Summary: Joaquin’s girlfriend can fall asleep anywhere, and instead of questioning it, he starts napping with her. Before long, it becomes their favorite routine.
Word count: 1012
Notes: no Captain America: Brave New World spoilers :)
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Joaquin Torres was used to high-energy situations. Missions, training, and keeping up with Sam Wilson meant he was always on the move. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for dating you.
Because somehow, despite all the chaos, you could fall asleep anywhere.
At first, he thought it was a one-time thing. The two of you had been hanging out at his place, watching a movie, when he felt your head slump against his shoulder. He glanced down, expecting you to be watching intently, but—nope. You were out cold.
“Hey,” he whispered, nudging you slightly. “Did you seriously just knock out?”
You let out a small sigh in response, nuzzling into his hoodie like it was the most comfortable pillow in the world. Joaquin blinked, staring at you, before laughing softly to himself.
Alright, maybe the movie was a little boring.
But then it kept happening.
You would doze off in the passenger seat of his car five minutes into a drive. You fell asleep on a rooftop once, mid-mission debrief, and nearly gave Sam a heart attack. You even curled up in a booth at a diner after breakfast, resting your head on your folded arms like it was the most natural thing to do.
Joaquin quickly realized: you could nap anywhere, anytime.
And, well… that was kind of adorable.
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One day, after a long week of missions, Joaquin found you sprawled across his couch, dead to the world. You had come over to hang out, but somewhere between waiting for him to get out of the shower and picking a movie, you had passed out completely.
Joaquin just stood there for a second, hands on his hips, watching the steady rise and fall of your breathing. He shook his head with a soft laugh.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured.
Then, without really thinking about it, he grabbed a blanket, tossed it over you, and instead of waking you up—he joined you.
He had meant to just sit beside you, but when he felt how warm you were, the exhaustion from the past week caught up with him fast. The next thing he knew, he was lying down too, pulling you against him, his face buried in your hair.
And damn, this was comfortable.
Joaquin had never really been a nap guy. He always felt like there was something to do, somewhere to be. But being curled up with you, listening to your soft breathing, feeling the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest?
Yeah. He could get used to this.
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After that, it became a thing.
Joaquin stopped questioning it and just started joining you.
You crashed on the couch after training? He slid in beside you, pulling you close. You curled up in the Quinjet after a mission? He threw his jacket over both of you and knocked out too. You flopped onto his bed, stretching like a cat? Yeah, no, he was claiming his spot too.
“You know,” he said one afternoon as you both lay tangled together in his bed, “I think you’ve corrupted me.”
You blinked sleepily up at him. “Huh?”
“I never used to nap,” he admitted, running his fingers through your hair. “Now I’m out here dozing off at random times of the day because of you.”
You hummed, not at all guilty. “Not my fault you make a good nap buddy.”
Joaquin grinned. “Oh, nap buddy, huh? That’s all I am to you?”
“Mm.” You pretended to think about it. “And a pretty decent boyfriend, I guess.”
He let out a dramatic gasp. “Wow. So generous.”
You giggled, snuggling closer, your nose brushing against his collarbone. “Admit it—you love it.”
Joaquin sighed, kissing the top of your head. “Yeah. I really do.”
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One evening, after a particularly long mission, Joaquin was the one who crashed first.
You found him sprawled across the couch, his arm draped over his face, still in his flight gear. His wings had been set aside, his boots lazily kicked off. He looked exhausted.
You should have woken him up, told him to change, maybe convinced him to eat something first.
Instead, you climbed right on top of him and curled up against his chest.
Joaquin made a small, sleepy noise of surprise but didn’t even open his eyes. His arms instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting against the small of your back.
“Mmm… stealing my move,” he mumbled.
“Shh,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Nap first. Talk later.”
He chuckled sleepily. “See? Corrupted me.”
But he didn’t complain.
He just held you tighter and let himself drift off, safe and warm in your arms.
summary: when joaquin gets a letter from an old friend from bootcamp, some unsuspecting feelings start to arise in you—feelings that you didn’t think you had for your dear roommate. you try to brush it off, to return to some semblance of normalcy in your shared home. but when joaquin sends you pictures from his catch up with his dear old friend, something hot and possessive stirs inside of you. and this time, you can’t ignore it.
warnings: mdni. kind of angst heavy solely cus one of the roomies is upset with the other!, idiots who do not talk their feelings out, jealousy, reader is kind of anxious avoidant, bottled up feelings, happy ending but they are still besties at the end of it :) smut warnings: shower sex, hickies, biting, nail scratching, blowjob, minor handjob/ballplay, standing missionary, creampie. @sortagaysortahigh once again thank u to my bb lexiepoo for the beta <3 the day i proofread my own work from start to finish is the day hell freezes over
word count: 11.1k
The stack of papers in your hands is mostly coupons from local supermarkets and some junk mail from different companies. An occasional bill catches your eye, but you hardly pay them any real mind, shuffling through them as you walk back into your house. The smell of newspaper infiltrates your senses, and you find yourself already missing the feeling of sun on your shoulders when you kick the door close behind you. You aimlessly wonder if Joaquin would be willing to go on a walk later, sometime in the evening.
Sounds of a sport commentator narrating the game filters through your living room, and you cast a glance over to Joaquin sprawled out on the couch under a soft-knitted blanket. Condensation from his beer bottle drips onto the coaster he bought while on a mission in Mexico, and oddly enough, the cat that Joaquin was so insistent against, is curled cozily at his feet. (‘She won’t move!’ Joaquin had complained when you were heading out to the mailbox, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he made no attempts to get her away at all. He’d rather drop dead than admit that he likes her, though, you know that much).
“Half time is coming up, do you wanna make lunch or order in?” he slowly drawls, voice deep and raspy, laced with sleepiness. His glasses are perched low on the bridge of his nose, and Joaquin’s curls flop lazily over his forehead.
Flipping through the last of the mail, you absent-mindedly hum. “Let’s just make something. I just bought this new…sauce…” Your reply comes to a lingering stop as your gaze focuses on the envelope in your hands.
You can barely hear the sound of Joaquin’s casual agreement, lips parting as you stare intensely at the envelope in your hand. Slowly, you pull it out of the pile and lift it into the light.
When you don’t follow up with him, you see the way Joaquin throws his head back over the armrest of the couch, head peeking out from the side of the letter obstructing your view. His own expression begins to match yours, frowning lips and scrunching brows.
“What is it?” he calls out.
It doesn’t shake your focus.
“You got a letter.” Every word is laced with confusion, and though you admitted that it was for him, you don’t exactly hand it over. Instead, you survey the small white square with scrutiny. Neat and handwritten, the large “To: Joaquin Torres” with a heart beside is enough to get your stomach turning. But that wasn’t all the sickening envelope had to offer.
No.
It was covered in doodles. An airplane path starting at the “From,” dotting a series of hearts all the way down to the “To.” A sun was beaming in the corner in yellow. A multitude of flowers were sprouting at the bottom. It was bright and colorful and so clearly done with affection.
You’re getting nauseous.
Worst of all, you find yourself stuck on how unfamiliar the name in the upper left corner was. “It’s from Valerie…?”
“‘Valerie’?” he echoes, and your stomach turns again when you hear something like excitement in his voice. You see him push up his glasses. “Like, ‘Valerie’ Valerie?”
“Uh…I don’t…” you trail, frown deepening. “I don’t know.” You thrust your arm forward, offering him the letter almost mechanically. You know Joaquin means it nearly rhetorically; know that he knows that you don’t actually know who this person is, but you stupidly answer anyways.
You do your best to ignore the way Joaquin hops up from the couch all too fast, your cat lifting her head in confusion for a second at the sudden movement before laying back down. Any other time, you’d find it sweet how immune she was to Joaquin’s antics, but you can hardly spare that thought any of your time when you’re so focused on the way your roommate practically rips the letters from your fingers.
His brows furrow as he reads the envelope, a mix of surprise and curiosity dancing across his features. “Valerie,” he murmurs again, almost testing the name on his tongue.
Watching closely, you do your best to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest when a flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes.
Flipping it to look at the back, he lets out a breath. “Wow,” he says more to himself than to you. “I haven’t heard from her in so long.”
Jealousy and confusion churns in your stomach. You hate the way you can’t stop yourself from asking. “Who’s Valerie?”
When Joaquin lets out a breathless chuckle, and your insides ache. “She’s—uh, she’s an old friend. From bootcamp,” his brows raise in disbelief, clearly unexpecting to hear from this Valerie from a lifetime ago. “Yeah, we went through a lot together.”
You purse your lips, nodding slowly. Wringing the rest of your mail in your hands, you don’t even care how you’re crumpling up important bills. It’s all trash compared to the one piece of mail Joaquin is holding in his hands. “Yeah? What’s she writing you for?”
He lets out a puff of air, shrugging his shoulders in a way that silently insinuates ‘beats me.’ It was all the motivation he needed to rip the letter open, right in front of you, as if it’s not laced with brightly colored hearts and stupid doodles that you can’t stop picturing every time you blink.
“God, it’s been years,” he says under his breath, and the way it comes out as an afterthought as he scans the letter makes your eyes narrow.
