko went to his desk and began drafting the announcement.
He was not his father. Zuko had told himself this so many times it had become something close to prayer. He was not his father. He had ended the war, burned the war councils and rebuilt the ministries and sat across from Aang in rooms full of people who had every reason to hate him and done the work anyway, year after year, because that was what it meant to not be his father.
Zuko also promised himself he would find a way to deserve being your husband. He told himself he would spend however long it took making the cage into something that didn't feel like one. He told himself this was different.
I was reading your Clark & Superman yan art & I immediately thought of this -
Imagine y/n trying to tell Superman that they don't like him- trying to get them to leave them alone by making up a crush about their coworker, Clark Kent. I can see Supes face turning from immensely pissed off at the thought of them liking someone else to blushing, heart fluttering puppy dog eyes once he realizes y/n has a crush on him! He's never letting them go now <3
NOTE: this is the completed version of the fic, including part 1. some minor edits have been made to part 1, but that's about it. once again, thanks sylus for being my first lads fic! as always, much love to spence for bullying me into finishing this
plot: formally speaking, sylus is a...sponsor. more colloquially, he's your sugar daddy -- and you're starting to wonder if he might actually want more. (wc: ~13.1k)
cw: this is all AU and does not include, like, any game lore (aside from that it's happening in linkon city). afab!reader, also a phd student, toxic behavior [miscommunication], explicit smut [dom/sub dynamics, slight bondage, underwear as a gag, size kink if you squint, fingering, some degradation, possessiveness, squirting, overstimulation, some choking, no protection aside from implied birth control], angst, some fluff, open ending. mdni!
[ao3]
-
The skyline of Linkon City never fails to captivate you, blinking lights of tall, corporate buildings, the specks of light dotted across the sky, the blur of beams weaving through the roads – no matter which angle you look at it from, the view will inevitably take reign over your focus. So much so, that you do not notice the imposing figure approaching you from behind. He can only draw your attention by placing both hands on your shoulders, jumping slightly as you blink and remember where you are. A wave of flashbacks crashes through your mind as you are gently turned towards him, your back facing the window now.
“Perhaps I should find it somewhat offensive that the view never fails to take your attention away,” Sylus remarks, his tone unmasked in his teasing and playfulness. His scarlet eyes peer past your shoulder to see if there was anything interesting or out of the ordinary. “Do I need to start booking rooms without windows?”
“Don’t be silly,” you gently admonish, moving past him to grab a drink of water. His eyes burn the skin on your back, though you are familiar with this gaze. “Thank you for letting me rest here.”
“Do you really think that after all this time, I would leave you to pay for a hotel room yourself? Or to find your own transportation home?”
“It’d be understandable. I can see where you would be coming from if you made those requests.”
“I must say, I am a little wounded, kitten,” he drawls in mock pain. Instead of waiting for you to return and remain close to him, he situates himself on the bed first and leaves ample room for you to lay next to him.
The gesture invokes warmth, exudes comfort, and stands familiar as you climb onto the mattress with ease and memory. Sylus stretches out his arm next to you, and his pose quietly begs for you to cuddle into him.
And so you do. Sylus’s stature and frame, of course, never fails to envelop you during these moments of tranquility. Your chest pressed against his side, a leg crossed over his, your nails drawing patterns over his bathrobe and exposed abdomen – security, strength, and affection, once again, never fails to help you relax.
Because this is what happens after every gala, every fundraiser, every grand opening, every social event that you accompany Sylus to. This routine of being in hotel rooms so high above ground with breathtaking views, burrowing into him, oftentimes burying himself inside you, and separating the next morning with an implicit understanding of exactly where you stand, is what you two had agreed upon all those months ago. And in return, your financial stress disappears into thin air, leaving you to study and engage in hobbies without such a heavy burden on your shoulders.
Despite his constant reassurances that he can clean up whatever mess you may end up making, they do not negate just how tiring and draining these events end up being. Constantly putting on airs, overexposing your practiced smiles, making sure that there is not a single hair out of place, switching to what you like to call “fancy people table etiquette” – Sylus sponsored and, in a way, hired you to be as close to perfect as possible, and so, you must do as such to uphold your end of this business relation. Tonight has been a little more taxing than usual, as somewhere along the way, he felt the need to buy you anything that captured your attention for more than a few seconds. He would bid a ridiculous price that would dissuade any other potential customers, their expressions of defeat when they pass by causing him to secretly gloat that everyone has learned at least one thing about him: he will get what he wants.
You had caught onto this shenanigan after the third item, and you made sure to school your gaze away from the auctioned items. But because he always seems to know what plays in your mind, he complains, “You never let or ask me to buy you things anymore.”
Your eyes had closed shut during your time of reflecting on tonight’s events, and they continue to remain as such. “I have very little closet space. At this point, I think I’ve probably swapped out 90% of my wardrobe because of you. People are starting to get suspicious.”
“Then why not move out and find a bigger apartment? You know I can afford it.”
“Sylus–”
“I know, I know,” he interrupts. If he were anyone else, you would have scowled at him. “It would be too far from campus, become inconvenient, and you feel it is too much to ask for.”
As the conversation suggests, this is not the first time Sylus has brought up this proposition. What remains unsaid is how you would be closer to his residence if you were to move to one of the many apartments he had in mind, all of which would reduce your commute to his place down to walking a block or two; not a twenty-minute drive.
“Just say the word, and it will be done,” Sylus murmurs into your hair. When he realizes he has received no response, your soft snoring greets him before he can inquire any further. With a heavy sigh, he reaches out and switches the nightstand light off, leaving the darkness to swallow you both. His eyes fall shut in tired ease, but his grip around your shoulders remains firm.
-
It comes to no one’s surprise that you feel less than well-rested when your alarm starts blaring at 5:45AM. You had an early class today, so you had to give yourself ample time to make it home, change, wipe away any lingering smudges of last night’s makeup, and try to appear as…casual as possible. Not wanting to wake him up so much that he cannot fall back asleep, you reach out for your phone and click one of the volume buttons, rendering it silent. Sometime in the night, your position had changed to Sylus spooning you. His limb slung over your waist is heavy, making it all that more difficult to leave – not just physically, but mentally as well.
Like ripping a bandaid off, you have every intention to quickly remove yourself from his embrace. But Sylus, being the infuriatingly light sleeper that he is, immediately tightens his hold around you as soon as you attempt your escape.
“Sylus, I need to go,” you whisper.
He presses you impossibly closer to him. “I will drive you to your apartment. Sleep.”
“No, I’m taking the subway.”
“Why take the subway when you have me?”
“If anyone needs rest, it’s you,” you say pointedly, because it’s true. Being the CEO of a business that may or may not be totally legal (you never ask because honestly, the less you know, the better) is not exactly a 9AM-5PM job. There have been more times than you can count when he would be pounding into you and forced to take a phone call. Granted, that doesn’t stop him from grinding into you and grinning devilishly when you bury your face into the nearest pillow to muffle your moans and whines.
“Speak for yourself,” he grumbles into your hair. “You haven’t gotten more than six hours of sleep every night for the last week.”
“And how exactly do you know this?” As soon as you ask, you already know the answer.
The app for– “Your smartwatch.”
“One of these days, I will disconnect my account from that app.”
“I would like to see you try.”
And you will. Just, when you’re not trapped in his arms.
“I’m still taking the subway,” you backtrack, though your voice is quieter than before. A tiny sense of relief fills you when his embrace loosens, and you can finally crawl out of bed. It’s harder than it seems to squash the distressed voice in your head complaining about how easy it was for him to let you go. As you pick up all your clothes and make your way towards the bathroom, you notice his phone sitting innocently by the room’s coffee machine. After looking over your shoulder, you swipe it off the counter and bring it with you.
Guessing his passcode is harder than you thought – the man has an ego the size of the entire universe, so you figure it would be something personal: his inaugural date as CEO, his birth year, his birthday, or others. On your last, desperate attempt, you type in four digits and find yourself absolutely floored at the view of his, now, unlocked phone.
Your birthday.
There is no time to dwell on the implications of it all, and you chalk it up to the fact that no one really knows you outside of being his typical date or escort. Therefore, the passcode would be that much harder to guess than the route that you had originally gone for. Yes, that’s all it was: an extra layer of security.
Sylus’s phone is surprisingly unorganized, random apps thrown into folders that they do not belong in, leaving you to search for the fitness app that your watch is not only connected to on your own phone, but somehow also on his. You press the buttons necessary to delete your watch data from his end. When you are ready to close the app, you cannot help but notice the preview of his messages app and the texts within. Your thumb swipes away the fitness app and shakily taps the messages window that stares hauntingly at you. It had been left open on a conversation with another woman, if you had to guess based on the name sitting at the top.
My parents are getting antsy, and so is your grandfather.
That is none of my concern.
Unfortunately, it is. They’re not exactly happy about the woman you keep bringing as a partner.
Our arranged marriage is not a publicly known detail.
And I’d like to keep it that way. But Sylus…
What?
We can’t delay this much longer. You’re running out of time.
The exchange tells you enough, just enough for you to realize the situation you find yourself in. You suddenly recall an incident in the beginning of this relationship with Sylus when he described this arrangement, him as your sugar daddy, as a means to an end, preferably the end of something that he clearly did not want out of desire for his own freedom. There was not enough detail for you to give it much thought after that night of discussion and negotiation, but now, it all makes sense.
Your thumb takes it back to his home screen and presses the lock button. In a haze, you get ready and dressed before exiting the bathroom, completely unaware if you even have your clothes on right or your hair somewhat kempt. As quietly as possible, you place his phone back where you had found it. Though common practice at this point, it now feels far too intimate to plant a featherlight kiss on his cheek. It causes him to stir, but you’re halfway out the door before he can fully register your departure.
Whoever passes by, whatever zooms past, however something tries to gain your attention, you have no recognition of your surroundings. A thick layer of tension settles itself into your brain, allowing you to think of nothing but the fact that this entire time, Sylus has been in an arranged marriage that you, apparently, were supposed to be instrumental in destroying. To find yourself back in your apartment maybe forty minutes later is a miracle in and of itself. You return to the plane of reality when you open your closet doors to toss your dirty clothes into the hamper and are greeted by the many items bought with his money.
Contrary to popular belief, jealousy does not make itself known in your system. You’re not exuding shades of green or red like an angry Christmas tree. If anything, you come to a quiet acceptance that this…partnership with Sylus will come to an end, and soon. It would do no good for him to keep seeing or supporting you while formally married, which means you have to get your life in order. Sylus has given you more than enough money to put you through your last two years of your postgraduate career and maybe a year into your postdoc, but you should still remain frugal. If you’re lucky enough, the money you earn during postdoc would be enough to live relatively comfortably on.
Alone. Without him.
It’s fine, you think to yourself as you turn on the shower. It’s totally and completely fine.
-
A couple hours later in class, your phone vibrates with a message that reads, “You actually managed to disconnect your watch from my phone.”
The slight smirk tugging at your lips is inevitable as you type out a response: You told me to try, so I did.
“I will be changing my passcode.”
If you want. There’s nothing else on there that I need to delete, right?
“Oh sweetie, wouldn’t you like to know?”
The subtle, possessive curl of his message coils around you tenderly, making you temporarily forget that you are in class and should be exhibiting a poker face. But you still shift in your seat, a warm pool of heat forming in your core as you imagine his expression and his voice reading the message out loud. Forever a tease and a flirt, Sylus knows exactly what he is doing by sending you that message.
Your best revenge in the moment is to leave him on read, on the edge of his metaphorical seat. It takes too much effort to bring your conscience back to your current lecture and actually take some notes. Your phone buzzes once, but you ignore it – and in hindsight, you’re glad you did. Sylus, in all his infinite wisdom and glory, took it upon himself to send you a picture of himself after a shower – the skin of his chest glistening under the fluorescent lights, grey towel hung low on his waist and barely holding on, veins on his arms frustratingly visible because he knows what they do to you, his biceps flexed just enough that you want to take a bite at them. The fucker full well knew you were in class and, you know, in relatively close proximity to other people who would have, no doubt, gotten an eyeful.
As you walk towards the subway station to go back to your apartment, head down and focused on typing out a message, a giddy smile can’t help but break out across your face. Your thumbs tap, “Should you really be sending photos like this to someone who, in the public’s eye, is just a friendly escort?”
After not even thirty seconds, your phone buzzes, the notification of his call sliding in from the top of your screen. You almost roll your eyes as you bring the device to your ear. “You have five minutes before I lose signal underground,” you warn, your tone still playful nevertheless.
“‘A friendly escort’, you say? I suppose that’s what the young ones are calling intimacy these days.”
“You knew I was in class. And stop it, I know you have some stupid smug look on your face right now,” you chastise.
“You know me so well.”
“Actually, speaking of,” you say as your eyes flit down to your watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting right now?”
“I stepped out.”
Your heart and feet skip a beat, almost causing you to fall flat on your face and absolutely eat shit in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s hard not to let your mind race at all the implications, that this tirelessly busy man decided in a heartbeat that he would step out with a desire to call you over something so minor; to do no more than simply tease you. In the grand scheme of his life, you have very little significance – your temporary companionship where you may see him four or five times a month, sometimes with weeks in between and other times mere days. Text messages were never a guaranteed daily activity, though as of recent, he has been texting you more often. But amidst his employees, his connections, his partnerships, his family, you’re just…you.