Volume rising, he announces to you that this old friend is, “In New York. Saw I was the Falcon and wanted to congratulate me. Says here she’s proud.” Joaquin’s voice softens towards the end, and what started out as burning discomfort shifted into something more sorrowful.
That’s so much more intimate than a few colored drawings.
Defensiveness floods you, and you can’t help but resort to letting out a short, unhumored laugh. “What, is she fifty? Who writes letters anymore?” It’s a joke, but, really, it’s not. You know he doesn’t pick up on that, though, entertained by your words. Cheeks are significantly warmer than they were before, you try to shove down the building embarrassment in your chest. It’s so obvious that you’re being bitter, but it seems Joaquin is none the wiser to your quickly souring mood.
That somehow makes everything worse.
Joaquin just laughs, easy and unbothered, and you roll your eyes. “No, no—it’s probably ‘cause we used to write letters all the time back in bootcamp. We weren’t allowed our phones for, like, seven weeks. The only way we could talk to anyone was through mail, so…I don’t know. It makes sense.”
God, if you thought you were feeling bad before.
His words make you sick, actually sick. Not in the cute, fluttery kind of sick that makes your chest warm when Joaquin discreetly drops off cat toys at the foot of your bed without saying anything. No. This is the kind of sick that sinks. Heavy and cruel, curling around your ribs and tightening like it wants to see you fall apart.
It makes sense, of course it makes sense. Of course he’d know that about her and of course she’d know him well enough to remember. And you? You hadn’t even heard her name, much less of her, until three minutes ago.
The papers in your hand crumple as you start to fist them, jaw locking as you offer Joaquin a tight smile. But he’s too busy rereading the letter to see.
She wrote him a letter. A letter.
You don’t know why it matters so much. Joaquin is just your roommate. You may have crossed that line once or twice, but it’s not like the two of you have ever talked about it. You never needed to! Maybe you deluded yourself into thinking that it was always just you and him.
Afterall, that’s how it always felt…
Movie nights in your living with too salty popcorn and legs tangled together, grocery runs where he always tossed your favorite gum into the cart without asking, the way he always leaves a mug of tea on the counter just the way you like it every morning—you thought it meant something for him to observe and care for you so deeply.
You never expected for there to be anything outside of that, never imagined that there was a world that Joaquin was a part of that you weren’t.
But there it was. Proof that you were wrong. The evidence is lying in his hands now, words scribbled carefully onto a sheet of lined paper that says there’s parts of Joaquin you haven’t touched, that maybe you’ll never touch. Afterall, how are you supposed to relate to that? His military days? You can’t even read a 24 hour clock. It cuts you in a way you don’t expect, the idea that someone understands him more than you do.
You let out a breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding, the room growing too warm for comfort and the newspapers in your hand are growing damp in your sweaty palms. The feeling only amplifies when you realize the opposite is true, too.
Maybe Joaquin doesn’t know you so well either.
You always thought he did. You believed it. All the things he did before, that kind of attention, it felt like being seen.
But maybe that’s just who he is.
Thoughtful. Observant. Soft in quiet ways.
If he can remember, just like that, why some girl from years ago would write him a letter in pen instead of reaching for her phone, then maybe it wasn’t because you were special. Maybe he just pays attention to everyone.
The thought is dizzying, and suddenly all of the tenderness you’ve been holding on to feels fragile, almost silly. Like maybe you built a home in a feeling that was never meant to shelter you.
He’s still talking, probably reading some cutesy postscript, but you can’t hear him. All you can hear is the thudding in your chest, hard and slow. So you just smile and nod.
After what feels like forever, with nothing but the blood roaring in your ears and Joaquin’s mouth moving so quickly it looks like rambling, he snaps you back to your senses with a clap, letter discarded in a way that almost looks thoughtless on the coffee table.
Rubbing his hands together, Joaquin looks directly at you. “Lunch?”
All you can do is nod stiffly, silently trailing into the kitchen after him as if there wasn’t a warzone in your chest.
-
It’s been three days.
Three long, drawn-out, achingly normal days.
They’re the slow kind of days where the sun still rises and the dishes still get done. The kind of routine where every time you come home, you still find Joaquin’s socks on the living room floor like they belong there. Except now, when you pass them, you don’t give Joaquin a roll of your eyes and nudge them away with your foot. You walk around them, the same way you’ve been walking around him, too.
At first Joaquin doesn’t seem to notice. Not really.
When you declined your usual cup of tea the first day, he figured you just didn’t want any. But then the second day came and you didn’t even stay in the kitchen long enough to turn down his offer, skittering in and out before he even had the chance to extend the cup to you.
The third morning you didn’t bother coming to the kitchen at all.
Your cat even meowed at Joaquin’s feet, circling around the kitchen at 8am like she was confused about your lack of appearance, too. All he could do was look down at her and shrug. He misses making you laugh with half-baked dad jokes while you made breakfast just as much as your kitty seems to.
It should’ve clicked then.
But it wasn’t until nightfall that the cogs in Joaquin’s head finally began to turn.
“Hey,” he calls out, leaning against the doorway of your room, fingers drumming against the trim. Joaquin silently celebrated that the door was actually ajar tonight, as opposed to the way it’s been shut in that quiet, final way that it’s been the past few days. “New episode of British Bake Off. Do you want sweet or savory popcorn?”
You don’t turn around, barely glancing over your shoulder as you sit at your desk. “I’m alright.” The words come out quickly, like it’s nothing.
He had already started walking away before you replied, so assured in the fact that you’d be joining him. It wasn’t even a question of whether or not you’d meet him in the living room, really. It was more so a question about what snack you want…because you never turn down BBO Fridays. Ever.
Joaquin stops in his tracks, sock clad feet nearly causing him to slip as he spins back around sharply. Grabbing onto your doorframe like your answer might knock him over if he lets go, his voice is laced with nothing short of horror as he questions, “What?”
“Not tonight,” you answer, as if that would solve his confusion. You didn’t even bother to look back at him this time. Only the clicking sound of your keyboard fills the space, but something else shrouds the air. Joaquin feels it; there’s tension that he can’t chalk up to you being busy and stressed. It somehow feels different. Joaquin even starts to question if he did something wrong.
He lingers, waits for you to follow up with a ‘Kidding’ or a ‘I had a rough day’—anything at all that would give him some insight on your sudden shift in attitude towards him. But nothing comes. All Joaquin can do is slowly peel his hands off of the trim and shove them into the pockets of his sweats, swaying on the balls of his feet at your door. He stares, but your back is to him as you work on God knows what.
For the first time ever, Joaquin feels unsure of himself around you. All movement comes to a pause as he lets out a deep sigh through his nose. It’s not even to draw your attention; it’s an involuntary reaction that his body lets out because your refusal to join him in the tradition you’ve honored and established all those years ago is stressing him. He thinks for a moment about whether or not he should ask you about what’s going on or if he should give you the space to come to him.
But just when he parts his lips, words ready to fall off his tongue, a loud ‘meow’ draws his attention downward. Your cat circles his feet, sniffing at him for just a second before turning away with a huff.
She walks towards you, and Joaquin swears on everything that the feline turns back to glare at him before finding her way to your lap.
He’s not sure why, but for some reason it feels like a clear dismissal. The only logical thing Joaquin can do now is to offer a near-whisper reply, a simple “Okay, no worries…” as he shuts your door quietly. He strays outside for a moment too long before shaking out his curls and walking away, turning the lights off in the living room as he does.
-
You started to feel bad.
After Joaquin had left your room without another word and your door shut with a soft click, you began to wonder if you were being unnecessarily harsh with him. The silence that came from his absence wasn’t as gratifying as you thought it would be; you just felt suffocated.
It’s not Joaquin’s fault, he didn’t exactly do anything wrong.
The spiraling came from your side entirely. You’re the one who got it twisted, the one who looked at what could have very possibly been a harmless letter and somehow made it a declaration of war. When the guilt started blooming, creeping up your spine and coiling in your throat, you started to admit to yourself that you were being a bit ridiculous. The thought of explaining it all out loud just felt so mortifying that you start to admit that it’s possible that maybe you blew things out of proportion.
‘Hey Joaquin, sorry I haven’t talked to you in three days. I got mad because someone from, like, six years ago congratulated you on your dream job and I didn’t like that.’
You’d sound insane! You felt insane.
So you pressed your fingers to your temples and leaned back, letting the shame pool in your stomach as punishment for shutting Joaquin out over something you weren’t even sure you had the right to feel.
All things considered, you were starting to miss your friend.
It’s with that determination that you walk out of your room and into the kitchen the next morning. With a newly fortified perspective, you remind yourself: Joaquin is still Joaquin. Nothing’s changed. So neither should you.
His eyes peer over the rim of his mug, and you can feel Joaquin’s careful gaze on you as you approach the counter where your favorite cup is sitting. The steam emitting from it tells you that Joaquin just brewed it, and your heart warms at the thought of him making it despite your constant rejection lately. You don’t address him, grabbing the drink and taking a sip before letting out a satisfied hum.
Joaquin stays silent too, taking a weirdly long time to drink from his coffee, cup still raised and obstructing his face. It wasn’t until you lean back against the counter and glance his way that he finally lowers the cup and gives you a grin—wide and stupidly hopeful.
“So,” he starts slowly, pursing his lips. “Did it hurt?”
Your eyes narrow in suspicion, head tilting to the side at the deceptively jovial tone he’s carrying. You’re not a fool. Despite not talking to him for three days, you know better than to believe the innocent look on his face right now.
Joaquin ignores your chastising look, giving you a shrug with eyes wide, a feign look of seriousness on his face. “You know. When you fell out of bed and finally decided to grace me with your presence again.”
Though you knew something like that was coming, you can’t help the snort that you let out as you take another sip of your tea. Ignoring the satisfied smile on his face, you tell him, “Not as much as you’re going to hurt if you don’t get up and go get the eggs out the fridge.”
The morning goes on the way it always does. You make eggs. Joaquin burns the toast. Your cat demands attention like she hasn’t been fed in years (though, she is paying you more mind than Joaquin which is unusual, but you don’t think about it too much).
When Joaquin holds out a slice of overly dark bread and tells you, “It’s rustic,” you stare back with an unamused expression and start to wonder why you even missed him to begin with.
It feels good to go back to normalcy.
The thought is quickly erased when Joaquin jumps onto the counter beside you, knocking the pan to the side and nearly burning himself. You slap him with the spatula and a curse, but all he does is fight back before starting to fill the space with words.
You listen quietly as you cook, seasoning the eggs with a delicate hand. You’re grateful that he doesn’t ask what the hell’s been up with you—grateful that, somehow, he just lets it go. The sound of his voice washes over you in a way that fills you with a sense of calm.
That is, until he did bring it up.
“Hey, remember that letter I got a few days back?”
The salt shaker falls into the pan with a loud clatter. Letting out another curse, you grab it blindly with your hands to pull it out of the eggs, ignoring the heat and Joaquin’s panicked hands trying to grab yours out of the pan. Not sparing Joaquin a glance, you toss the salt shaker haphazardly onto the counter and focus on fluffing the breakfast back up.
As if you could forget.
Stirring the now slightly-over salted dish, you try to play off your fluster. “Kinda, yeah.” It’s a bold face lie.
You hear Joaquin chuckle behind you. “Come on, you made fun of her for handwriting something like we’re in the 50s.”
Biting the inside of your cheek, your brain short-circuits as you struggle to come up with a response. Joaquin doesn’t wait for one, though, as he continues on to say, “Funnily enough, she actually did reach out like a normal person. Found my socials, I guess. She texted me.”
“She texted you,” you repeat, voice flat. Heat is starting to burn you, and you know it has nothing to do with the stove you’re working on. Stirring the eggs half-heartedly, you will yourself to not let your body go stiff. With Joaquin this close, surely he would feel it. Annoyingly, your brain tries to picture the message. Her name lighting up on Joaquin’s phone screen. Her profile picture shining brightly as he takes in the face he hasn’t seen in years. Her words, friendly and warm and the way Joaquin read over them as he laid in his bed, comfortable and casual. Your grip on the spatula tightens.
The pause that you had taken seems to go over Joaquin’s head. “Yeah,” he continues, and there’s an easy laugh accompanied with the word that you wish you didn’t know so well. “I didn’t expect it either. I mean, I haven’t put much thought into replying to her letter, much less start the actual process of writing or texting her. Guess she beat me to it.”
You laugh sarcastically alongside Joaquin’s genuine one. “Guess she did!” you offer a fake smile before dropping your attention back to the pan, your smile falling as quick as it came. The spatula in your hand drops harshly against the counter and you ignore Joaquin’s curious look as you flick off the gas.
Ripping the cabinet door open for a plate, you slam the panel into Joaquin’s head. When he shouted in pain and grabbed the back of his curls, all you did was murmur a disingenuous, “Sorry.”
Joaquin hops off the counter and frowns at you, but bypasses the interaction seamlessly. Pan in hand, Joaquin scrapes the contents of the pan onto your extended plates. Jumping back into the conversation you didn’t even want to be having, Joaquin continues to share against your will. “She said it would be nice to catch up.”
You scoff. You’re sure it would be.
“We’re g’nna go play soccer like old times. Nothing major.”
“Sure,” you attempt to act engaged. Your mind races with questions like when? Where? What time? Does she have a boyfriend? Does he think she’s pretty?
They come to a stop at the same time the toast pops out of the toaster with a ding.
Turning your back to your roommate, you grab the pieces with a sigh. You’re being so ridiculous. It shouldn’t matter. Joaquin is just your roommate. Your friend. Always been your friend.
He can go work out with an old flame or reconnect with every ex he’s ever had—it’s his life. He’s allowed to have a past.
So why does it feel like your stomach is full of burnt toast? Why does your body keep reacting like he’s just told you something awful?
Schooling your features into something neutral, you drop a piece of toast onto each plate. “That’s cool,” you manage, surprising yourself when your voice doesn’t crack. “Should be nice.”
Joaquin hums in response, walking your food to the dining table before coming back into the kitchen. Head in the fridge, you know he’s looking for the jam. “Yeah,” his reply is muffled. Shutting the fridge door with his hip, he holds up his grape jelly and your strawberry. “Let’s go eat.”
All of a sudden, you’ve lost your appetite.
-
You forced yourself to get over it the rest of Saturday, spending time with Joaquin as you usually would and doing your best to act normal. You helped him trim the dead leaves off the cacti in his room and walked to the park after getting a sweet treat—activities that you frequently participate in when the weekend comes. On paper, things were normal, but though your physical actions remained the same as it always did, you’re not sure if you were as available emotionally as you usually are.
Jokes hung in the air without much more than a polite chuckle, shoulders didn’t brush on your walk, and you didn’t exchange ice cream cones when you were halfway through with your flavor. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but it was hard.
Every time Joaquin’s phone would light up, you couldn’t stop the sinking feeling that maybe the notification was from Valerie. You’d force your eyes elsewhere, scold yourself into letting it go, but whether or not you were actually successful in your endeavors to be normal, you couldn’t tell.
If Joaquin felt suspicious at all, he didn’t show it. That was good enough for you.
It worked well enough that the next day found itself rolling through faster than you anticipated. As if the universe could sense how much you needed it, the weather presented you with the perfect Sunday sun, shining through your living room curtains and warming your skin. Relief is to be had, as you haven’t seen much of Joaquin today. Any other time, it might’ve bothered you, made you a bit lonely, even, but today you count it as a blessing.
The house is unusually quiet. Music isn’t drifting through the walls from Joaquin’s room and there’s no hum of him talking over speakerphone while folding laundry with the worst form you’ve ever seen. The silence is both a balm and a burden, because while you’re reveling in the distance and ability to drop the facade, your mind races in the space he left behind.
Joaquin had knocked on your door before he left, cleats hung around his neck in a stupidly tight grey long sleeve. It had you stirring from the comfort of your blankets, propping yourself up on your elbows to really take him in. You couldn’t help it even if you tried, and maybe it was the sleep-addled brain consuming you, but you kind of ogled a bit.
His curls were unruly. ‘You really need a haircut,’ you had said off-handedly yesterday as you pushed Joaquin on the park swings, and he had chuckled in agreement whilst taking another lick at his ice cream. The hairstyle he’s sprouting now only confirms how right you had been. But despite how unkempt his hair looked, it somehow only added to his charm.
You blinked at him, half-conscious as you focused on him. The long sleeve clung to his arm in all the right places, snug over his chest and forearms and your eyes trailed slowly down to those grey sweats that he’s always wearing low on his hips.
“Morning,” he had said, voice much more chirp than yours would be if you had spoken up, adjusting the laces around his shoulders.
You remember humming a reply, the cotton of your sheets suddenly feeling too hot.
“I’m heading out. Just wanted to let you know. Valerie and I are kicking the ball around at WestField.” He said it casually, like he truly was just letting you know.
It was more than him just being polite; innocently enough, Joaquin truly did just want to fill you in on his morning plans so you wouldn’t worry about him being gone. It were these small interactions between you that truly brought you joy and security in your friendship.
But when the realization of where he was going set in, all you could do was repress an eyeroll. Whatever inappropriate thoughts about him dissipated into the air, as if a bucket of ice had been dumped on you, cold. All you could do was muster up a thumbs up in response, and that was all it took for him to turn around and leave.
When the sound of the front door closing behind Joaquin reached your ears, you had flung out of bed, hell intent on doing anything but rotting and waiting for him to come back.
But now, after rearranging your closet from tip to tail, deep cleaning the bathroom and kitchen, and teaching your cat a new trick—Joaquin still isn’t back. All effort had gone to waste as you lay on your couch alongside the sleeping furball, watching the TV absentmindedly. The characters move across the screen in a blur and their dialogue is nothing but background noise for your ears, a way of muffling your loud thoughts.
Your mind has been a constant buzz all morning, impossible to shut off. You tried. But every time you settled long enough to catch your breath, something would loop itself back into your brain. Valerie’s name. The way Joaquin says it so offhandedly. The thought of her laughing at something he said, or touching his arm, or lingering in the same space you normally filled.