You didn’t realize you had been stunned into silence long enough for him to ask, “Are you still there?”
“I am, sorry,” you apologize, scrambling to think of an excuse. “Uhh, an email came in and I was reading it. Didn’t hear you.”
“I’ll get you some wireless earbuds.”
“Please don’t.” Your rejection is immediate, firm. The lack of room left for argument stands apparent. “That’s not necessary.”
“And what’s stopping me from just ordering you a pair regardless?”
“Me.”
Sylus responds with a contemplative pause, which is...unusual. He has always been so quick to reply with wit and banter, but there is a chance that maybe something distracted him, like what you had said as a poor attempt at a viable excuse.
“I suppose the kitten is starting to make use of her claws now.” His voice rings softer, quieter, almost as if disheartened by his own statement. “First you disconnect your watch, and now you won’t even let me buy you earbuds.”
“I just don’t want you to buy anything that’s not necessary. Covering my tuition and all the dresses is one thing, but wireless earbuds, I can do without. My wired ones work just fine.”
Your eyes catch the sign for the stairs leading down to the subway up ahead. “I’m about to go under and lose signal. Was there anything else?”
“Come over tonight.”
Your mouth works faster than your brain. “I can’t,” you lie, a pang of guilt creeping into your heart. “There’s a study group tonight for an exam.” Not a lie. “Besides, we just saw each other yesterday.”
“Has that ever stopped us before?”
“W-well, no,” you splutter because it’s true. There have been a handful of times when you spent two, sometimes three consecutive nights in the past – but things were more hot-and-heavy then, a time when you couldn’t get enough of him and vice versa. “I’m just saying.”
“Then come after the study group.”
“It’s gonna run pretty late because we have an exam in a few days.” Again, not a lie. “Who knows if the subways would still be running by then?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“But you might be asleep.”
“Highly unlikely, little one.”
Quickly looking around you, you quietly hiss, “Sylus, you should be asleep by the time the subways stop running. Why would you still be up at 2AM?”
“In case I have to refresh your memory, you do remember that I am the CEO of one of the largest tech companies in Linkon, right? The work never ends.”
“You need time for sleep, you know, like everyone else??”
“I’m not like everyone else.”
Your eyes close in frustration as you groan. Your feet have reached the top of the stairs, and you couldn’t have asked for more perfect timing. “Okay, I’m at the station so I’m gonna hang up. I’ll come over another time, alright? Talk to you later.”
“Sweetie–”
Moving forward to race down the stairs and smashing the hang up button is your way of desperately trying to not lose resolve. Any longer, you would have given in and rolled yourself straight back to square one with nothing but dread. You have never been more relieved to see the little “No Signal” sitting in the top left corner while you swipe through a gate and manage to get down another flight of stairs without tripping over your feet.
Wired earbuds in, hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie, letting the wind tunnel threaten you to topple over, you do everything in your ability to not think about him – to not think about the messages that may flood your phone once you get signal, to not think about the pushback you may receive because Sylus is someone who figures out to, somehow, always get his way, and to not think about the weight of his earlier words: “I stepped out.” You pretend that you know nothing about this arranged marriage, the curiosity having caused your thumbs to twitch in anticipation at maybe looking up who this woman is. You ignore the now glaringly close deadline that will terminate your relationship with Sylus forever, and most of all, you ignore any semblance of pain that knowledge makes you feel.
Cup half-empty, spoons tossed the window, the subway window across from you is greeted with a blank stare. In a rare moment of mindfulness (or is it dissociation?), you think of nothing until you find yourself standing by the foot of your bed and ready to face plant into the middle of the duvet. With your last shred of working consciousness, you set an alarm for thirty minutes before the start of the study group and promptly fall asleep.
-
As you predicted, the study group runs late into the night. Despite the several digressions into conversations that were very much not academics-related, all of you feel relatively good about the subject matter for the exam on Friday. Everyone comes to a unanimous decision to reconvene in a couple of days. Given that it was Monday, one more study session Wednesday and some independent review Thursday night would be beneficial.
For your own sanity, you had left your phone, stashed in the recesses of your backpack, tossed into the corner of the study room, on do-not-disturb for the entirety of the night. You had it programmed to still chime and alert you if family contacted you, mainly because it doesn’t happen often, and if it does, that means something big happened. The device remained silent for the whole time, and part of you wants to avoid confronting what your notification screen might look like. But before you can muster up the courage to do so, one of your friends speaks up.
“Hey, you took the subway here, right? I can drive you home,” Jiho, a doctoral student in the same year as you but doing research under a different professor, offers. A part of you is beyond relieved at the perfect example of an excuse to not check your phone because it would be so incredibly rude (not really) in a social context.
“You wouldn’t mind? If you have somewhere to be, I can just walk.”
Jiho rolls his eyes in a playful manner. “Come on, before I change my mind.”
He drops you off in front of your apartment complex about ten minutes later, and he shoos away your offer to buy him coffee as a token of gratitude. You wave goodbye as his car pulls out of a guest parking spot, and only then do you notice the conspicuously sleek, grey sports car sitting a few meters away. Your heart pounds, and your palms begin to sweat as you get closer and closer to your unit, afraid of who you might find once you get inside. You spot the fluorescent glow from underneath peering out from underneath your door, and it takes everything in you to not drop your keys as you unlock the deadbolt.
“So the kitten has finally decided to come home.”
“How–”
Sylus, looking severely out of place in your humble abode, sets down the stack of papers in his hand on your coffee table. With his other hand, he points to the fixture on your wall by the door where your keys typically hang. His own set now occupies one of the hooks, and you spot the spare key you had given him a few months ago. To your knowledge, he has never used it before, and you can count the number of times he has stepped into this apartment on one hand.
You quietly shut the door behind you, locking both deadbolts in place before setting your backpack down. “It’s so late,” and even you wince at the shakiness in your voice. “You should be asleep. At home.”
“Perhaps I would be if someone had just checked their phone once in the last fifteen hours.”
Well, you don’t have much of an excuse for that.
Sylus sits on one end of your couch in loungewear, though somehow, he still makes it seem like he’s in something formal enough for business casual. You cautiously sit on the other end away from him.
“I passed out as soon as I got home, and then I was running late for the study group, so I just left my phone on do-not-disturb.”
His silence speaks volumes.
“I didn’t mean to worry you.”
But maybe you did.
Maybe, subconsciously, you did. Maybe you wanted to test the limits of his affection. Maybe you wanted to see just how far he would go to make sure you were okay.
Maybe you simply wanted to get a taste of when you least expect radio silence, an appetizer for how things may turn out when Sylus calls for the end of your arrangement.
“Look at me.”
Tension weighs you down as you slowly turn your body towards him, but you avoid his gaze and aim to study the logo on his shirt instead.
“Sweetie, look at me.”
The command snaps you into compliance, his tone firm and undeniable. You expect to see anger, frustration, disappointment. After all, it would make sense, for there is a set of expectations and rules put into place to ensure trust between both parties. Transactional, contractual, institutional obligations and conditions set by both the company matchmaker and individuals are put in place to conveniently manifest and quickly disintegrate these business relations, to avoid messes.
But you realize all too quickly that the mess will be inevitable, in your case, because instead of tinges of red fury in his eyes, you find concern, worry, and confusion. Dread sinks into your stomach like an anchor in the middle of the ocean, dropping further and further into the dark unknown.
“You’re hiding something from me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you immediately counter. Good job, you just made it more obvious.
Sylus pins you down with a look that means nothing other than “you know better”, and your heart threatens to burst from your chest out of sheer anxiety.
“Since you refuse to tell me otherwise, tell me how you got home,” he says, and though he may seem cool and nonchalant in the way he rests an arm against the back of the couch, you can see the irritation pulsing through the veins on his forearms.
“A friend from the study group drove me home.”
“And you were simply too busy to look at your phone during the drive?”
“I had to give him directions.”
Sylus cocks an eyebrow at the mention of this friend’s gender. “Him?”
“Jiho, sweet guy. Does research with another professor.”
“I suppose I have him to thank for bringing you home safely. Regardless, you should have called me to pick you up.”
You have one last card to play. “That’s not in the contract.”
His eyes harden and narrow the slightest bit, the curve of his jaw growing tense in building irritation. “How so?”
“There’s a line somewhere in there about making sure I would not contact you for personal favors that are outside the scope of our,” you hesitate to find the right words, “relationship.” You can’t remember the last time your palms sweat so much.
“I offered.”
“And I am not obligated to take the offer. While kind, I did not see the need to bother you.”
“I clearly remember stating that it wouldn’t be an issue, especially considering I asked you to stay with me for the night.”
“But I told you I couldn’t,” you retort.
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
The bitter note in his voice on his last word matches his steely gaze that is undoubtedly determined to pick you apart, to peel off each layer of whatever walls you may have put up. He’s not ignorant or oblivious by any means – something is going on, and you’re not telling him. You answer him with deafening silence, blaming your late-night fatigue for it.
Responding directly to his question would only make this worse, as you cannot see yourself getting out of the ensuing conversation unscathed and alive. Instead, the couch dips as you cross the distance between you two, hesitantly straddling his hips in case he doesn’t want you to. But he allows your move, his hands almost instinctively resting on your thighs as you settle yourself into his hold. His skin feels glassy smooth beneath your fingers as you caress his cheek, studying every detail of his face and avoiding his eyes.
Perhaps there is a part of you that is trying to commit the minutiae to memory in preparation for the days when you will no longer see him so intimately. You should have never let yourself get so attached, no matter how much tenderness and adoration Sylus has been lavishing you with. The realization hits you in a bittersweet manner, and the featherlight kiss you place on his lips only makes it hurt more.
Yet you move past the pain to accept the fall, the descent into oblivion as you feel Sylus respond to your kiss, deepening and increasing in fervor. The heat in your core is more than just lust as it sinks deeper and deeper into you, a testament to the depth of your affections. Somehow, his touch as his hands roam your figure burns hotter. It almost makes you want to shy away from his grasp, but part of you welcomes the trails of fire as your punishment for deceiving him.
You gasp out his name as his lips leave your neck scorching, each nip of his teeth and lave of his tongue adding to the haze slowly overtaking your rationale. But beneath the man’s ardor, you manage to recognize his irritation and annoyance – the way his fingers grip your waist, his nails digging into your back – about how this whole night has progressed.
Apologize, his eyes seem to scream. Seek forgiveness as I seek vengeance, his hands draw on your skin.
Beg for me.
“You test my patience in a way that others have never done before,” he says in a dangerous tone as you gasp at the chords of delicious pain running down your back.
“I’m– ah – sorry,” you gasp as his arousal grinds purposefully against yours.
The answering swat against your ass stings, and you attempt to ignore the rush of slick dampening your panties even further – a reaction that Sylus does not fail to miss. Instinct calls and beckons when your eyes slip shut the moment a hand rakes up to get a firm grip of your hair, pulled towards him so he can kiss you fervently again.
So lost in a hazy reverie, you barely register when he lifts you by your thighs and makes his way to your bedroom. Or at least, you think he’s going there, given that he’s only been in your bedroom once before. But Sylus makes strides with the confidence of someone who has visited here countless times, and the aura he exudes both thrills and frightens you.
In mere seconds, he strips you down and regards you with an appreciative gaze. The glint and apparent desire in his eyes never fails to flatter you – to be wanted is addicting, especially when wanted by a man as powerful as Sylus. You should be alarmed by how natural it feels to be in this current state of undress and debauchery.
“Open your mouth,” he commands, and you obey without a second thought. “Good girl.
“As much as I cannot bother to care about disturbing your neighbors, I know you do,” he concedes, but not without balling up your panties and stuffing them past your parted lips. “All of this could have been avoided if you had just let me pick you up.”
The argumentative whine that slips off your tongue is resolutely muffled, serving no purpose except to further Sylus’s sadism. His approving smirk immediately quells your anger, and you can only watch with half-lidded eyes as he removes his clothes at a painstakingly slow place. Normally, you are the one to grant him a show at his command, but tonight, you deserved a taste of your own medicine. Your wrists become bound by his belt as he finds his second home between your legs. Tears prick the corners of your eyes when he purposefully lets his shaft drop on your clit.
“Always so wet and ready for me, kitten,” he praises, his tone low, teasing, but appreciative.
His smirk widens as he moves to hold his cock and tap it menacingly against the puffy bundle of nerves, taking in each twitch of your body, each dampened mewl, each falling tear. With each tap, the string of slick between your cunt and his length becomes more and more prominent, spreading across his skin. “Tell me, sweetie, who this belongs to,” Sylus compels with a drawl, jutting his chin towards your carnal source of torture before meeting your eyes. He knows very well that the word you're trying to say is “you”, but he takes great pleasure in knowing that there is no way the sounds will come through the soaked cotton in your mouth. “Hmm? What was that?” The frustration of not being able to clearly convey the right answers only adds to your arousal, turning the heat in your core into molten lava. At his clarifying question, you, undoubtedly, feel a pool of precum drip from your pussy, and when you see his eyes flit down to his cock in hand, you know he's fully aware of it too. They hone in on how easily the tip slips into your beckoning entrance, attempting to entice and draw him in for both your pleasures.