A nagging worry has been tugging at your heart all day. You don’t want to compare, know there’s no reason to, but you can’t help but wonder what Joaquin is doing. If he’s treating her the way he does you. The thought of him passing her his sweater leaves you feeling unwell.
You hate how your mind conjures up images of them on the field and how Joaquin might be tucking her under his arms after a good play, both of them winded and smiling at each other like nothing has ever changed despite the years that have passed.
A loud sigh escapes you. God, you hate it so much more than you want to admit. Pressing your chin into the throw pillow you have your arms wrapped around, your fingers curl into the fabric. You’re tired of overthinking, but the dull of the TV isn’t enough to mute the thoughts in your head. You need something else to stimulate you.
Patting down the couch, you search aimlessly for your phone. Surely the tiny, bright, brain rotting device will aid in your pursuit of numbing your mind. When your search comes up empty, you groan, forcing yourself to sit up and look around.
Wait. Where is your phone?
You scan your living room, trying to retrace your thoughts. You’d shot out of bed so fast that morning, too preoccupied with the need to move and do something, that you hadn’t brought your phone with you anywhere as you moved through the house.
As if summoned by your thoughts, a faint ding floats from your bedroom.
Without thinking, you throw your throw blanket off with another sigh and pad down the hall, feet silent on the hardwood.
There it is, you shake your head when you push your bedroom door open. Exactly where you left it last night, plugged in and charging on your nightstand. Crossing the small space, you pick up your phone to come face to face with a screen lit. The notification banner glows Joaquin’s name.
1 new message: Quino 🪿❤️
Notification Center:
9 missed messages: Quino 🪿❤️
An involuntary smile graces your face when you see Joaquin’s name. It entertains you everytime you remember that he had initially put an eagle next to his contact, claiming that the ‘🦅’ was as close to a ‘badass falcon’ as it would get, only for his face to drop when you changed it into a goose instead. Your mind filters the rest of the notifications that are flooded on your screen, too preoccupied by one person’s name in particular.
Without thinking much about how you have Read Receipts on for him, the same way he does for you, you unlock your phone and go straight to his messages.
The first few don’t stand out to you, sent only minutes after he ran out of the house. Something about how he noticed your door was creaky and how he’d fix it later, another about how he tripped over the sidewalk crack in front of your house—it's all normal, stupidly unnecessary texts from him that you deeply enjoy, though you would never tell him.
Messages that do pique your interest though are the ones that follow his “@ the field, text u when im otw home.”
Quino 🪿❤️: *1 video attachment*
You tap on it before you can second-guess.
It’s a short clip of someone recording Joaquin, and you can easily fill in the blank of who it is. Her giggles are faint behind the camera as she cheers Joaquin on. He turns towards her, triumphant and flushed and grinning after successfully shooting a goal. There’s sweat clinging to his curls, giving him a boyish charm that even you can’t deny despite your negative emotions. You hate the way your eyes trail his form. Once again, you notice his stupidly tight long sleeve and how it seems to be doing him every favor imaginable.
Your jaw clenches—he looks good. So good. So effortlessly magnetic, light on his feet. The video plays on repeat as you stare, eyes locked on that grin of his—all teeth and mischief—and you let out a breath at the way it sends a sharp pulse of heat through your chest.
He’s panting when he turns around to look at the camera after scoring. His chest rises and falls rapidly, but you can tell it hardly fazes him as your eyes return to his grin. It stirs something in you, and your teeth come down to bite on your lower lip without even realizing. The sweat making his compression shirt cling even closer to his chest, the out of breath laugh he lets out, the eye contact he’s making—a familiar heat starts tingling through you.
It’s almost undone by the constant repeat of Valerie’s voice as the video replays. The burning in your chest becomes paired with the sickening realization that he’s turning his smile to her. It settles in your gut, and you frown. You feel it turn into something more than just desire for Joaquin. Something primal. Possessive. You hate the way that you feel entitled to that smile, that version of Joaquin.
You pause the video, forcing yourself to breathe through the heat that’s crawling up your neck.
Swiping out, you scroll further. It’s almost silly how you were just contemplating what the two of them were up to, just to find out Joaquin is sending the evidence straight to you. It would have made you laugh if your thoughts weren’t so preoccupied.
The next message is a set of photos. Two, to be exact.
They’re blurry, a little out of focus, and so obviously taken by accident. Joaquin’s face takes the center of your screen, and you know that he meant to take a selfie but instead got distracted and accidentally snapped two random pictures instead.
But still, you stare.
The first photo has him gazing just past the lens, like something (or someone) off-screen has caught his attention. He’s forgeone his long sleeve, and his curls an even wilder mess than before, flattened slightly with sweat at the temples. The blue sky behind him is clear, washes of a soft blue and wispy cloud framing him like a painting—like something you’ve painted before yourself.
Hazy eyes trail from his hair to his bare shoulders and the way they glisten faintly, the chain you’ve been oh, so familiar with nestling against his chest almost as comfortably as they swayed against your face that one night.
You let out a shaky breath before swiping to the next photo. Fuck, you groan, it’s somehow worse than the first. His tongue peaks out from his mouth so faintly, as if he caught himself in the middle of wetting dry lips. His eyes are focused, staring overhead at someone else in a way that makes your stomach curl with that previous possessiveness.
Despite working for the actual government, Joaquin is strangely one of the least tech-savvy people you know. For all his strengths, using an iPhone is not one of them.
The photos make your heart skip as your body begins to battle your mind. It’s unintentional, just as his photos had been, but the look on his face makes you feel a dark sense of jealousy that you didn’t want to admit before. All you want is to drag his gaze back to you; remind him of where his mouth belongs.
Fingers curling around your phone, you close the pictures and open the most recent message.
Quino 🪿❤️: why didn’t u open my msgs, do u have beef w me again…
Quino 🪿❤️: otw home, see u in a bit
You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard without typing anything. He doesn’t even know how much space he takes up inside your head without even trying.
Letting out a shaky sigh, you try to erase the image of him now burned into your mind. His flushed skin. His easy, open grin. The low dip of his voice when he spoke to Valerie in the video, the same tone that used to be reserved just for you.
And now? Now he’s using it on some girl from bootcamp with her giggles and perfectly timed camera angles.
You grit your teeth and try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. It was just a catch-up: a video and two blurry-ass photos. But then you shift, taking a seat on your bed, and you feel it. A heat, blooming low in your belly ever since the video started playing.
It’s not just jealousy. It’s hunger.
A raw, aching want that burns hotter every time you replay the sight of his sweat-slicked skin in your mind, chain brushing along his collarbone and the way his tongue looked when he licked his lips.
Your thighs press together. Tight and pointless.
One accidental text and Joaquin is making your breath catch in your throat. One video with Valerie’s voice in the background was all it took for something violent to twist in your chest, like a territorial animal who wants to claw at Joaquin and drag his attention back where it belongs—on you.
But he’s just your roommate.
You whisper it out loud like it might fix something, but your body doesn't listen. All your body can remember is the weight of his hands, calloused and assured as he trailed them up your thighs. The brush of his fingers against the small of your back when he pushed you closer towards his mouth. His low, low voice when he leaned back when it was all over, disheveled with a devious grin. It sends waves through you, and you feel your thin shorts dampening from the thoughts alone.
You shift again and exhale hard. You’re so warm. Uncomfortably so.
You want Joaquin. Not gently. Not sweetly. You want him so badly it hurts, and you want it to be messy. Thoughts of him pressing you into the mattress and reminding you who he really belongs to sends sparks along your spine. Imagining the way he’d groan your name against your neck and no one else’s makes you clench around nothing.
This is stupid. Incredibly dangerous. Your body is practically humming, thoughts spiraling, and restraint hanging on by a thread. From what?
Glancing back at your phone, then to your bedside alarm clock, you know that he’ll be home any minute and you’re so afraid that you won’t even be able to look him in the eye.
But the worst part of you hopes he’s still flushed and grinning, just like that photo, so you can pull him close and erase her from his mind.
You hear him before you see him, heart lurching in your chest.
The sound of his keys hitting the bowl. His boots drop near the door. The soft rustle of his gym back hitting the floor.
It makes your skin tingle in a way that leaves you delirious. It’s nothing new or out of routine, but an energy is charging inside of you that you can’t stop. Then—
“Yo, I’m home.” He calls out, voice casual and unsuspecting. It makes you close your eyes and swallow nerves.
God, you’re being weird.
Horny over something so miniscule, perving on your roommate like some creep.
But deep inside you know. Know that you and Joaquin have crossed that line before, knows that if you want, he’ll see you in that way.
You don’t talk about it. Never have. There’s no pillow talk, no “what does this mean?” whispered into the dark. Just touches in passing. Kisses stolen in secret. A quiet thrill of being wanted by someone who shouldn’t want you at all.
You both pretend like it never happens the morning after, never bring it up while brushing shoulders at the sink or when passing each other mugs the way friends do.
The way roommates do.
So what’s the harm in one more time?
You’re already halfway down the hall before you realize, body wired and restless. Thoughts spiral in your head—all about the way he looked in those damn photos, and it makes you ache.
A window lets natural light into the bathroom, and steam is already curling against the mirror by the time you step inside, the door closing behind you. You hear the water running behind the shower door, the low thud of him setting a bottle down. Joaquin hasn’t heard you yet, and it sends a thrill up your spine that it probably shouldn’t.
Fingers trembling, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You barely get it over your ribs when the glass of the shower fogs just enough for him to notice movement behind it. You see the silhouette of Joaquin shift slightly.
“Oh, shit,” he laughs, hand coming up to clutch his wet, naked chest. “You scared me.” His voice is warm and casual, like warm honey down your back, totally unaware of what you’re doing.
You don’t say anything at first, just stand there. Shirt clutched in your hand, your heart thuds loudly in your chest, and for a second you hesitate.
But then Joaquin notices your silence, shifting behind the fogged glass like he’s trying to see you more clearly. You see it, the moment his brain catches up. “Wait…” his voice is quieter this time, slower, but you know him well enough to hear the anticipation. You can see it in the way his body shifts, tightening for a moment, before a hand comes up to swipe away the condensation on the glass, to see you more clearly.
Your shirt hits the floor.
You don’t dare to take your eyes off of him, watching the way his gaze flickers downwards, before back up at your face.
“Are you—” he sounds breathless now, stunned, but you also hear it—the sharp sound of restraint. Voice huskier than before, he finishes asking, “Are you coming in?”
You take a step forward, fingers already working at the waistband of your pants. You slide the pajamas down slowly, never once breaking eye contact with Joaquin. Then you ask, soft, but clear, “Tell me.” You take another step towards him, out of the fabric bunched at your feet. “If you want me to stop.”
There’s a pause. One heartbeat passes. Then two.
“Don’t.” His answer is quick. Sharp. Like he’s afraid you’ll freeze if he takes too long. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach out but is holding himself back.
It’s the only invitation you need.
When your panties fall soundlessly to the tile, the sound of water is the only thing that fills the room as you and Joaquin just stand in front of one another—the panel of glass the only thing that separates the two of you.
Joaquin is frozen under the spray, dark curls dripping, lips parted. His eyes drop, drinking you like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He slides the glass door open. You step inside.
One hand rises to his jaw, your fingers growing slick against the wet heat of his skin. Joaquin doesn’t flinch, chest rising and falling with heavy breathes as he watches you. His cheek leans into the contact, but his eyes still don’t break away from yours.
You feel his hand find your waist, tentative, like muscle memory. It’s like he doesn’t even have to think about it and the thought forces you to suppress a shiver.
You’re so close you can feel the heat rolling off of him, and you know it almost has nothing to do with the water temperature. The smell of his citrus shampoo infiltrates your senses, and the familiar scent sends a roll of pleasure through you.
Tipping your chin up, you watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows.
“Hi,” you whisper, voice barely heard over the water.
His hand tightens at your hips. “Hey.”
It’s stupid how gentle it is.
You lean in first, but at your first move forward, Joaquin immediately follows. The kiss the tentative at first, breathy and unsure, but Joaquin folds fast.
His hand slips around to your back and he presses you closer until your bodies are flush, you can’t stop the gasp that you let out at the sudden movement. You feel him, hard and throbbing against your thigh as his hands dig into the swell of your back, forcing you to arch into him.
Hand moving from his jaw, you wrap both arms around his neck instead, pulling him closer to you. His lips are as soft as you remember them to be, and in the possessive heat, you can’t help but bite down.
Joaquin welcomes the pain, moaning in response as he pushes the two of you back until you hit the cool, tiled wall. He kisses you desperately, one hand keeping you pressed against him whilst the other finds its way to the plump of your thigh, squeezing it tightly until you wrap it around his waist.
His tongue brushes against yours like he’s starved, like he remembers the way he hasn’t tasted you in months and misses it.
You kiss him like you’ve earned this. Like no one exists but the two of you. Like he was never anyone’s but yours.
Because even though Joaquin doesn’t say it, never has, you feel it. Feel it in the way he holds you like he never wants to let go, in the tremble of his breath against your skin, in the desperation of his kiss like he’s trying to tell you everything he never had the words for.
You pull back, panting, eyes locked on his swollen lips. The sound of Joaquin’s whine goes straight to your core, and you try to resist the way his lips chase after yours after you pull away.
His body is speaking loud enough to remind you: it was never going to be anyone else—it’s been you. Always you.
So you don’t leave him waiting long. Instead, your lips find themselves on his neck, peppering generous, wet kisses against his skin in a way that has him bucking his hips into yours. It’s always been the other way around, Joaquin known to be quite the biting type, but today you have something to prove.
Your teeth sink into the junction where his neck and shoulder meet, and the sound Joaquin lets out is absolutely broken, his fingers digging deeper into your skin. You suck on his neck gently, tongue soothing the bruising before continuing downward.
It wasn’t until you reach the expanse of his chest, fingers leaving deep, red marks on his tanned skin alongside your various kisses that you hear Joaquin speak out.
“Wait—” he rasps, but he doesn’t move to stop you.
You hum, kissing down his strong, defined abs as your knees slowly drop onto the shower floor. One of your hands wraps around his thigh, kissing the inside near his knee before you look up at him through soaked lashes.
His whole body is trembling, jaw slack and pupils dilated wide.
“Do you want me to stop?” you murmur.
“No,” he chokes. “No. Don’t stop,” he gasps. “Shit—” Joaquin’s head falls forward against the shower wall with a quiet thud, eyes squeezed shut as his fist lifts, pressing against the tile beside his temple like he’s holding himself together by a thread. His chest is heaving, the muscles on his stomach tight.
He manages a shaky breath, “I just—” His words are cut short when you nip into his inner thighs, slow, deliberate palms gliding up the muscles of his calves. The words fall apart in his mouth, “Are you— fuck—are you okay?”
You glance up at him again, and your eyes meet his heavy gaze. He looks down at you in a way that is absolutely sinister, the damp of his curl sticking to his forehead and his eyes are heavy lidded. The way he’s looking at you, jaw clenched, as if he’s trying, trying so hard to put you first, as if he isn’t throbbing and leaking, so impossibly right in front of you. It unravels something in you that you can’t even start to decipher. So instead you ask, voice quiet but unwavering, “Do you trust me?”
The silence stretches, his mouth parting as he looks at the way you’re on your knees, gazing up at him. And he lets out a strangled curse before nodding, just once. Tight and fast. Because he doesn’t trust himself to speak, not when his knees feel like they might give out if you look at him like that for a second longer.
And that’s all you need.
At the first touch of your palm, grasping his hard, heavy length in your hand has him hissing, sliding himself deeper into your hands. You pump his cock, just once, your thumb circling his head to pick up the beads of precum that have been leaking desperately to lubricate himself, before you realize you can’t wait any longer.
Your lips wrap itself against the tip, and if Joaquin had anything else to say, it all disappears into a shattered moan that echoes through the small room. His hand slaps the wall in front of him and his body caves, just barely, as one hand finds the back of your head to ground himself before falling apart completely.
You’re slow at first, mouth gliding down the length of him at a pace that’ll let you feel every vein, every ridge, every curve of his cock. The taste of him on your tongue has you moaning, and you press your thighs together to relieve some of the tension you’re feeling. Nipples impossibly hard, you dig your nails into Joaquin’s thighs to stop yourself from reaching down and touching them.
His entire body is tense under the attention, like the shock of you actually doing this is the only now catching up to him. He breathes out your name like a prayer, water cascading down his chest and neck. Joaquin’s jaw has gone slack, fingers twisting into the hair at the back of your head, but not pushing. He would never.
You pull back far enough to swirl your tongue around his red, weeping tip before swallowing him whole again.
Joaquin is responsive, too responsive. Like you’ve cracked him open and every nerve is exposed. “Fuck—” he groans, voice catching on the edge of something dangerous, “God, you’re doing so—” his hips stutter, “Doing so good.”
But Joaquin doesn’t dare more. Doesn’t push himself further, doesn’t chase the high he oh, so craves. He lets you set the pace, fingers digging crescents into the palm of his hands as he takes what you give him, half-sobbing and groaning as you move along his dick in a way that he’s only fantasized about in the dead of night. Fisting his cock into his bedsheets with the images of you doing just this doesn’t even begin to give justice to how delicious the real thing is.
His hips jerk forward on instinct when he feels the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, the sound of you gagging makes him let out a loud cuss. “Fuck—I’m sorry—” he stutters, “I’m so sorry, baby—” he groans.
Your hand grips his thighs, holding him steady as your pace quickens. Every little sound he makes just spurs you on—those low, broken whimpers that he doesn’t even try to hide. He’s falling apart so beautifully for you, and the knowledge that you’re the one doing this to him, the only one who can, lights something molten in your chest.
When your hand joins your mouth, gently stroking the base of his cock before reaching down to cup his balls in your hand, Joaquin’s grip on your hair impossibly tightens. “Fuck— No, don’t—” he pants, “Don’t w’nna come.”
Joaquin pulls his hips back, and his length falls out of your mouth with a pop. His head lolls down towards you, cheeks red and lips parted from wet and panting. “Come ‘ere.” He doesn’t give you the chance to say no, not that you would, before his hand moves from the back of your head to your upper arm, pulling you up towards him in one, smooth move.