You keen as Sylus slides two fingers into your entrance without warning – they’re a far cry from his cock, but thick and long in their own desirable way. The tips of his fingers easily find the spot that makes you squirm, moan, mewl, and you’d have to be blind to miss the wicked expression splitting across his face. Despite the teasing attitude from earlier, he wastes no time trying to bring you to your peak. Your muffled cries only spur him on, even more so when he’s able to fit a third finger inside you. “Maybe I should let your neighbors hear us. I imagine it would get the message across that you’re not exactly…available.”
Embarrassing, what you would give in this very moment to be nothing more than his. Your hips follow the drag of his fingers, unwilling to let yourself feel anything less than filled. But before he lets you come, he stops.
Why?
“Greedy little thing.” His tone is mocking, yet highly amused, as he removes his fingers – and as much as he would like to play with you to his heart’s content, to break you down and tear you apart, his veins thrum with impatience and apprehension. Sylus seeks to punish you in a different, more overwhelming fashion, that would require you to beg him to stop rather than to start. It takes everything in him to not force you down his entire length. Instead, he devises to lull you into a false sense of security with the way that he takes his time sliding into you, no matter how much your pretty cunt desperately tries to suck him in. Sylus is sure you would be able to see the restraint painted across his face if you didn’t have your head thrown back and back arched from being stretched open. The sight of your bare stomach and chest makes it all the much harder to reign in his desires.
“Fuck,” he hisses. His cock continues to bully its way through your pussy, slowly and languidly, until it’s fully trapped inside you. When your thighs meet his v-line and your clit brushes against his skin, you whine and buck against him for desperately needed friction. But Sylus quickly traps you and pins you down from your thighs, restricting your movements with a devilish grin. “You never answered my question,” he reminds you, a clear taunt. In the blink of an eye, he leans back to land a firm yet stinging slap on your puffy clit and revels in your muffled cry. “Who does this belong to?”
Your dry sobs only intensify as you fight to respond with a clear answer, but it’s impossible. The way you grind your hips against him, seeking any sensation that could help quench this insatiable thirst in your core, should say enough. Sure, you could simply point at him, even with your wrists tied together, but you’ve been with him long enough to know that he wants the words of possession to roll off your tongue at times like these. And if you tried taking the cloth from your mouth…needless to say, you would be lucky to survive the night.
He chuckles when he feels the walls of your pussy tighten around his cock, a different tone that deviates from the vicious shake of your head to signal that despite your complaints, you would much rather be gagged like this. “Cum for me,” Sylus demands in a low voice. “Cum for me, cum from me just being inside you, and I will give you what you’ve been begging for this whole time.
“Even better yet, make a mess.”
The coil in your core tightens more and more and more until it suddenly snaps, your body trembling with the force of your orgasm and your throat hoarse from your silenced screams. “Good girl,” he praises when he pulls out, hungry eyes roaming every inch of you, as he rapidly swipes his fingers against your clit and relishes in his ability to make you squirt, fluids flying and landing messily in the near vicinity. You don’t know how long it takes for you to get over the high, oversensitivity from his fingers as they continue to stimulate you. Barely coming down from your climax, Sylus stuffs three fingers inside you and continues to fuck you, purposefully and forcefully rocking against your g-spot.
“Please,” you beg and cry as you twitch and flinch, trying to remove yourself from the source of this unbearable amount of pleasure. But your articulation is, once again, victim to your cotton gag, leaving you to audibly dry sob and squeal in overstimulation. The satisfaction on your sponsor’s complexion should sound the alarms in your brain, but it only thrills you to pieces as clarity fades more and more from your conscience.
In a haze, you manage to pull your belt-bound wrists forward from above your head and tap his shoulder three times. Only then does he stop in his tracks, carefully removing his fingers from your core. Sylus exhibits the same attention when he holds your chin with one hand and takes the soaked cotton of your panties out of your mouth. Before you can even take two breaths, greedily gasping for air, Sylus kisses you softly, slowly. Unable to do much with your head still in a fog, you reciprocate as much as you can – to silently thank him for his punishment, as well as his mercy. He pulls back, cueing you to open your eyes and take him in, just as he assesses you in his own way. His eyes search and roam your face and figure before meeting your gaze once more.
How endearing, you believe they seem to say. He cocks an eyebrow, his way of asking are you okay? You take a few deep breaths before nodding. But before you can try and decipher more of what he may be feeling through his eyes, he bends forward, breathing into your ear, “On your stomach.”
Large, strong hands manhandle you until your head is almost buried into the sheets, hiding your disheveled state, your hands grasping at the expensive linen, and his weight planted firmly on top of you. A pillow is stuffed beneath your abdomen before he spreads your ass, eager to study the ruin he has caused on your poor, little pussy. Sylus readjusts himself so that his dick nestles comfortably between your ass cheeks. Even in your daze, the heat of his arousal almost seems to burn your flesh, and you desperately wish it was inside you.
A self-proclaimed mind reader, Sylus drives you to the edge, groaning quietly when your cunt attempts to lure him in when he coquettes you with the tip. Every slide, every push, every instance of friction makes you fall deeper into this pool of anguish and lechery. Before you even realize it, visceral pleas for him to fuck you are spilling from your tongue, very much so to his delight. “I know you can beg better than that,” he taunts. “And to think I had trained you so well.” His voice reeks in mock despair and disappointment.
Though you know he’s not completely serious, his words are enough to send your sin-addled brain into a state of panic – so panicked and shaken to the point that you don't even register the next words falling off your tongue. Something about the practiced but genuine phrases of separation, wanting to be used, wanting to be ruined – were you pressing back into him, hoping, praying that you could draw him into you?
In response, you soak in the hisses of expletives in your ear, the comforting, mind-numbing sensation of being filled again, and the weight of his frame atop yours. He holds himself up on his elbows, and each thrust threatens to split you in two. “Mine,” his voice slips through your conscience, hanging onto the way the sound drags out, “are you not?”
Always, you nearly answer on primal instinct when he buries himself as deep as he can inside you, his cock almost feeling like it’s in the back of your throat. The inexplicable amount of pleasure stops you from giving him what he wants, which pushes him to press himself even harder against you. “I’m beginning to lose my patience, kitten,” Sylus warns, as if he’s not the very reason for your delayed responses. His fingers sneak underneath you to grab you around the neck, forcing your head up. Your pants are greedy, desperately seeking air as his hand tightens just a bit more, the haziness in your mind thickening.
“Yours,” you gasp. “Always,” slips off your tongue before you can stop yourself.
The silence that hangs still is enough to make you question whether or not you fucked this whole thing up. Dread begins to drip into your system as his grip around your neck loosens, even more so when his hand slips away entirely and he begins sliding out of you. “Wa–”
In the blink of an eye, his hand pushes your head back into the sheets, his fingers curling around your strands at the scalp. Sylus’s cock fucks you into the mattress, his pace almost frantic, yet punishing. The realization that you’re going to be incredibly sore in the morning is an accepted assumption at this point, leaving you with little warning of your release approaching the precipice. Silenced cries, Sylus fervidly ensuring that your pussy is forever molded to the shape of his length, your sanity slipping – his impassioned murmurs of how tight you are, how easily he can pound you into oblivion, how your pussy makes it so easy for him to sink into the very depths of your core – all drive you to your peak. His last sign that you’re going to come is the dissipation of your whimpers.
Sylus wraps his hand around your neck once more, turning it so that he can capture your lips in a bruising kiss. He swallows your screams as you topple over the edge, your climax so intense that your whole body trembles for what feels like eternity in his hold. Your pussy compels him to remain buried deep inside you, and he’s more than happy to comply. But it doesn’t stop him from grinding against you, driving you into overstimulation.
“So good,” he groans against your lips in between kisses. “So fucking good, taking my cock so well, I’m gonna–”
“Y-your cum, please,” you urge. “Please give me your cum!” Your voice dissolves into sobs.
“Fuck!” Sylus spits out. The hand that was on your neck now covers your mouth as he spills inside you with a deep moan, his teeth buried into your shoulder to muffle his own voice. You relish in the sharp pain, as if he’s trying to engrave his mark into your skin, and can’t help but keen as his cum fills you up. Each pulse and twitch of his cock sends a shiver down your spine and almost tempts you into begging for more.
Catching his breath, he refuses to leave your warmth. His tongue softly licks the area where his teeth had embedded themselves into your shoulder, and follows them with reverent kisses. You remain quiet, only letting your breath hitch when Sylus slips out of you. He gently presses your back into a deeper arch so that you can present yourself to him, and he watches with apparent satisfaction as his cum leaks from your pussy. A hand on your ass, his thumb reaches over for your entrance to push and give him a better view of his undeniable claim on you.
As infuriating as he can be, you observe with bleary eyes as he leaves to grab a damp towel from your bathroom before returning and carefully wiping his cum away. After doing so, he tosses it to the floor and picks you up bridal-style, carrying you the short distance to your bathroom. He starts the shower and hums some nonsensical tune with a faint voice as you wait for the water to warm up. When he deems it hot enough, Sylus offers you a hand and helps you into the shower. Compared to his apartment, your shower stall is barely enough to fit the both of you. But he makes it work, taking the utmost care in cleaning you up, his touch so cautious yet heavy with care.
You barely remember making it out of the shower, much less when he dries you off and brings you to bed. There’s a faint memory of his warmth wrapping around your frame when you awaken later that morning, a delicious ache stretched through your muscles. Yet the side where he laid is cold.
It, along with the unread text from your bank notifying you of a, no doubt, sizeable deposit, is to be expected, you remind yourself. The sticky note by your phone that reads, “Early meeting, sweetie. -S” is the only truly physical (and unexpected) sign that he had been here in the first place. He never owes you an explanation, and you never expect to get one.
Just another day, another transaction.
-
Friday rolls around, and when the sun has set beneath the horizon, you find yourself perched in Sylus’s home on the kitchen island, a speckless slab of black quartz that you just know you’re leaving fingerprints on, as he throws together a salad. Something is in the air fryer, and he has a bottle of sparkling cider waiting to be opened. Sylus had stopped you with a look of “don’t you dare” when you tried helping out with something – anything – so the only thing you could do was sit and try to look pretty.
“Pick a salad dressing,” he commands when you grow silent. You eye the three jars that have been placed in front of you.
“I’m fine with any of them.”
“Not an answer.”
“I’m serious though!”
“Pick one.”
You groan as you look at the jars and point at the middle one. “Happy now?” you ask passive aggressively, sending him an exasperated glare.
Sylus, swift and silent, swoops in and steals a kiss from an unexpected you. Saying nothing, he pours some out into the salad bowl and mixes it all together with adept flicks of his wrist – no utensils needed. With a pair of tongs, he drops some greens onto your plate before taking the rest and tending to whatever is cooking in the oven.
It’s not the first time you’ve been here, and it’s not the first time he’s cooked for you. But it is the first time since accepting that you may feel something more than obligation and friendly affection for this man. This whole experience feels wildly domestic, as if you belonged…here.
On this counter.
Accepting impromptu kisses.
Waiting on food cooked by him.
Knowing you’re staying over for the night.
As if you were meant to be a part of his life.
The thought terrifies you, without a doubt, but you like it. Settling down with Sylus, forever attached at his hip at events, is a dangerous fantasy.
Lost in your thoughts, the what if?s, the possibilities, your daydream breaks when he pulls the curtain closed in front of the balcony door, completely blocking a wonderful (and surely, very expensive) view of Linkon. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you had been looking past the windowpane when frolicking around in your imagination, and you’re reminded of the night before you disconnected your smart watch from his phone. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“Penny for your thoughts?”
You feel the heat rushing into your cheeks, knowing they would be warm to the touch. Turning away from the now-concealed nighttime skyline, you direct your attention to the fridge meters away from you. “Just thinking about my test.”
“It’s too late now, if you realize you got something wrong. We’re here to celebrate it being over.”
“I know.” You sigh. “Thank you for doing this, by the way. I was getting a little tired of eating out.”
“I was as well. Too many business lunches and dinners the last couple of weeks.”
“How did those go?” you ask just to keep the conversation going.
“They went fine,” Sylus says without any further detail. “Come, let’s eat.” Before you can come down from the counter yourself, he already has an arm wound around your waist and is semi-carrying you to the dinner table. The distance between the table and the kitchen was maybe fifteen steps at best, closer to seven given Sylus’s long strides. It would’ve been a short walk regardless, and you’re flustered with the unexpected royal treatment.
Unceremoniously (but still carefully), he sits you down into a chair and pushes it in before going to his seat. Sylus places himself next to you at this round, mahogany table that seems a little too big for a man who lives alone. Largely used for serving several different dishes, it just looks a little out of place compared to the rest of his penthouse, all sleek and sharp. But you’ve learned to stop questioning things you’re curious about when it comes to his personal life, because clearly, he’s not very open to sharing those details.
Dinner isn’t anything special, as Sylus lets you prattle on about your research and other office gossip. He never divulges any of the gossip in his own workplace, but you understand it’s for confidentiality reasons. And he may just not care that much. At this point, Sylus knows a little too much about you while you know very little about him outside of his preferences and inclinations for food, media, and general daily habits.
Understanding the reality of that stun locks you for a few seconds – the duality of the word intimacy, the realization that you don’t even know Sylus’s favorite color. You could guess, sure, but you don’t definitively know. Why is it that you know the exact amount of shaved truffle on his pasta at that fancy restaurant by the river, but not his birthday? How do you explain your ability to pick up on details of his facial expressions at events and banquets, therefore knowing when to intervene so he can get a break from these people, but not the makeup of his family?
“You’ve been staring off into space quite a bit lately,” Sylus muses, ripping you away from the beginnings of your mental breakdown.
“Sorry, I just thought of something about my exam again.”
“What a terrible host I’ve been then, to allow your mind to wander so often. How can I keep your focus on me?”
You hum, looking around his apartment and then at the table. “Let me wash the dishes.”
“I own a dishwasher for a reason.”
“Please? It’s the least I could do since you made dinner – which was wonderful, by the way. You ever consider becoming a chef?” you ask with a slight chuckle, taking the opportunity to grab his dishware and utensils and carry them to the sink. Stainless steel shines brightly at you, whether from a recent deep clean or lack of usage, as you start to run the tap for warm water.
Large, familiar hands find their home on your waist, the heat burning through your sweater. They pull you against his frame, and you allow yourself to lean back a little bit as you start scrubbing the porcelain. Arms wind around your middle and hold you tight, his senses becoming muddled as he loses himself in your scent and touch. He gently paints the column of your neck with soft, faint kisses – so soft that if you hadn’t been so tuned into him, you would’ve missed them.
“You’re taking too long,” Sylus murmurs against your skin.
“What, never had to wait a tiny bit for a treat you want?” you tease, and chuckle when his teeth bite into your shoulder.
“Brat.”
“I’m almost done, I promise.”
It’s so hard to not like–
Your brain freezes – but somehow still commands you to scrub the plate in your hand. Moving on pure muscle memory now, you have maybe five seconds to figure out your own thought process.
This is a contract, you remind yourself. This is a mutual relationship to satisfy both parties’ needs without getting personal feelings involved. Sylus made that very clear in the beginning. But the less logical part of your conscience creeps in like a phantom on your shoulder. So how does that explain Sylus’s actions recently? How does that explain this very moment of what would appear to anyone as a sweet, pure, domestic interaction?
He’s just comfortable, you rationalize.
Why does he insist on you staying the night?
Because that’s what this contract entails.
Why does he keep asking you to move closer?
It’d be more of a problem if he was asking me to move in with him.
Would it be though?
Of course??
You sure about that?
This is NOT the time for--!
A small pinch on your waist brings you back to reality, your synapses firing on overdrive to try to get you back to a functional level. You cannot hold back your “ow!”, which seems to be just enough of a reaction to satisfy this man.
“What was that for?!”
“Something is clearly on your mind,” he says in a low tone, the tone that indicates he’s starting to become agitated.
“No there’s not,” you retort and fail to hide the sheepishness in your own voice.
“You’re doing a terrible job at convincing me to accept that. What are you not telling me?”
“It’s–,” you pause, scrambling for words. “--trivial, at best.”
Sylus’s arm extends in front of you to forcibly remove the plate from one hand and the sponge from the other. You relent to reduce the risk of breaking anything, but somehow, it’s still not enough. He grabs a tea towel hanging on the oven door behind him, spins you around so that your back is now digging into the edge of the sink, and proceeds to furiously dry your hands. You can’t help but wince when he tries to rub off some dried soap residue, but there is no time to dwell on it.
Not when Sylus slings the towel on to his shoulder and bends at the waist to meet your eyes. Not when he cages you between his arms as his hands bear his weight on either side of you. Not when he pins you with an expectant glare, demanding your full honesty.
“It’s really nothing.” Your tone is firmer now, but he doesn’t fall for it.
“Is it something personal?”
“...yes.”
“Does it have anything to do with your family?”
“No.”
“Is it something that I’m able to fix?
Technically, yes. But you’re not stupid.
“No.” Your voice softens, lowering to a murmur at best.
“Tsk,” Sylus clicks his tongue. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Because you have a large enough influence to make you think that you can fix anything you want.”
“Precisely,” he responds pointedly and, perhaps, a little too proudly. “So tell me. Tell me what’s bothering you, and I’ll have it resolved within 48 hours.”
You didn’t realize that you had stopped looking him in the eye. And when you do, your breath hitches. So determined, so resolute.
And yet, so heartbreaking.
You can’t help but let your fingers ghost over his cheek, tracing the edge of his jawline. He stands firm even when you step forward and press a light kiss against his cheek. As if on instinct, he turns and immediately parts his lips to slide against yours, but you pull back before he has the chance to deepen it, and with it, your affection.
“You have enough to worry about as it is,” you murmur. “I’m fine, really.”
Sylus’s eyes turn disapproving, doubtful. But he knows when to back off when needed.
“Don’t forget that I can help you, should you need it,” he gently reminds you. “Do you understand?”
“I do, don’t worry.”
He sighs. “Very well then. Now come, we’re here to celebrate the end of your exam, after all.”
You take his outstretched hand, but you fail to leave behind your troubled heart.
-
Two nights later, at four in the morning, you stare blankly at your phone screen.
[Are you sure you want to request to terminate this contract?]
The only contact you've had with Sylus the last two days is sporadic texts about little things, like how your day was going or if you'd heard about the results of your exam yet. You do your best in suppressing the quiet loneliness that pushes your heart to your throat and a dagger into your stomach, the undeniable sensation of realizing that you miss Sylus.
Missing him as if he were your actual partner and not just one for show with dollar signs behind the scenes.
Worrying enough to wonder if he's getting enough sleep and eating enough food outside of whatever work dinners or lunches he may be obligated to attend. Just yesterday, you had ordered delivery to his office with your own money, and he had texted you a simple Thank you, little one. To which you responded with a casual, You're welcome 👍.
Smooth.
You're not sure how long your eyes linger over the [Yes] button, the midnight minutes blinking by as you contemplate your next move. Is this the right call? Should you wait until Sylus comes around and tells you on his own about the arranged marriage? Should you just wait until he makes the request instead?
No. You want a clean break. You want to call this off on your terms, essentially saving yourself from the path of destruction that you would undoubtedly set off on. One tap and a press of the lock button immediately after, you burrow yourself into your blankets and will yourself to sleep.
With light sleep at best, you watch with bleary eyes as the sun begins to rise, casting your room into a hue of its golden hour, signifying contentment and new beginnings. But it only elicits dread as you wait for the inevitable end.
-
The shriek of your phone rips you from your mindless daydreaming, and you know who it is before you can even get a good look at the screen.
“Hel–”
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice rings dark, irate, with what you think is the slightest hint of panic laced beneath each syllable.
“Sylus,” you start, but he interrupts you again.
“If I did something to upset you, then you need to let me know. Otherwise, I am at a complete loss for your sudden request to terminate our agreement.”
“You did nothing wrong.” Your attempt to subdue his worries may be futile, but you at least have to try.
“And I’m sure you can see why I don’t believe you for even a second.”
“I mean it though,” you refute. “Look, I’ll explain more when we meet with the company rep.”
“My patience is running thin. Tell me now.”
“Please, please just wait until we meet this evening,” you beseech, on the brink of breaking down while walking back to your apartment from class.
“It was simply a mistake, right?”
“Sylus, please–”
“Fine. Don’t be late.” The beep that follows indicates he has hung up on you. You suppose you got what you wanted, but it feels a hundred times worse.
There will never be enough time in the world for you to be prepared for this moment, standing in the ascending elevator of a discrete yet well-kept high-rise building while clutching a manilla envelope in your hand. The last time you were here was to outline the conditions of the situation with a representative there to help mitigate and ensure that both parties would be satisfied. You suppose they’ll be doing the same thing today, except it would be to ensure a clean split.
As the secretary walks you to the designated conference room, your legs tremble, even more so when she casually adds that Sylus was already here, waiting. She stops and knocks on the door in front of her, announcing your arrival. A sound of approval from inside cues her to open the door and let you in, and you nervously step inside after thanking her. Not that you didn’t believe her earlier, but actually seeing Sylus in the flesh somehow adds to the gravity of the situation.
“We have both parties here now, so let us begin,” the representative says after greeting you with a handshake. Calling out your name and gesturing to you, he states,” You are the one that called to terminate this contractual agreement, is that correct?”
“Yes,” you confirm in a shaky voice and clear your throat. A copy of the contract sits in front of you, and you keep your eyes trained on the letters that are starting to blur and swirl together. If it means that you don’t have to look at Sylus, you’ll take it.
“Is the reason for the termination due to any violations of the terms and conditions set at the initial meeting?”
“No.”
Despite keeping your head down, you see and hear Sylus shift in his chair. A sudden chill wraps around you, and you slightly shiver.
“Mr. Qin, to your knowledge, did she violate any part of the contract?”
“No.”
“Now let us discuss financial compensation.” Looking towards you again, he asks, “Have you been financially compensated for your services?”
“More than adequately.”
“Per the contract, are there any services you have not been paid for?”
You shake your head. “Sylus does not owe me anything.”
“Then as per company policy, once one party calls for the termination of the contract, the request must be honored to protect the safety of both parties. Any services that were not compensated for would have to be done here in this meeting, but that is not a concern in this case. Please give me a few minutes to draw up the agreement to terminate so that you both can sign it.” The representative gets up and leaves the conference room.
Sylus steals the opportunity to ask the one question that has been on repeat in his mind since he received the notification.
“Why?”
You like to think you’ve gotten to know Sylus relatively well over the last year. Given your lack of explanation over the phone earlier, you know your words alone would never be enough to placate him. With shaky hands, you retrieve the envelope from your lap and slide it across the table, even daring to finally look up at him now. His crimson eyes nearly break you, but you’re grasping onto every last straw to keep yourself sane.
Inside the envelope contained a couple of pictures found online of Sylus’s arranged fiancée, as well as several news articles discussing how her company may be heading towards a merger, but it was unclear on exactly when it would happen and who it would be with. It hadn’t taken long for you to realize that you’ve seen her several times in passing at various events and fundraisers, and that she and the man sitting across you seemed to avoid each other in public as inconspicuously as possible. You warily watch as he pulls the contents out and freezes, his gaze snapping back to you.
“How did you…?” he inquires.
“It doesn’t matter how I found out,” you respond softly before switching to a more matter-of-fact tone. “We knew this would come to an end at some point. Considering your arrangement isn’t known to the public yet, it was fine to be seen with me. But when this news breaks out, and if you’re still associated with me, it wouldn’t look good for either of you. You don’t need the reputation as a two-timing womanizer, and she doesn’t need to be publicly perceived as some poor woman who couldn’t keep a hold on you, therefore undermining her achievements.”
“You should have talked to me before going straight to nullifying our contract,” he fires back.
“That would’ve made it harder.”
Sylus leans back in his seat, now regarding you with piqued curiosity. “Made what harder?”
“Maybe that’s not the right expression.” Your palms are starting to get sweaty again, even as they curl and clench tighter than ever, your fingers digging into your palms. There's nothing you can do that would eradicate the shakiness in your voice. “I just meant that talking before now would've made everything complicated.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Do elaborate.”
“Well, I thought,” you stammer. “I mean– it’s just talking would’ve, would’ve– let some—” You pause again, desperately trying to find the right words. “Would’ve let some things be said that would’ve, you know, been better to be left unsaid. About us. Between us. Does that make sense?” Your hands have been drawing inane shapes in the air as if they would help aid in Sylus’s (and your) understanding.
“Better unsaid by you or me?”
After a few seconds, you answer hesitantly, “Both, maybe?”
For the first time in months, there are no emotions in his eyes. You have always been able to pick out at least something he may be feeling – affection, frustration, fatigue, lust – but to be on the receiving end of his blank stare like it’s the first day all over again, is unnerving. Agonizing, too.
When he finally opens his mouth, his tone dripping with disdain and mockery, he derides, “Who knew the little kitten thought so highly of herself?”
His words immediately trigger an alarming amount of shame and embarrassment. Have you been reading too much into his actions? Was it all in your head? Did it all occur out of some desperation for something genuine from him?
Oh God.
It’s at this moment that the representative comes back with the papers in hand, and part of you is ready to believe that there may actually be a higher power in the universe. “Thank you for your patience. Once you both have signed the termination agreement, I will make copies for both of you.” He seems completely unaware of the tension that has solidified between you and the CEO, even as you take the pen from the representative with a slight tremor. You quickly scan over the contents because you’re having an increasingly difficult time finding the brain cells to scrutinize each sentence and sign on the indicated lines. After you all but shove the papers across the table, you push your seat back and grab your purse.
“Oh, miss,” he starts, but you interrupt him.
“You can just email me a copy of these. Excuse me, I have something urgent to get to.”
He stares at you for a few seconds before giving a corporate smile. “Of course. Thank you for coming in. Have a good rest of your night.”
“Thank you. You as well.” Your platitude is rushed, almost harsh sounding. You mentally note that you need to send a card that is both a thank-you and an apology for scurrying off like this when you were the one to initiate it.