He doesn’t wait for you to regain your footing, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against him once more. Joaquin presses a kiss against your lips that has you falling backwards, if it weren’t for him holding you steady, you would’ve tripped. He doesn’t hold back, mouth hungry and unforgiving as it slants over yours again and again, like he’s trying to pour everything into it. It’s messy and hot and urgent, your teeth clash sometimes and his hand moves all over your body as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.
You moan into the kiss, and you feel him twitch against your stomach. You press yourself closer without even thinking, dragging your nails against his back lightly just to feel him shiver.
Water runs hot down both your bodies, steam thick in the air and curling around you like a fog, a heat that keeps everything you’re doing only here, in this space.
Joaquin breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, but his gaze is heavy, and searching. “Tell me this is okay.”
You’re burning, every inch of you tight and aching and so desperate it feels like your skin can’t hold it all together. Even now, with your lips swollen from his and your body pressed against the stifling and unrelenting water, he’s thinking of you first.
The sincerity in his voice, the way his fingers flex gently at your waist and the other on your ass, like he’s grounding you both—it makes your chest ache in an entirely new way.
You were the initiator, you followed him in here, you stripped in front of him like you were putting on a show. And yet…he still asks. You feel yourself melt under his gaze.
“Yeah,” a quiet breath escapes you. Whispering it, you trace your fingers along his jaw, rubbing your nose against his as you say, “I want you, Joaquin.”
You see it, feel it, the seconds the words leave your mouth. Joaquin snaps. Without hesitation or warning, he surges forward, lips crashing against yours like he’s been waiting a lifetime to do it.
It’s not the same roughness as before, as if he was holding onto a thin veer of control that he’s now lost. Breathless and full of heat, your knees tremble under the weight of it. A low, needy sound escapes you right before his hand taps against your thigh—firm and sure.
It’s the only signal you need. Lips still pressed against his, you jump up and wrap your legs against his waist. Arms hooking over his shoulders to stabilize yourself, Joaquin’s palms slide underneath your thighs, holding you up like it’s effortless. You can feel the tension in him, the way his muscles strain beneath your touch, corded biceps twitching as he pins you against the wall like he needs you to be there.
Your back slams into the shower wall and you shiver, spine arching slightly at the sensation. You gasp into his mouth and Joaquin moans at the sound, swallowing it before pulling back just enough to let his mouth trail down your jaw.
He moves lower and lower, from your neck to your collarbone before his breath is hot against your chest, millimeters away from where you actually need him. A whine of his name is the only encouragement he needs before his lips wrap around an aching nipple. You hiss, arching your chest into him and you feel his fingers dig into your skin.
His tongue circles the bud, whilst one of his hands pinches the other. It’s calculated, but senseless all at the same time, like he’s lost in it but also focused so intensely on pleasuring you. Every press of his lips has you gasping, and your fingers find his curls just as he mouths over the swell of your breast.
It takes a great effort to pull him off, but when he hears you gasp, “Joaquin, I need you. Now,” the sound of your voice sets him ablaze. You hear his breath catch, and for a second, he just looks at you. At your flushed cheeks, damp hair clinging to your face, chest and rising as your shaky legs remain wrapped tight around him. The tension in his arm ripples as he holds you up, chest heaving.
Then, wordlessly, he presses a kiss to your cheek, as if grounding himself in the moment. His hand flexes at your thigh, and with raw, honest need he murmurs, “Okay.” You can hear the broken restraint. “Alright, I got you, baby.”
You kiss him again, both hands cupping his face as you feel him reach down. Joaquin guides himself, shifting his hips forwards so your bodies align. You’re so wet, it takes minimal effort for Joaquin to push the tip of his cock past your hole. It has both of your breaths hitching nonetheless.
But Joaquin doesn’t rush it, even when you whimper against his lip and as he presses reassuring kisses against your lips. With both hands under your thighs now, he keeps you held upright as he moves, slow and controlled. The aching slide of him filling you, the tight press of your bodies, the brush of your aching nipples against his bare chest—it was all working together to drive you insane.
When his hips finally, finally meet the plump of your ass and the two of you completely join, you moan into his mouth and Joaquin does no better.
The stretch, the heat, the sheer intimacy—all of it threatens to overwhelm you. Joaquin keeps you braced, holding you safe and close. It’s quiet at first, save for your soft gasps as you adjust over his girth and length, and the rhythmic beat of water against tile.
But in this tiny, heated space, it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just this—just you and him and the way your bodies fit so perfectly.
Joaquin pulls back slowly before rocking into you again, and the sound you make, wrecked and breathless, makes him groan against your skin. “You feel so—” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek. “God, I miss this. So much.”
You’re not sure if he meant to say it out loud, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. It almost sounds like a confession. You cling tighter, nails digging into his shoulder as Joaquin finds a brutal rhythm, strong and steady.
The steam curls around both of you like a shield, and you let yourself fall into the moment, into him.
Joaquin buries himself into the crook of your neck, and each push forward is a quiet thunder, thrusting you forward enough to make your head hit the wall, but you don’t care. You clutch at him, nails digging into his back, lips pressed against his ear.
It morphs into something so extremely messy, but you can’t deny how perfect it feels.
The thick crown of his cock catches on the entrance of your cunt with every thrust in the most delicious of ways, it has you gasping every single time. He doesn’t go slow, going in and out with an unrelenting pace. Though you’ve felt Joaquin like this before, the angle just unlocks something different, the stretch and sting almost being too much. Breath catching in your chest, you tell yourself to work through it, moans escaping you in a way you couldn’t hold back even if you tried.
It gets hot, so hot in the small of your bathroom, but when Joaquin’s lips find themselves on your nipples again, you don’t even remember how suffocating it was becoming—too consumed by the feeling of him. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling of him, and all you can do is gasp with each deep fuck.
Pussy sloppy and dripping around him, all you can hear are the wet sounds of you and him meeting one another with each press he delivers. It fills the space, and the sickest part of you loves it.
It doesn’t take a lot, building fast, so embarrassingly fast—but with your thoughts so utterly consumed by Joaquin the past few days and with the realization of how much you’ve been aching for him—you feel it, curling in your stomach and in the way your cunt flutters around him.
“Joaquin—” the gasp comes out broken, so debauched that you’re so sure he can’t even make out what you’re saying. But he does.
You know he does, because he replies, “Oh fuck, baby. I know.” He groans it, hips starting to stutter as he grits out, “Gripping me so fucking tight right now. That’s it—”
The pressure builds inside of you like waves beating against a shoreline, a familiar tension tightening in your lower stomach. It coils deeper and deeper with each roll of his hips, the pace he’s setting seeming to echo in your chest and scatter your thoughts into static. Hands digging into his shoulder, you cling to Joaquin like a lifeline.
Sparks bloom along your spine and your body instinctively arches into him, seeking more, chasing the high that you’re so, so close to getting. Joaquin groans, low in your ear, and the sound reverberates straight through you.
And then it becomes too much—the grip of his hands under your thighs, the slick between your bodies, and the sheer closeness of him. The pressure is unbearable now, sharp and sweet and all-consuming. Your thighs are aching around his hips and a part of you wonders how Joaquin’s managed to hold you up all this time. But when he thrusts into you again—it dissipates.
“Joaquin—” you warn.
His pace stutters slightly, and his hand slips up to cradle the back of your head. He can’t stop himself from pressing his lips to yours as he breathes, “Come for me, baby.”
That’s all it takes for the tide to finally break.
Pleasure crashes over you in warm, dizzying waves, each one leaving you boneless and gasping against him. Joaquin holds you through it, arms locked tight around you like he’s anchoring himself through the same storm, the pace of his hips unrelenting as he works you through your thigh. You feel him tremble, hear the way he says your name, and you know that he’s about to follow you.
You press your lips to his.
And that’s all it takes for Joaquin to unfold.
Body shuddering, his pace speeds up as he fucks himself deeper into you. He cums with a deep, broken moan that hits deep in your chest. The warmth of him filling you sends a bolt of pleasure through you that has your cunt fluttering again, but you will yourself to breathe. To stay grounded.
Joaquin exhales heavily against your collarbone, and your arm remains wrapped around his shoulders, the both of you suspended in that thin space between too much and not enough.
The water continues its steady rhythm, streaming over your backs and echoing softly in the corners of the room. Both of your chests are heaving, and you shift, just slightly. The sound of Joaquin letting out a faint groan, from pleasure or exhaustion you’re not sure, has you freezing.
Then you both go still.
As the high slowly fades and the weight of your body returns, Joaquin lifts his head up to meet your eyes. They’re glassy and stunned, and you know that you’re probably no better. For a long, quiet moment, you both stare—blinking, mouth parted and swollen.
But then, after a second, a huff escapes you. Half breath, half laugh. It takes nothing for Joaquin to mirror you, letting out a low chuckle that curls into something breathless and warm. Dropping your head against his shoulder, you shake your head and he nuzzles your temple in return, grinning through his panting.
Gently, Joaquin pulls himself out of you, and the both of you wince. As carefully as possible, he settles you back down onto the ground, catching you when you wobble for just a split second.