The walls feel like they’re closing in on your brain and consciousness, so much so that you suddenly find yourself out in the lobby of the building with no recollection of how you even got down here. A gust of fresh air hits you as you step out the doors, and it’s a little easier to breathe now. But it doesn’t mean that your chest isn’t ready to burst, your ribcage threatening to tear open and leave you passed out on the street. It doesn’t mean that Sylus’s words don’t hurt you any less, and the pain of your own embarrassment only compounds on them.
The uncharacteristic chill on this summer night scrapes against your cheeks and ears. You finally will yourself to walk towards the nearest subway station, all the while blinking back tears that just won’t stop coming. Never mind the other pedestrians who may catch a glimpse of you wiping away any physical manifestation of your grief, the other subway riders who may observe you desperately hiding in a corner of the carriage, or even the other residents in your apartment building who watch you furiously tapping your phone while passing by.
With nothing to stop you, not even your own will, you let the tears flow, streaming down the sides of your face and into your pillow as you trace the ridges of your wall, your phone lying innocently a few inches away. Despite deleting his phone number and officially disconnecting on the website, you can’t bring yourself to discard his message thread. There were too many memories, too many reminders of what you once had and will probably never have again.
Your pillow becomes damp with tears of confusion, shame, and regret. How could you be so stupid,so caught up in your own delusions that Sylus Qin, tech mogul and CEO, one of the most secretive and sought-out individuals of the current decade, with connections you couldn’t even dare to dream of, somehow held a shred of genuine affection for you? How could you have thought that his demands to see you night after night were anything more than just wanting some type of company, the kind that does what he says and strokes his ego? How could you have convinced yourself that you were actually special to him?
How could you have put yourself at so much emotional risk for something that was nothing but transactional to begin with?
The next morning, with one look at your morose expression and the puffiness of your eyes, the other people in your cohort know better than to ask if you’re okay. During the lecture, Jiho silently hands you a piece of gum, a tiny, reoccurring gesture of camaraderie throughout these years of graduate school, as an attempt at providing some type of normalcy. Your movements are sluggish and lethargic as you fold the strip into your mouth, but it’s the first time in the last 18 hours that you feel like things might…just be okay.
-
Two days later, an email comes from the company telling you it is policy to change your phone number, and they will financially compensate for the cost of a new SIM card since it is an inconvenience to you. Hours later, you find yourself in front of a cellphone technician who is setting up the new SIM card. As they type in a few things on their computer, they hand you a pin to help eject your current one. You’re not looking forward to the hassle of telling everyone that your number has changed and fixing it in everything you have that involves your number, but even you understand that this is the first step to a fresh start. Sylus is probably going through the same process, if he already hasn’t gotten it done.
And as your phone sets everything up with the new number, you stare at your closet, now stuffed to the brim with dresses and skirts that you may never wear again. Nothing you do from now on would ever require such formalities. The knowledge of it stings to some degree when you find a large, empty bin that was used when you had moved in. Without ceremony, you begin the mindless task of removing said clothing items from their hangers and folding them into the container. You don’t want to cry. You don’t expect to cry. But the steady streaks of tears dripping down your face is enough to show how much you grew to cherish your time with Sylus.
Time that you will never be able to return to.
[fin]
.
.
.
.
“How did she know?”
“Sylus, what are you–”
“She knew,” Sylus cuts her off. “How could she have known without you tipping her off?”
“Think about this logically. I want this arrangement gone as much as you do, so why would I tell her? She’s your key to dissolving all this.”
“She was more than that.”
“Was?”
“Shit,” Sylus curses, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“...she left you?”
“No,” he retorts. “Not willingly.” At least, that’s what he wants to believe. “But I’m not discussing this with you.”
“And I don’t really care to know the details. So…what are we going to do?”
Sylus’s hand tightens around his newly acquired phone as he stands and gazes out the window at the city skyline from his bedroom. He might be starting to understand why you seemed so entranced by the view.
“We’ll figure something out.”
“I really hope so, Sylus.”
-
-
“Hey boss, we’re here for the daily debrief,” Luke and Kieran announce as they slip into his office and all but collapse into the chairs in front of his desk.
“I’m listening,” Sylus says, keeping his eyes trained on his monitor.
“It was the usual. She woke up, skipped breakfast, went to class, stayed in the small office for her professor’s grad students for like, five hours. Uh, what else?”
“Bought a snack from that place in the library that sells coffee and shit,” the other twin adds. “Then she–”
“What snack did she buy?”
“Just some chips, from what we saw.” The twins look at each other and give a slight shrug.
“Did she eat lunch?” Sylus’s tone suggests that he could care less, despite having posed the question.
“She ate something while in the office, but it didn’t look like anything substantial. Oh, but she had a sandwich for dinner. She watched some TV – one of her comfort shows again – and scrolled on her phone while in bed. Did we miss anything?”
“I think that about covers it.”
Luke and Kieran sit in silence, waiting for Sylus’s dismissal. Said man continues to type away on his keyboard.
“Hey boss,” Kieran starts and immediately earns a “shut the fuck up” look from Luke. “We’ve been doing this for a year.”
“Which is fine,” Luke adds right after. “We’re not complaining.”
“Right, we’re not complaining. But uhh,” Kieran continues. “How long do you expect for this to go on for?”
“As long as it needs to. You’re dismissed.”
Not long after the twins disappear from his view, he runs a hand through his silvery locks, frustration and tension evident in his strained tendons and veins. Sylus locks his computer and grabs the coat off his chair before sauntering down to his car many, many floors below where the parking garage is. But instead of walking towards his sports car, the one that had sat in a visitor spot of your apartment parking lot all those months ago, he makes his way to an unsuspecting black sedan, its brand common and inconspicuous. Without any need for a GPS, Sylus pulls out and drives to your apartment complex.
In the darkness of twilight and beneath the shadows of beechnut trees, he leans against the steering wheel and gazes up at your window, a luminescent yellow shimmering through the curtains. They haven’t been pulled completely shut, but there is nothing to see in the light regardless. The minutes that pass do not feel like time in any way as he sits in a somewhat meditative state, and the only thing that could snap him out of it is when your bedroom lights switch dark. In reality, fifteen minutes pass before he watches your shadow, then your figure, approach the windowpane.
Sylus takes the little time he has to observe you, to see if you appear any different than yesterday. Did you have a full meal? Was your research stressful? Were you making use of the money he had paid you before everything ended? Were you getting enough rest and nutrition?
When he can no longer see you, he falls back in his seat and lets out a heavy sigh, exhaustion weighing heavily on his eyes. Sylus starts his car and throws it in reverse, and he spends his twenty-minute drive home thinking about nothing but you, his cold, empty bed, and how maybe, as much as he wants to deny it on all fronts, you two were not meant to be. Yet he holds onto hope that he can defy that fate eventually, because whether you know it or not…
How I feel after writing about a fictional character I don't know anything about, except what I read from fanfics because I never watched nothing but edits of him:
here are some dc character stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡
CLARK KENT I TWO I THREE I FOUR I FIVE I SIX I SEVEN I EIGHT
the kinktober prompt: cockwarming · hickeys · lingerie (it's a hattrick!)
as a one-year anniversary gift, you propose that you and your husband divorce. he decides to teach you a lesson: that the king of new york doesn’t give anything up, least of all his darling wife.
⚜️ WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, mafia!au, angst, porn with plot, childhood best friends to arranged marriage to lovers, repressed feelings, noncon mention (does not happen), allusions to age gap but no direct reference, dom!bucky (soft and mean), fingering, oral, unprotected piv, dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink
🔑 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair (described to tumble down at one point) and is able-bodied
🔱 AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's not a fic by unificsation if uni doesn't crash out a little when writing it lol. this is my first bwa collab and i worked hard to live up to the talent in the room—i just hope it shows in the story! please be patient when you read this, i beg!
the jewelry aspect in this is inspired by @flockoff-featherface's rendition of mob!bucky in the previous collab! there are some bwa references here, too, though not of everyone because i couldn't fit it naturally and didn't have time to rework things 😭 please know that i love you all, ardently and equally!!
The mahogany door to the suite swings open. Even at night, New York shines beyond floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows, busy streets twinkling like rivers of stars. A switch turns on. Warmth floods the space with its velvet finishes and Canaletto walnut counters, the lights beamed through brushed bronze sconces on the walls.
Two figures slip inside. A laugh rings true—yours.
“I can’t believe you got them to make Mom’s tiramisu! Did you have to ask Dad for the recipe?”
Bucky smiles at your back, watches the tumble of your hair from that updo like he didn’t spend the whole night staring at you. Here in your shared home, he’s free to monopolize. No secret audience in the public eye, just twin flames on the top floor of one of the many buildings he owns.
“Your dad wouldn’t write it down. Said they’d steal it,” he taking off his suit jacket to drape it on an armchair, then drops metal cufflinks on a terrazzo tray. “The people at the Chateau were nice enough to follow his instructions through the phone.”
You giggle, mostly at the image—his father-in-law speaking into a brick phone with glasses all the way down his nose—but also a little bit from the wine.
It was vintage. Older than your husband, but certainly not smoother than he is. He was charming all throughout dinner. Got you blushing from compliments even before they poured you the burgundy Bordelaise.
You catch him rolling his sleeves up in your periphery.
And the Chateau was an excellent place. Great service, equally amazing food. The restaurant was efficient without sacrificing intimacy: tables spaced out and sleek, lights dimmed, carpeted floors dampening the sound of delicate cutlery. Bucky didn’t have to say much to get what he wanted, only needed to spare a glance for the maître d’s full attention.
But maybe that’s more because of who he is, though you don’t doubt the restaurant’s hospitality.
No business in their right mind would leave the king of New York wanting.
What you don’t know is that mob boss James Buchanan Barnes spent a good couple of hours worrying about where to take his wife to dinner.
But he made the right choice, like he always did. It charmed you inside and out: lush interiors, a decadent five-course meal with garnishes as pretty as garlands, powder rooms bigger than some people’s apartments. You passed each second marveling like you yourself weren’t accustomed to a life of luxury. Like you weren’t born in it.
And then there was your soft moan when you bit into the food. He didn’t know if he should be jealous or proud, but he can’t complain.
Not when you’re celebrating your first anniversary as a married couple.
“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” you sigh as limbs drag themselves towards the suede settee. He watches as silk ebbs and flows on your skin, soft dangerous ripples lit by hazy highlights from the floor lamp. The dress is one he hasn’t seen before. He’s a stupid man for not taking you out more often.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he sits next to you. You press a smile against his cheek, the peck chaste, thumb brushing against his ringed knuckles.
How you break him with the easiest of touches is beyond him.
The orange dim of the room reflects a look in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while. A trace of mischief. Or is it amusement? Either way, it reminds him of bygone eras spent with you: trampolines, tree-houses, and twenty questions. Back when you were young and stupid and free, a foxy daughter and the bloodhound of an old family.
“Bucky?”
“Yes, princess?”
“Close your eyes for me?” you smile. “I got you a gift.”
He shakes his head with an acquiescing chuckle. He’s never said no to you.
Blue eyes close.
“You’re beating me to it.”
“To what?”
“The presents.”
“Ladies first, as you like to say,” your reply is playful, and he hears movement. Shuffles all paper-like. “Anyway, I thought dinner was your gift.”
“Dinner’s not enough, doll.”
Then the couch sinks next to him and his skin holds your warmth even without touch. Something light falls on his lap.
“Open.”
Blue eyes land on an ivory folder sitting innocently across his thighs. Embossed at the front is an ornate B—his family insignia. The one you made yours, too.
His blank face meets a smile that can only mean excitement. You tilt your head to the piece of stationery, a small ‘go ahead’ that nudges his curiosity past the precipice. He flips the cover open.
Inside is a neat stack of papers. The black ink at the very top of the first page screams at him, all capital letters and antipathy:
REQUEST FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Eyes snap to yours. You bite back a pleased grin.
“Happy anniversary, Bucky.”
The first time you left him so dumbfounded was on his fifteenth birthday.
Yes, Bucky Barnes was once fifteen. Not as tall or muscular. Lighter in both the color of his hair and the weight on his shoulders, compared to the man he is now.
But even a conqueror like him had a childhood: days when his biggest woes were bad weather or Becca’s unending boy problems that he somehow had to hear about.
On his fifteenth birthday, his biggest woe was you not attending the party.
It was a rather big thing. They prepared favors. Balloons, too—despite his insistence on not having them. Indulgent food for the children and an open bar for the chaperoning adults.
All of his family was there and so were his friends, but sweet little you somehow became the best of them despite having nearly nothing in common with him other than interest in each other’s company.
He was older, you were younger. He was a Yankees fan, you thought the baseball diamond was the prize for winning a game. He laughed when he told you that was what they called the field, and then you were laughing too.
It was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.
Something clicked then, except ‘click’ was too inconsequential a word. Shifted, more like. Fatal like tectonic plates, fated like a story.
At that fifteenth birthday party, Matthew got too into catechism for Bucky to have a conversation with. It was also the year relations with the Starks got slightly tense due to suspected swipes at each other’s assets, which meant he and Tony barely met, let alone spoke. The Romanoffs and their eldest daughter Natasha were away for overseas business.
Sure, Bucky always had Steven Grant Rogers by his side. But you and Steve were the best in his books for entirely different reasons.
Even with Steve there, it hurt when you weren’t.
But it wasn’t your fault. You’d been sick all week, down with a nasty bug he wished were a real one instead of a mere turn of phrase—that way he could actually crush it for you.
That way he wouldn’t be sad because the girl he liked couldn’t make it to his special day.
When his mother asked what cake he wanted for the party, he said your favorite flavor instead of his.
What was the point of that if you weren’t here at all?
Then, just before he was supposed to blow the candles out, you showed up. Pretty dress, pretty hair, even prettier face. For a split second, he thought his wish was granted before he even got to make it. Year-on-year myth made material.
“I got all better for you,” you grinned. A little tired, sure, but happy to see him.
He hugged you as tight as the twinge in his chest. You giggled into his shoulder. The adults melted with a chorus of awwws—only made worse when you parted to kiss his cheek.
Just like that, his birthday was made.
You gave him a gift. The one in the wrapped box was great—but your presence is the better present.
Because that was everything he ever wanted: you next to him.
When he started carving order out of underground chaos with his own two hands, you made him understand why the work was necessary. He wanted to protect you. To keep you safe, even before he was old enough to receive his first Glock.
Before he became king.
He blew on your skinned knee when you fell off your bike. Pulled stray twigs out of your hair. Let you steal the heart of his family dog—then his in the process. The two of you grew taller, and still he took care of you: hid you from the guards while he snuck you out to play, then took the brunt of the scolding when you got found out.
For all his easy smiles, you’d always look at him like it was your fault. Doe-eyed. Guilty.
He’d pull you in, pat your head, say it’s okay. Keep the little thank you, Bucky you murmur into his chest like it was buried treasure.
And then college called.
The Barnes’ had history with Princeton, so that was where he went. But the distance from New York to Jersey had nothing against where your parents decided you’d go.
Europe. You told him about it while he was interning.
He said he was excited for you. He lied.
The night before your flight, you cried in his arms. Not the kind of cry that wrenched guts in its wails—the kind that was hushed. Compliant. You cried like he wouldn’t fly across the ocean every weekend just to see you. Like you were in the final stage of grief. Acceptance.
He held you through it. Stroked your hair. Said it’s okay. Promised to call.
What he didn’t do was tell the truth. Declare feelings. How he realized he’d only ever thought of you when he sat across a revolving door of women that fought to be near him. How he replaced the sound of their laugh with yours, only to be disappointed when the self-afflicted spell broke.
How he’d be so much happier be if you were the one he held at night.
Those thoughts festered over the years. Then they’re locked for at least a few more, because tomorrow, it’d take a seven-hour flight to touch your fingertips. Tomorrow, you’d be a name on his phone, a voice on the line, a specter in the corner of every room.
He wasn’t sure he’d keep the secret if he visited. So he didn’t.
Better for you to be a continent away loving him as a friend than shunning him as a foe.
Better for you to shun him as a foe than forget about him entirely.
Time passed. He changed. His feelings didn’t.
Then a few years later, you returned: smarter and stronger and more beautiful, standing just a little taller. Like you’d come into yourself while he wasn’t watching. But even then, you were still you. The girl with twigs in her hair, who now understands ‘three strikes and you’re out’ and batting orders, just with a degree and acquired confidence. Still laughed that same laugh when he picked you up at the airport.
Neither of you wanted to part from that first hug in years, just hands on each other’s backs. You buried your face in his wool. He memorized the smell of your hair.
Your families must’ve put two and two together after seeing that reunion. Or maybe they’ve noticed for a while, bode their time like the good criminals they are.
The arranged marriage didn’t feel like the punishment many of his cohort purported it to be. But then again, he had it good.
For one, he knew who he was marrying. Didn’t have to go through polished profiles and fake first dates. The Barnes family was prestigious enough to attract posers on the regular—they didn’t need any more. Your folk had things greater than reputation: connections, controlled resources, and you.
For two, he loves you.
He never said so out loud.
And he didn’t dare ask you how you feel, but you never said no to the deal, either, even when the two of you agreed how egocentrically strategic it was. Both your parents wanted a power consolidation. They used affection to get it. Yours.
He lingered with you by the balcony of his summer home where the decision was announced, sipping the night air. Come morning, it wouldn’t taste the same.
“Why didn’t you fight it?” he asked.
“Because it was you,” you answered.
He didn’t push. Not when it could capsize him into saying something he might regret.
“Not like I’d know what to do without you, anyway,” you smiled wryly, voice quiet above the breeze and cricketsong.
“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he murmured back. Eyes looked into yours.
You looked back, then rested your head on his shoulder.
“I know. You always do.”
That was how it happened. Like an avalanche: the late afternoon fittings, lilies, and diamond rings. He didn’t know there were so many types of papers he had to consider for the embossed invitations.
But amidst the flurry, it still didn’t feel like punishment. Never like punishment, but a reward. As if being born in blood and brutality didn’t stop some force of benevolence from acknowledging his patience and deciding he deserved mercy.
That mercy was you in a white dress. An angel before the altar. A kiss followed by church bells.
Matthew Murdock blessed the marriage—Father Matthew Murdock, pardon him. Bastard went from boxing prodigy to priest.
Bucky was ready then, that first night. Ready to spill his guts on the honeymoon suite floor, heart close to bursting with held-back hurt. All the things he felt throughout the years. Things you made him feel, dream, do in the dark. A matrimonial confession that would lead to either crushed ribs or open arms.
Hell or heaven. Nothing in between.
But then he saw you sit in bed with your pajamas—the one with tiny daisies on it—and you beckoned him, patting a spot on the king-sized bed.
Every sentence he scripted was lost in an exhale. What remained was a conviction so cold, it kept him quiet for a year.
He couldn’t lose you.
That night, you ended up cuddling like you were children again. Traded stories about what transpired during the grand reception.
“Your kiss was very convincing,” you smiled conspiratorially.
He didn’t tell you he meant it. The kiss. The vow. The till death do us part.
It’s been a year of that—wedded bliss that you treated like a sleepover.
Touches remained innocent. Gazes remained guileless. You told him his kiss was convincing, but he didn’t know yours would be, too. The soft brushes of lips against his in public dinners. The way your fingers tangled with his.
It was so easy to believe that you married not by circumstance, but for love.
But behind closed doors, it was like the two of you never grew up—or at least you acted that way. Talked about your long day and his dirty work. Fell asleep in innocuous hugs that settled his soul. Took turns being big spoon and little spoon on a whim.
He prefers being little spoon. That way, he feels your breath on his back, and you’re left oblivious to the malady in his sweatpants. Easier for him to escape to the ensuite and touch himself at the thought of you.
Specifically, the thought of you looking at him like a man and not your childhood best friend.
It was a barren purgatory, and he went through like it was all milk and honey.
But now you’ve gone and done it.
He stares at the printed text, slowly crawling back to the present. Your name under petitioner, his name under respondent. He swore to never say no to your wishes, but he never thought you’d wish for this.
Divorce.
The question slips out of him, reeling barely restrained.
“What the fuck is this?”
You tense.
His baritone dips the way it does on his worst days, only now it pulls you under with it. It’s enough to drain the smile on your face until you’re left with a blank look. A canvas for confusion. For turbulence.
Then horror floods the thrum of your veins, making blood run cold.
It reminds you of fear that follows a grave mistake: like the time you accidentally broke an heirloom vase, except the weight in your stomach is a hundred-fold now, and so is the mess on the floor.
You’re glued to your seat by the sensation, instinct to move replaced by ice.
“What do you mean?” you ask, hiding a tremble.
Blue eyes snap to yours. There’s no joking twinkle. No affectionate narrow of them—not when his jaw is as locked as a steel vault. Though you can’t read his expression, it definitely isn’t one you expected him to wear.
He should be happy. This should be what he wanted. But instead he stares at the folder like he’s wondering if this is a dream.
You might be watching a nightmare unfold.
Then he throws it across the room, sending papers and your heartbeat scattering.
“That was my question, princess,” he murmurs, a flash of a storm in his eyes. “Explain.”
Shadow looms over you while he rises to his feet. The movement tears the truth out of you, nervous eyes darting everywhere except his face.
“Well, since the merger’s stabilized, I thought…” you breathe, “I thought that we don’t have to keep this up anymore.”
“Keep what up?” He chases like a dagger: quick, incisive.
“The marriage,” your eyes finally meet his, hoping you’ll witness him see sense. Hoping for awareness to wash over him, that he’ll melt into a kind smile and say: right, I get it now, thank you for absolving us of this thing our parents put onto our shoulders.
That balm doesn’t arrive, and anxiety continues to burn. You stammer.
“Bucky, I’m saying you don’t have to sacrifice your happiness anymore—”
But he scoffs instead, grin devoid of humor. A hand runs through his hair.
“That’s what this marriage is to you then? A burden?”
The turnabout scathes more than his previous silence. Maybe because you never expected this outcome. It is also deeply unjust: why he’s pinning this on you is beyond any logic, especially knowing what he did.
Your eyebrows knot as you stand, a reflection of rising temper more than conscious choice.
“How could you ask me that when you’ve made it clear how much of a burden this is to you?”
“What the hell are you talking about? We just had a great time at dinner!”
You let out a laugh. It’s funny how he thinks you don’t know.
“I’m talking about you smelling like ten different perfumes every night for the past month, Bucky.”
He must think you’re sound asleep each time he slips under the sheets, but the truth you don’t want to admit is that your body stirs at his presence. Even half-conscious, you feel time tick by: one in the morning becomes two, and then three, which is when he comes home most nights.
There in the dark, you breathe him in, wanting comfort, only to find a bouquet of betrayal.
Jasmines and the sea. Camellias, cocoa, and citrus.
They spin like a carousel, switching, erasing his forest green scent only to replace it with the shade of jealousy—one you struggle to school into submission.
You have no right to that feeling. He was never yours to begin with.
And now you watch as his face falls. It fuels your step and the fire beneath your voice.
“I’m not stupid. I noticed. You don’t talk to me about your day anymore, we barely eat together, you come home smelling like women. A great time at dinner doesn’t exactly erase that.”
There’s a pang in your heart. You will it to pass.
“This marriage might have been arranged, and we might not really be husband and wife, but you sleeping around behind my back is still disgraceful. Not just for me. For the both of us.”
Bucky stares back. You speak before he can—he’ll ruin you otherwise, with or without words.
“You could’ve told me, Buck,” you soften. “You know I won’t blame you. You deserve company.”
Company. The kind he won’t look for in you because he’s your good friend—your very best, even.
Expecting him to want to sleep with you is wishful thinking. Expecting him to stay celibate is like muzzling a dog you don’t even own.
“Let’s not pretend this is what we wanted. What you wanted.” There’s nothing interesting about the rug, but you stare at it anyway.
Maybe its modern pattern will rewrite the ancient ones woven in your head. A tangle of old afflictions—expectations, comparisons, the value you brought to the table dictating the love you begged to receive.
A quiet voice prickles in the back of your mind. It tells you it’s not that he doesn’t want an arranged marriage; he just doesn’t want you.
Scheming parents made you a coincidental casualty that landed on his lap, and now you’ve become a problem he’d be better off without. So much that he’d rather distance himself from you than talk about it like you used to.
Even though you’d let him fuck other women if it meant he’d stay.
A greater woman would have cut ties and run. Next to her, you feel like a little girl with a broken sense of self-esteem.
Maybe this divorce is your attempt to prove something. Anything.
Your gaze is blank at the scattered papers on the floor. The only thing you’ve proven so far is your lack of conviction—running away at every shadow of something real.
How did it come to this?
“I just want us to be friends again,” you whisper.
Something crackles against your skin. The air turns into an emotional minefield. An invisible string tugs your gaze, pulling it back to his with the force of nature. The way he looks at you crushes your faith.
It looks like he’s falling apart, too.
You can tell through the clench of his jaws and fists. Through the flicker in his eyes. In the breath you barely remember to take above a tyrannical tension. Tightrope over bear traps.
“Yeah?” he rasps. “Well, I don’t want that.”
Pain and embarrassment punch you with monosyllabic words. He might as well change that last one to ‘you’.
I don’t want you.
But then he steps forward. You look up at him, trying to hold your ground. It doesn’t work. His steadiness knocks you back, feet moving away from him like repelling magnets.
“We can’t be friends anymore,” he says. Your back hits the wall.
“I don’t understand—”
His smile is mirthless.
“‘Course you don’t.”
Bucky stands tall in front of you, silhouette casting a shadow with no escape routes. The hand on your face is the final nail to an uncovered coffin—it holds the hinge of your jaw, the last rites of a relationship. Blue blade-like eyes cut your defenses and drive you into a corner.
His face hovers over yours.
At this distance, he’ll see the sadness past your irises, so you look away. His hand tilts you back to face him.
Then he speaks, soft, and whatever troubling thought you have shatters into a million shards—the second time tonight.
“You don’t know what it’s like to share a bed with the woman you love and not touch her.”
A thumb smooths over your cheekbone, as if to placate the shock. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up.