“It’s okay, I got you,” he mumbles, slipping an arm around your waist to steady you. The concern in his voice is real, still soft, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now.
You breathe out a small laugh as you find your footing again, hands pressed to his chest.
There’s a beat of silence, but it’s…nice. Neither of you move, both still catching your breath as you look up at Joaquin.
Then he glances around at the fogged up mirror, the water still running strong. “Jesus,” he winces, “Our water bill is g’nna be insane.”
You snort, before feigning innocence, “Guess we’re going to have to start showering together for the rest of this month to save money.”
He gives you a mock-serious look, nodding solemnly. “Strictly environmentally conscious decisions from here on out.”
Laughing, your forehead drops against his shoulder lightly, and he wraps an arm around you again like it’s second nature.
It is second nature.
Because he’s still Joaquin. Still your best friend. Still the guy who finishes your leftovers and texts you from two rooms away when he wants boba. He’s the same guy who’s standing here, now, washing your hair for you as he cracks jokes as if what just happened didn’t happen.
And maybe that’s the strangest comfort of all—that nothing has to shift too hard, even when the ground beneath the both of you just did. You don’t talk about what it means. Not yet. Or maybe not ever.
But as he leans over your shoulder to blow a bubble with an exaggerated raspberry, and you turn back to glance at him with a deadpan look before swatting away his childish antics and you both laugh about it—it’s okay.
It’s always okay when it’s just you and Joaquin.
-
welcome home roommate!joaquin, i've missed u!
check out this masterlist for more of these two :)
howdy! i’m not sure if you’re taking requests or not so feel free to ignore this if not:)
but if you areeeee i was wondering if you’d write something for joaquin torres x roommate!reader where after his injury in cabnw, he’s super horny but it hurts his arm to jerk off:( so ofc reader notices how moody he is from being so pent up and he begs them to help him when confronted??
no big deal if not! love your writing:3
roommate's helping hand ✩ j.t
notes: zoo wee mama of courseee. i love this... so hot. + thank u angel <33 mwah
warnings: 18+ smut, handjob, pent up and horny, mentions of humping etc, sub!joaquín / dom!reader, no anatomy mentioned so gender neutral!reader
wc: 2.8k
—
Joaquín Torres is in agony. Not in that casual, exaggerated way people toss the word around. This is actual, bone-deep, soul-crushing fucking torture.
The ceiling fan spins lazily above him, stirring the humid air in his room just enough to make him sweat more. His sheets stick to his back, damp and wrinkled from his constant tossing. Every breath feels heavier than the last, heat coiling low in his gut, and his good hand—his only functional hand—lies clenched in a tight fist on his bare stomach. He’s hard again. Of course he is. Like clockwork. Same time every night, same pulsing, unbearable ache, same half-assed attempt to get himself off that ends in a sharp curse and a sore fucking arm.
He swallows hard, dragging his palm slowly across his chest, wincing when the heel of it grazes the edge of the bandage on his shoulder. The pain that flares is sharp, electric, cutting straight through his ribs. Not enough to stop him—he's too horny to give up like that. Just enough to make him grit his teeth and hiss out a breath that trembles with frustration.
His jaw clenches, a frustrated groan spilling past his lips. "Come on."
He’s tried everything. Warmed lube, different positions, a pillow between his thighs like some horny high schooler. He’s rubbed against the mattress until his hips ached. Even tried old porn from his saved folder. Videos that used to get him off in under five minutes back when he was running missions and too wound up from adrenaline to sleep. Hell, this morning he leaned over the edge of the tub in the shower, one arm braced against the tiles, showerhead angled just right, steam curling off his skin. He was panting, desperate, leaking, nearly sobbing with how badly he wanted it.
But it never fucking works. He’s too tense. Too slow. Can’t get the rhythm right. His shoulder screams every time he twists too far or jerks too fast. He ends up sweaty, sore, and even more frustrated than when he started. And now it's you. Always you.
He sees you every time he closes his eyes. You, in those little sleep shorts that barely cover your ass, padding around the apartment like you don’t know what you're doing to him. The way your hand wraps around a glass of water at night. And in his head, you're touching him instead. Fingertips wrapped around his cock, teasing the head while he groans into your shoulder. Watching him. Enjoying watching him come undone.
It’s sick. Twisted. You're his roommate, for fuck’s sake. You probably think he’s just tired. Just cranky from being laid up, his body healing slower than he wants. You probably don’t realise he's one sleepless night away from crawling down the hall and begging you to touch him. On his knees. Forehead pressed to your doorframe. God, he’s hard just thinking about it.
He lets out a strangled, guttural sound, rolling onto his side, hips grinding against the mattress out of pure instinct. It doesn’t help. Just teases him. His cock is leaking, slick pooling on his stomach, his abs tensing with every twitch. He strokes once— a slow drag of his fist, tight grip—but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
He has to bite back a moan. Get it the fuck together, Torres.
All he can think about is how your voice would sound, low and amused, just a cruel little taunt:
"Is this what you’ve been hiding, Torres? Can’t even jerk off like a big boy?"
He would fucking die if you said that to him. He’d cum untouched.
He squeezes his cock harder with his good arm, thumb brushing the tip. A moan slips out before he can think to stop it. It's loud. Too loud. Joaquin freezes, breath stuck in his throat.
Fuckfuckfuck. Did you hear that?
Did you already hear the others this week?
Maybe... maybe you'd come in. See him like this, all writhing and desperate. Take pity on him and climb into bed to help him out. Or maybe you'd laugh. Tell him to shut up and go to sleep like a normal person. He'll survive a few weeks of not being able to jerk off, right?
No. No, he can’t. His balls ache. His head is foggy. He’s so turned on he’s sweating. He’d do anything for your hand wrapped around him. Anything to cum. Anything to stop feeling this fucking full all the time. He strokes again, slower this time, trying to imagine it's your hand, your mouth, your voice whispering filth in his ear. And then—
Pain. Blinding, white-hot, lancing through his shoulder. He chokes on a gasp and rolls onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
Yeah. No orgasm tonight.
Just sweat, agony and a whole lot of built up tension.
—
It takes until around week two for you to notice.
It's subtle enough at first, the kind of shift that would be easy to ignore if you didn’t know Joaquin as well as you do. He’s usually warm, bright, quick with a joke even when he’s in pain. But now, that energy’s dimmed. Not groggy like when the meds first kicked in, but dull. When you ask if he wants help changing his sling, his response is clipped, borderline irritated. A tight little "I’ve got it." No eye contact. Just stiff shoulders and a clenched jaw. You let it go. Everyone gets moody when they’re healing, right?
But then it keeps happening.
At dinner, he barely picks at his food, eyes glued to his phone and disinterested in conversation. You try to tease him about his sad little portion of rice. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Just shrugs and mutters something under his breath that you can't even pick up. When he finally gets up, he mumbles a flat "goodnight," and closes his bedroom door a little too hard behind him.
Something’s off. More than just pain meds or boredom.
You let it slide for a while. But by the end of that second week, when you're curled up in bed with a book and a fan to combat the sticky heat, you hear it.
It's soft. Barely there. A noise. Like a grunt. Pained, but not quite injured pain. Frustrated.
You freeze, waiting. A few seconds pass.
Then another sound. This one is sharp, short. Half a growl. Half a groan. Your eyes go wide and—
Oh. It clicks. He's trying. And it's not working.
Everything seems to fall into place at once: the moodiness, the tightness in his posture, the way he's always shifting in his seat like he's constantly uncomfortable. Of course. He can't jerk off. Not properly. Not without messing up his injuries any further or risking a tear in his stitches. And with how wound-up he probably is after being grounded for weeks, too sore to move, too proud to ask for help...
Yeah. No wonder he's spiralling. Poor guy’s been stuck in his room every night with nothing but a needy body and a hand he can’t use.
You think about it more than you should after that. The image is too easy to summon. Joaquín in his bed, sweaty and flushed, grinding into the mattress like it’ll give him relief, biting down groans so you don’t hear them. And failing, clearly.
The next evening, he’s on the sofa, laptop open in front of him, pretending to be absorbed in something on-screen. But his eyes flick toward the door too often. His jaw clenches tight. His good hand is resting on his thigh, curled into a fist like he’s holding himself together with sheer willpower. You sit beside him, watching plaintively with your your legs curled under yourself, angled just slightly toward him. His shoulder stiffens, but he doesn’t look away from the screen.
"Hey," you prompt gently after a while. "You good?"
He exhales through his nose. "Yeah." What a fucking liar.
You narrow your eyes. "You’ve been acting like Sam told you he wants his suit back."
That gets a soft, reluctant laugh, the tiniest upward pull of his lips... but it fades fast. His fingers tap against the keyboard for a second, then he shuts the laptop and stares at the flat top of it. He chews the inside of his cheek. Doesn’t meet your gaze.
"...It’s stupid," he mutters, in that Joaquín way of his that means he really wants to tell you but he's too embarrassed to do so without a little push.
"Then say it anyway," you offer, feigning patience instead of rolling your eyes. "Maybe it’s not."
He hesitates, shoulders tense, the silence thick between you. Then, barely louder than a breath: "I’m so fucking horny I want to die."