“And I’ve loved her since she practiced cursive with my name.”
Your missing breath fuels memories, your mind plays a reel. It shows what he’s talking about: a movie, with scenes that slipped between cracks of life lived and fractured.
You’re wearing your favorite skirt. The weather is so nice outside. There’s clumsy handwriting on ruled paper. He smiles when you show its loops and curls:
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend
The words ‘best friend’ are now overshadowed by a single one with four letters.
Time stands still. Gravity swallows your feet into the ground.
He tips your chin up. A taunt.
You can’t run, the gesture says, now that I’ve said it.
And you can’t because he’s pressing up against you, trapping your body between cold wall and warm chest. As if mocking your speechlessness, his finger swipes at your bottom lip, parting them more.
“Sweet girl doesn’t understand what she does to me,” he hums, tracing the perfect edges of your lipstick, “doesn’t even know she gets me hard just by kissing me good morning and good night on my damn cheek. Why d’you think I wake up first and go to bed last, hm?”
Hot breath fans your ear. Hands move to his torso in a bid to steady yourself.
“I tried to be good, honey, I really did.”
Mouth brushes your jaw. Your head lolls to one side in response: are you running, or are you giving him room to take more of you?
“Tried to take my greed out elsewhere, except it didn’t work. They don’t have your body. Your voice. Your face,” he growls.
“They’re not you.”
He’s nipping at your ear, licking the shell as he murmurs.
“Couldn’t even fucking touch them.”
The confession sinks in the way ink does in water: slow, pulsating, before it grows and takes over.
He loves you.
“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.
He scoffs. “Hated you?”
The look on his face clogs your throat. Eyes dark, lips parted—no sign of focus brought by contempt, though you certainly are the object of his perturbation.
He’s lost. The crack in his voice brings the point home.
“How can I hate you when you’re all I ever wanted?”
“Buck—”
Whatever you wanted to say is cut off by a stern shove of your shoulder against ivory wall. The syllables melt into a single whimper.
“I’m your husband, sweetheart,” he breathes across your mouth. “And if you can’t understand that, I’ll drill it into your pretty little head.”
The first kiss he ever gives you is a devouring.
Lips slot. You gasp. For a second you think the Bucky you know is gone: the man who kneels to fix the strap of your high heels, the boy who held you through thunderstorms. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He takes as if you’re his right, voracious like the jowls of a beast. Tongue and teeth further condemns you to his cause—to collapse your walls.
You crumble headfirst.
But he’s still James Buchanan Barnes, the only constant you’ve ever had in your life, so you hold on to him.
A ragged groan slips past when he feels your fingers in his hair. The touch lights up his nerve endings in a bright, loud yes, God, finally—satiated but already screaming for more. His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist: both of them strong like shackles in a cage.
“Fuck, I went beyond insane over you,” he mouths, “came so close to just taking you in our goddamn bed.”
The thought sends a chill down your spine. It’s not fear, it’s desire and thrill. You moan.
“You wouldn’t,” you pant, “you’d never.”
“Don’t be so sure,” exhales grow heavy as he paws at your flesh, saliva-slicked lips sucking at your neck. “I’m not a good man, honey. You’ve seen my ledger—our ledger.”
You have. It’s red, just like the lipstick he’s smudging right now as he crashes into you with another violent kiss. You clutch the front of his white shirt, crumpling it. He pulls away to survey the wreck he made.
He smiles at the sight.
“I know the first anniversary’s supposed to be paper, but divorce papers?” he hums. “You’re one hell of a gifter.”
“Bucky, I—”
“Sssh,” lips meet yours again. This time the kiss is languid, almost lazy. In his leisure you find vexation.
“Your turn for your present.”
After leading you to the bedroom, the first thing he gives you comes in an unwrapped box. Its contents are designed to wrap you instead. And they do wrap you: beautiful and bridal, deadly and dangerous in one set. White lace, ribbons, garters that lead to sheer tights—a thing like this should make bridesmaids giggle and say ‘he won’t be able to let go of you if you put this on!’
They’d be right.
Because Bucky is already ruining you.
“Bought this for our wedding last year,” he tugs the balconette bra down, letting your tits spill free like he didn’t make you wear it. “Never got the chance to see you in it.”
The warmth of his mouth captures a nipple. You whine when he delivers a mean suck, spine arching off the bed, a tentative coolness of air before you melt into the sheets again. They’re damp with sweat the moment he crowded you onto your shared bed.
“But we’re celebrating our anniversary tonight. The perfect occasion, yeah?”
Fingers hook at the gusset of your pretty underwear, pulling it aside to reveal slick folds. He touches you there and you stir at the coordinated pleasure that catches you unaware. He hums around your chest. The vibrations send sparks in your veins.
Squirming only sets off clinks of metal.
Bracelets of all kinds knock into each other: some charmed, some bangled. Long necklaces tangle with crystal body chains that flow down your skin like sparkling rivers. The weight of diamond drop earrings sink against the pillow.
The lingerie you’re wearing might be from last year, but these? The glimmering riches he took his time to put on you, save for the princess-cut rock on your ring finger? These are all new, their branded boxes forgotten on the floor.
His gift for a year of marriage.
A marriage you’re only consummating now.
“Look at you,” he moans, “so fucking pretty, you should be illegal.”
He lets go of your chest with a loud pop. Your breath shakes.
“Tell me,” he looks down at your pleasure-twisted face, “who helped you get those papers, baby?”
A finger prods at your slick hole, teasing. You surrender with a sob, except you don’t fight him at all.
“J-John.”
Your voice around another man’s name tips him over to villainy.
He adds another finger at your entrance, circling before pushing both of them deep into you.
You let out a cry, walls clenching around him—wet, tight, a vice he’s already devoted the rest of his life to. Love before first touch.
Manicured nails claw at his shoulders, but they soon relax as he waits. You pulse around his fingers while your lungs relearn how to breathe.
God, you’re soaked. Pliant. Warm.
“Yeah? ‘Cause Steve wouldn’t?”
That gets your attention. You blink up, eyes hazy.
“How’d you know…?”
He kisses your forehead, pulls his fingers out, and thrusts them back in.
“A-ah—”
“He asked if we were doing okay,” Bucky pants, watching your lashes flutter at the languid pace his hand sets. “Thought he was talking about me going out to the supper club again.”
His other hand pushes the hair out of your face while you pant, chasing each pump, crystals clinking above the wet sounds.
“Didn’t think he meant this.”
His thumb flicks your clit, punishment and reward in one touch. Tricks of an unfair trade. Your head thrashes.
“Bucky—!”
Your body rocks with his fingers, a byproduct of drawn-out desperation. It’s an awakening, a cryptic hunger yawning at the bottom of your gut. Now that he’s feeding that emptiness, it demands more.
“Walker must be so goddamn ecstatic his queen came to him for help.”
The crystals chains on your skin jingle alongside rolling hips. Bucky traces the sight with drunken abandon, dead set on destroying you first.
Call it payback for the many times he fisted himself at the thought of this, and call it occupational hazard how he’s already planning methodologies: fingers first, mouth second, cock third.
Then again, and again, and again… until you’re too spent to tell him to stop.
“You made him feel important, honey. Made him think we were gonna split,” he chides condescendingly. Fingers hit a spot in you that form stars at the edge of your vision. He watches you squirm. Transcribes every whimper in his brain.
“Gotta pay for that—c’mon, cum for me.”
Your lips part in a silent scream.
If it weren’t for his hand on your face, your cheek would be pressed against the pillow, but one broad grip has you looking straight at him as he pushes you over the edge.
The last thrust squelches as it sinks, lewd sound crystal clear in the empty room. He watches as you spasm like a live wire. Thighs twitch, eyes screw shut. Then his name on your mouth.
“There we go. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”
He doesn’t partake in the family’s merchandise, but this has to be what a drug high feels like.
Because he’s already addicted while your breath reconstructs itself. Already begging for another taste of you when he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean.
“You know I see the way he looks at you?” Bucky murmurs, caressing your face with the same hand that broke you. “Swear he wants me dead just so he can have a chance with you.”
Two seconds pass before your ecstasy-addled brain catches up to the fact that your husband is still talking about John Walker. But any further thought is halted by the heat huffed on your neck.
“Let’s show him who you really belong to, yeah?”
It starts off slow with kisses on the column of your throat, almost kind compared to the rapture of release. His nose traces the slope that leads to your shoulder and he breathes, cataloging your scent: sweat and something floral that you wore to dinner. It pools in his stomach, makes him feral.
You’re prey on a pedestal.
He bares his tongue for the feast. Then teeth.
You sigh, feeling them drag oh so gently across skin. There’s no rush, but when he sinks down, it’s with intent. Purpose. Authority.
Muscles ripple over your lipstick and lace as he latches onto the side of your neck—you hold onto his arms even though there’s nowhere to fall with the mattress against your back. His warmth clings to you in return.
“Oh,” the airy sound slips out when he lets go. Flesh stings with stimulation. That spot will darken tomorrow.
Blue eyes map a path of ruin where he’ll bite next. A plan of attack to spell his name on your neck. The wedding ring isn’t enough of a claim, he reasons to himself.
Minutes later, you’re shaking beneath him wearing a new necklace of his making.
Pinks and reds dot collar to chest in what looks like a botched J-A-M-E-S. In a few hours, they’ll turn into a sunset purple. He marvels at the work of his mouth, stares down at you.
“Walker will learn his lesson. But now it’s time for yours.”
Wide eyes stare up at him.
“You see how the divorce is so uncalled for, honey? You don’t really want me to leave you, do you?”
You shake your head. It hurts, the thought of him leaving, even if it’s for his own good.
Hips pin yours. You feel the hard ridge under his slacks press against damp lace. Blood rushes south, makes you throb.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he says, but he slips a thumb in your mouth. It presses on your tongue and forces your heartbeat into a stutter.
You say it anyway, stifled, vowels warped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me you’re sorry for making me think of fucking other women instead of you.”
Tears blur your vision. You’re not sure why—maybe from the thought of wasted time, or from the image of him almot rutting into a warm body just to run away from yours. He said he didn’t—couldn’t—but your brain is an errant thing. The space between your ribs tighten.
He’s here to make it right. Are you that transparent? Because the finger in your mouth is still mean, but his other hand strokes your cheek in a manner so opposite you think it might have a mind on his own.
Bucky kisses your temple. Then cheek. Then ear, where his voice rumbles deep.
“C’mon, honey. Say it.”
“I’m sorry for—” drool escapes from the side of your open mouth, “for making you think of f-fucking other women…”
“Instead of?”
“…instead of me.”
“Good girl.”
He grinds down against you harder, the friction catching your clit just right. You keen.
The thumb dislodges, drawing a spit-slick line down your chin, then collarbone, then sternum. He toys with your nipple. The wet touch makes you jolt. Beneath shimmers and gem-studded strings, your skin is smeared with pigment from smudged lipstick.
“Tell me you’re sorry for not giving yourself to me sooner.”
A tear slides down your cheek. He kisses it away.
“I’m sorry for not giving myself to you sooner,” you hiccup.
He leans down to mouth at your nipple again. Spine curling like a big cat above you, hips rolling against yours.
“Now tell me you’ll let me do what I want to you,” he murmurs against you.
The new commandment shepherds silence—not in fear, also not quite submission. You linger at an open doorway while everything about him beckons you to enter, where all the pleasure he’s given you may multiply.
But once you go there, you can’t go back.
He sucks at your chest in a manner so selfish it breaks your reverie. Blue eyes snap to your face when he lets go.
Then he says those words: the exact same ones he said to you the night your fates were sealed.
“I promise I’ll take care of you.”
He rises, face above yours, breathing your air. “I know I was stupid. Stubborn. A damn coward.”
Then, after an inhale:
“I just didn’t want to lose you.”
It’s enough to make you lean up to kiss him, the antithesis of how he started.
Soft, almost solemn. He kisses back like he’s kissed you a thousand times before—and maybe he has in his dreams. It tastes like sticky succumbence, as sweet and as cloying as honey. The more it drips in your mouth, the more you hunger. Your fingers grip his arms, still clothed in that damn white shirt.
The way the both of you are dressed, you can almost pretend this is your wedding night.
He parts first.
“Give me words, sweet girl.”
With instructions so clear, how could you not?
“I’ll let you,” you whisper.
He watches. Waits. It takes every bit of you in your dizziness, but you finally continue.
“...do what you want to me.”
The breath that escapes him is ragged, wanting—like an animal desperate for nourishment. He wastes no time in diving between your legs. Spreads thighs with strong hands, pulling your panties over to one side. You gasp at his breath caressing the apex of your thighs.
“Good,” he rumbles, “gonna make you cum on my tongue.”
Your body becomes his to control. Greedy hands use garters as handles, tugging them to haul your legs over his shoulders as he eats. One of them moves to torment your chest, the other your clit.
He really is a rotten liar, because he makes you cum on his tongue twice. It’s motivated by self-justification: this is what he wanted for so long, surely he’s allowed to take more? He’s been so good, holding back all this time…
The first orgasm rips a loud moan out of you, thighs bracketing his head. He doesn’t stop after that. Eats you like it’s his pleasure. Your stomach twists with the beginnings of overstimulation until the curl of his tongue in your cunt pushes you past that precipice again.
The second time you crest is devastating. You sob under your breath while a strong arm presses both your legs to meet your chest, opening your core up for him like you’re a right and a privilege in one reality.
Seeing you folded in half like that—slick, clenching around nothing—is enough to sever him from sanity.
Or maybe he’s never sane to start with. Not when it comes to you.
“She looks so empty, sweetheart. Let’s fix that.”
A hand takes both of yours overhead, pinning them into pliancy. You’re too weak to even writhe.
Then he feeds his inches into your hole and you cry.
“Bucky—!”
The stretch of his cock is far from comprehensible. It’s excruciating, but each vein inspires addiction. Then there’s the heat, the intoxicating way he pulses inside of you as he pushes ever deeper, nudging places you didn’t know existed, claiming them for himself.
His blunt tip finally sinks all the way in and you feel him in your stomach. In your lungs, your throat.
“Christ, you’re unreal,” he pants against your ear, smokescreens in the form of saccharine things distracting from the dull pain.
“Think she might be made for me, honey. Tight fucking pussy swallowing my cock—”
You moan, walls unwittingly clutching him. He groans.
“Fuck, not gonna last if she’s grippin’ me like that.”
“Bucky,” you murmur.
“Yeah, princess?”
“‘s too much,” is all you can muster, gaze falling to the sight between your bodies. Blue eyes and blown-out pupils follow, and he grins. The grip he has on your wrists tightens.
“Yeah?” he pants in bliss, still buried in you, “This is what I think about every morning. Every night.”
Then he thrusts once, shallow at first. Two strangled voices echo in the room.
“Fuck—wasted my time dreaming of you... could’ve had this all along.”
Your hands don’t know what to do: fingers stretch and claw at air while his hand keeps you where he wants you. He splits you open, hips steadily sawing into yours. It leaves you at a loss, coherence deleted with each rock of him until only three words loop: ‘please’, ‘Bucky’, and ‘more’—because you’re a paradox like that.
A symphony worth waiting years for.
And because he can never deny you, he gives.
Makes you cum on his cock just like that, pounding mercilessly into your sensitive spots. Your hair forms a halo on the pillow while plump lips part, crying out his name again and again. He drives into you just the same, eyes never straying from your face, just to convince himself this isn’t a dream.
The way you clench around your cock tells him it isn’t. Dreams can never feel this good—he knows because he’s had plenty.
“Fuck,” he grunts, cock buried so far up in you that you almost cum again when he does.
You mewl at the hot spurts of him inside. For a second the fever breaks, satisfied with release, but as you’re flooded with his spend, the appetite rises. The ravening isn’t over. His eyes say as much.
A dark intention takes over him, affection corrupted by avarice. What other expressions will you show him? What secrets sounds can he steal from you?
How far can he make you fall?
Minutes melt into hours.
Here you are now, a picture of ruined grace draped across his lap. Lingerie ripped, chains and jewelry in knots, sparkling diamonds in the dark illuminating the blotches around your throat.
He keeps you sat on his cock for god knows how long already. Tears blur your vision, and the feeling in your chest is the same as your poor, plugged up cunt.
Full.
God, you’re stuffed with him—his cock, his cum. A mess in both body and mind, slick with his spend and yours sluicing down your ass and the sheets, overflowing. The drip of it is warm. So is his naked chest against yours.
There are thin pink lines on his skin—your nails dragged down there when he sinks you down onto his length, weak and wanting even after how many orgasms, you don’t know. You lost count. The same scratches must exist on his back from when he fucked you on yours.
Through all this, somehow your husband is still hard as he holds you in his lap. He lets you sob into his neck, big hands caging your hips.
The same hands that dusted dirt off your knee the first time you fell from your bike.
You’re compelled by the cardinal sins. Greed, lust, and gluttony order your hips to roll, to shift, to do anything just to feel something.
He coos, resting his forehead against yours.
“Sssh, you can’t,” and he’s right, because his fingers are bruising stillness into you. “You need to wait, sweetheart.”
You sound like you’re past pathetic. He really meant it when he said he’d drill it into your head: the pace, the pleasure, him.
“Bucky, please—”
“Made me wait all this time, think it’s only fair you should, too.”
Large hands adjust you on him. You gasp, feeling driblets of him escape your cunt before he sits you all the way down his cock again.
“Now, how ‘bout you tell me a story while you learn to be patient?” he breathes. “Something from when you were a kid. About us.”
You want to scream. How are you supposed to speak, let alone think? All you want is to rut into him again, to feel him throb, to drink the friction—
The corner of his lips twitch up.
“Maybe I’ll let you move if you do.”
Either your husband is a telepath, or you’re so wonderfully obvious.
Bucky sees your throat swallow, the gears turning in your mind. His blood sings, and maybe he’s the worst man alive for enjoying this a little too much: watching you work through a haze. His pretty girl, too drunk oncock to function.
One of his hands stroke your cheek, almost coaxing the words out of you, then he coos like he’s not the cause of your misery.
“You can do it, sweetheart. Tell me a story.”
It’s the softness in his voice that damns you.
“I—” you begin, unsure, lungs still clawing for air, “remember that time… after summer break?”
He resists the urge to tease: which summer break? You spent so many together.
“You came back and your voice c-changed.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, teasing your nipple with a thumb. He remembers. You whimper, the sound pitiful, but you’re being so good for him, staying still even when one of his hands went astray.
“What about it, honey?”
“It was… I was so confused,” your voice hitches.
He doesn’t stop touching you.
“You looked the same, but—ah—you sounded like—”
His hand moves from your chest back to your ass. Fingers sink into the flesh, grip you closer to him, as if there was any room between your bodies in the first place.
“Like?”
Your head drops into the crook of his neck.
“Like a man,” you admit, muffled.
He breathes near your ear.
“Look at you now, finally treating me like one,” you can feel him grin, taking your earlobe between his teeth. “Letting me fuck you like one, ‘s that right?”
The nod you give him is slow, like you’re drugged. He lifts you up just enough to sink you down. A temporary relief that makes you mewl.
“So? Do you still want to be just friends?” he grits.
You shake your head, eyes blank and wet. That one thrust is enough to vaporize your vocabulary.
The tears at your lashes makes his cock twitch. He used to hate seeing you cry. Felt helpless with every cartoon band-aid he smooths over your skin. Reminded him of the time you had to fly halfway across the world for a fucking degree, the damp pillowcase you slept on, the way he couldn’t stop you from leaving.
Now? Crying is all he wants to make you do.
“What am I to you now, hm?”
Your breath breaks.
“H-husband,” you croak, “you’re my husband—”
“That’s right. Smart girl.”
As if to reward you, he bounces you on top of him again. You almost collapse onto his shoulder, a ragdoll to pleasure.
“Please, Bucky, I want—”
“Want what, baby? Wanna stop?”
You whimper, shaking your head again in the crook of his neck, arms around his back. He almost laughs, but the spasm of your cunt around his cock, full with his cum and yours, strangles the sound into a guttural groan.
“Tell me.”
“Want more,” you whine shamelessly. He gladly exploits it.
“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson first.” A hand grabs your face, forcing you to peel away from his body to look at him.
You stare back. He’s sweaty, eyes dark, lips swollen. You’re probably about thrice as wrecked.
“Who do you belong to?”
“Yours—I’m yours.”
“You’re my what? Finish that sentence.”
You nearly choke. “I’m your wife.”
“Attagirl. What else have you learned?” His tone is cruel. Cold. But you know better. Blue irises drown you with devotion in a single look. In them, you find your answer.
“You—ah—take care of me. Make me feel good.”
“There you go, sweet thing.” His lips latches onto yours, a thief to your breath as if you had any left to spare. “D’you want me to take care of you now? Wanna feel good on your husband’s cock again?”
“Yes. Please.”
You feel his cock twitch inside of you.
“Still want a divorce?”
“No—” your hips begin to sway, the hunger clawing at you, but his hands are steel restraints, fingers sinking into flesh.
“What do you want, then?”
“You,” you sob, “please, Bucky, want you—”
He watches your face contort, desperation and desire mingling into the most delicious expression he’s ever seen on you.
One day, he’ll take a picture.
“Y’know, I told you I love you earlier, but you never said it back,” a thumb holds your chin in place. “Think you can do that for me? Say it real sweet for your husband.”
Your chest cracks open with feeling. The night tumbles through you like a tidal wave, where everything comes crashing: his confession, the papers thrown on the ground, all the way to your mother’s tiramisu he got the restaurant to make for you.
Still, the wave builds. It sweeps up old memories to the forefront.t
The two of you on the balcony the night you got engaged. You crying in his arms hours before boarding a plane. A birthday party where the cake was your favorite flavor instead of his.
The surge summits at the memory of awkward pencil scratches.
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend.
Every feeling known to you is suspended like they’re encased in floating water. The nostalgia of youth, unabated longing, dark desires, and a kinship brought about by fate—
—then gravity pulls them down, and they break.
So do you.
“I love you,” you rasp, voice hoarse with timeworn truth. “I love you so much, Bucky, I love you, I love you, I love you—”
He swallows your confession in a kiss, tongues tangled, fingers buried in hair. You grind down once.
He lets you.
So you do it again. And again.
“I love you too, baby, so fucking much,” he murmurs into your mouth. You move with the opposite of inhibition.
“My good girl. My best girl—”
He rips a scream out of you when he stills you again, only to thrust up. You’re already so close, it drives him out of his mind more than he already is.
“Gonna fill my wife up with my cum,” he grits, “make it take. Wanna see you round with me.”
The promise nearly ends you. He senses its impact, feels his own need grow.
“Yeah? You’re gonna leak for days when I’m done with you,” a growl as he mauls your neck more than he already has, “let ‘em see who you belong to.”
“Fuck—Bucky!”
“You’re mine, honey. All mine.”
He triggers your ruin like that. Smiles as he watches you shake in his lap, breathless while he relentlessly ruts into you even as spurts of viscous white oozes down your thigh. He uses his cock to push it back in.
A hint of humor tickles the back of his mind: that after all these years, it took a near-divorce to bring the two of you together.
“Remind me to burn those papers tomorrow,” he rasps against your mouth.
When he pushes you back onto the bed, he’s already making time in his schedule for a renewal of vows.
you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
POV: You are the non-MC wife. You thought the marriage would save you, but the moment you crossed his precious MC, you became nothing more than a target. He didn't even hesitate.
God, the angst of being the disposable villain in someone else's love story is unmatched 💔
Zayne was not insane that's what he keeps telling his friends every time he talks about the interaction that happens between you and him that proves that you like him.
“she said thank you while smiling after i gave her the answers to the assignment.” he felt his face getting hot while remembering your sly cute smile.
And Rafayel couldn't believe his ears not because of how delusional zayne, it was because he can't believe that Zayne actually gave his hard work to someone “i can't believe this?! I have been asking you for years to help me and you refused!! Every.single.time just to witness you folding for your crush because she offered you some scrap of attention who btw doesn't even like you!”
Zayne was frowning when he was interrupted from his daydream about his wedding with you.
“for your info she does like me, she even liked my post about clopidogrel and said that i look like him.” zayne defended your non existent love because it's more important than his honor.
“is she...insulting you?, orrr is that supposed to be a compliment?.”
“that's a compliment!.”
Rafayel felt like killing himself he couldn't believe that he lived long enough to witness himself being the rational one in a conversation with zayne so he tried to talk some since to wake him up “don't you know that she has a boyfriend?”
“she broke up with him two days ago.”
“WHAT?! none of her boyfriends last a whole month how can you think that she likes you?.” zayne really doesn't understand what's the problem with Rafayel why is he stopping him from reaching his happy-ever-after ending? “she's different now, also that's why sylus is better” zayne said Matter of fact.
“because he supports your delusions? How could you both think that her inviting you for a 'date' after breaking up and then make you pay is her way of showing interest and she's now magically has a change of heart?.” Rafayel at this point was going to go bold from how much he was pulling at his hair while seeing zayne ignore the red flags.
Rafayel was truly concerned about his friend so gave a last piece of advice hoping it will wake him up “do as you wish it's not like i will stop you, but please make sure that you take care of yourself and don't let your feelings get in the way of your studies because I'm sure one day you will find someone who will actually like you and stop the constant 'i will fix her' because you can't fix her so don't be blinded by your feelings and give it some thought.”
Rafayel could see that his words finally working! And it looks like Zayne is truly thinking about moving on!.
After some silence zayne finally spoke “i guess you're right i should move-”
“Zay~nie~♡!! How is my favorite nerd doing? Oh- ugh hi raf. Anywayyy are you free after school zayne? Let's go out together!, i really really enjoyed our last date together!.” Rafayel couldn't believe your audacity, you looked like a snake going for its prey yes you are smokin' hot but that doesn't give you the privilege to just play with anyone's feelings or perhaps it does.
However Rafayel was so sure that zayne is going to put an end to this and refuse you-
“yes, I'm free tonight.”
Yeah. zayne won't fix you because he's where he wants to be.
My first post after 6 years of not writing so I'm so so rusty, if you have any suggestion to improve i will happily accept your advice!! ^^