You blink, pulse skipping. That was more upfront than you were expecting. He immediately buries his face in one hand like he regrets saying anything at all. Or even leaving his room until this crisis is over at all. "I can’t do anything. My arms are both fucked, and I’m going insane. I’m climbing the walls. I—fuck—I didn’t think it would get this bad."
You stay quiet, processing slowly, because your brain is doing something extremely unhelpful—flashing images you really shouldn’t be entertaining about your roommate. The flush on his neck, the way his hips lift off the couch slightly like he can’t even sit still anymore. That low, wrecked sound you heard through the wall last night when he couldn't find relief.
Your thighs press together instinctively. Shit. You're both fucked up.
"Why didn’t you just tell me?" You probe, keeping your voice as even as you can manage. You're far from calm inside.
He lifts his head, eyes tired and glassy. He looks so pathetic you almost pity him. "Because what the fuck was I supposed to say? 'Hey, roomie, can you give me a hand because I’m one more bad night away from humping a couch cushion like a hormonal teenager?'" He doesn't mention that he's already tried that and failed.
You snort. Can’t help it. He watches you with a look that’s full of tension and shame and raw, unfiltered want. "I’m not trying to be gross. I’m just—I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I didn’t mean to, I swear. But then I imagined you walking in, catching me, and... I couldn’t stop."
You feel your breath catch. And then, softly, you prompt, "... So ask."
His brows furrow. "What?"
You lean in without breaking eye contact. Your voice drops. "Ask me. If you want help that bad."
His lips part, stunned silent. For the first time in days, he looks at you—really looks. The sarcasm is gone. No jokes. No charm. Just wide eyes and something close to disbelief.
"…Please," he whispers after a moment, like the word’s been waiting to fall out of him. Maybe it has. His voice is raw, desperate, cracking around the pleas that spill out of his cracked lips. "Please. I need you so bad. I can’t—I just need something. Just need to feel you."
There's no need to waste time after that. You straddle his thighs slowly, deliberately, palms braced on his chest as you settle into his lap. He’s warm and trembling under you, his breath already stuttering. He's far from the confident man that usually roams the apartment in low-hanging sweatpants and grins at you with sparkling eyes over breakfast.
Your hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats. He lifts his hips for you without needing to be told—obedient, eager, almost desperate. You tug them down just enough, fabric catching for a second on his thighs before freeing him. No boxers, apparently. The friction had been too much for him.
His cock springs up against his stomach—flushed dark red, leaking, already twitching with need. You didn't exactly expect him to be small (you've seen his imprint) but it's a different thing entirely to see it in front of you. You hum low in your throat, eyes dragging over him as the veins bulge under your heated gaze.
"You’re this worked up over nothing?"
"That's the problem."
Your fingers curl around him, and his reaction is instant. He jerks beneath you with a choked moan, hips twitching like he’s trying not to thrust. Your grip is firm but unhurried, dragging your hand up slow, from the thick base all the way to the slick head, then back down again.
"Fuck—" Joaquín gasps, head falling back against the cushions.
You click your tongue, feigning sympathy. "Pathetic," you murmur. "You couldn’t even ask like a big boy. You had to sulk in your room and hump your sheets like a virgin for two weeks."
That hits something sharp. His hips jump again, and you slap a hand to his thigh—not particularly hard, but enough to make him freeze.
"Stay still," you order.
"Okay," he gasps, eyelashes fluttering under your unexpected firmness. "Yes—fuck, I’m sorry."
His voice is wrecked already, all raw and hoarse like it’s been clawed out of him. You stroke him again, a little faster now, adding a twist of your wrist at the top, thumb pressing into the tender spot just under the head. Precum spills over your hand, and he twitches again, biting his lip so hard it’s gone bloodless.
You lean over him, letting your breath ghost across his heated cheek. "How long’s it been, Torres?"
“Like, two weeks," he groans. "Maybe more. I—I don’t even fucking know anymore. Counting makes it worse."
Your smile is slow and sweet and god it goes straight to his dick. "Poor thing. All backed up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
His abs twitch when you taunt him, hands gripping the sofa like he’s holding on for dear life. You press your lips to the shell of his ear as you stroke him, voice low and sultry. "You gonna cum for me, or am I gonna have to edge you all night? Bet you'd like that. Bet you've been getting off on how pent up you are."
He gives a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. His thighs are shaking under you, whole body taut and thrumming as your firm hand pushes him closer and closer towards his climax.
"Please," he pants. "Don’t stop. Don’t stop, hnnghhh, I’m—shit—I’m so close, ah—"
You speed up, stroking his length fast and slick, your fist gliding wetly from base to tip, then down again in a relentless rhythm that has him seeing stars. Your other hand braces on his hip to keep him grounded, even as he bucks into your fist, chasing his release. His body arches, spine bowing, neck exposed and glistening with sweat. When his mouth falls open, no real sound comes out. Just gasps, high and sharp, like his lungs can’t keep up with the onslaught of pleasure.
"Come for me," you whisper, right against his lips. Just roommates his fucking ass. "Be a good boy and make a mess, Joaquín."
That’s all it takes. He absolutely fucking breaks.
"Ohmygod, I'm— ohhnghh—"
His whole body locks up as he spills hot over your fist, groaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers. His abs contract hard, cock pulsing again and again as thick stripes of white paint his stomach, your fingers, the waistband of his grey sweats. You stroke him through it, gentler now, milking every last spurt while he trembles and shakes under your hands.
When it becomes too much for his spent cock to handle, he whines out a broken, breathless sound, and bats at your wrist weakly. "Too much," he gasps, voice shattered. "Fuck. Fuck, that was—”
“Yeah,” you murmur, wiping your hand on the edge of his waistband to clean the sticky mess. As tempted as you are to bring your fingers up to your mouth, that feels like too much of a boundary to cross. "I know."
You lean back to take him in in all his exhausted glory. He’s wrecked—flushed, sweaty, breathing like he just ran ten miles. His curls are damp against his forehead, lips red from biting down, eyes glassy and barely able to focus on you like he's still on morphine and not just because he's had the greatest orgasm of his life from just a measly handjob.
You run your fingers through his sweat-mussed curls, slow and soothing, letting him come down from it. "You okay?"
He nods (barely). "'M perfect," he mumbles. "Might be dead. Don’t care."
A huff of amusement escapes you. There's the Joaquín you know. And then he sighs, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes as some form of coherency comes back over him. A few pants later and he's sighing out a:
"You’re in so much trouble when I can use my hands again."
Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5.6k
Summary: The 4 times Joaquin knew he could treat you better and the 1 time you were ready to let him.
Warnings: reader has a shitty bf (no harm is done to reader he just sucks), reader is allergic to lilies and wears silver jewelry, Joaquin is lowkey playing the long game, cussing, angst maybe if you squint, feelings that could be classified as emotional cheating but also not really, slight PDA (kissing in photobooth) not edited
1.
You were in the middle of tidying up your apartment when Joaquín walks through the door like he lives there. Though you do always tell him you’ll leave the door unlocked for him, so you can’t really blame him too much for that. Before he even has two feet in the door, he begins spouting off random facts about his day or how many times Sam said something nice to him or how cool the stuff he had gotten to do was. You stop mid-dust to turn on your heels, watching as he shrugs his jacket off and steps out of his shoes. A small smile toys on your lips after you discard the duster on the side table and make your way towards him.
“And then he sa—,” He freezes, eyes zeroing in on the flower vase placed in the center of your small dining room table, “What are you doing with those? Those are lilies.”
“Yes, they are,” You curtly nod, gnawing on the inside of your cheek as you resist the urge to rub your irritated eyes.
You watch as something flickers in Joaquín’s eyes, something you can’t quite place, before he squints at you in disbelief. He drops his jaw to say something, but cuts himself off with a shake of the head. You can tell that he’s censoring himself, that he’s fighting off the urge to say what he truly wants to say. It seems to be a recurring theme in recent days.
“You’re allergic to lilies,” He deadpans as he crosses his arms against his chest, “And so is Steve.”
“Tyler bought them for me,” You weakly sigh, casting your eyes to the ground in slight embarrassment, “He said he forgot I was allergic. I can’t throw them away, I’ll feel bad.”
Joaquín’s quiet scoff makes your face heat up because you knew ‘forgetting’ wasn’t a real excuse, but it was all you had. You tell yourself that it’s an honest mistake, and you believe him when he tells you he will remember next time. You give him grace and hope for improvement despite the subtle comments from all of your friends telling you that he wasn’t worth it and how you deserved so much better. However, when it was Joaquín on the other side of the conversation, it felt different. It felt worse, and you couldn’t quite figure out why.
“Right,” He purses his lips and kisses his teeth, “If you say so.”
Silence fills the space around you, sticking to you as you chew on your bottom lip and attempt to segway the conversation into something less strenuous. The sound of soft thuds bounding near you breaks your concentration, your cat rounding the corner before he‘s gearing back to jump on the table. You were about to call out and stop him, but you were stopped by a tickle in your nose and, before you knew it, you were thrown into a burst of sneezes. You fold your elbow around your nose to keep yourself from sneezing all over the place before the palm of your other hand is rubbing at your eyes for relief.
“Okay,” Joaquín calls out over your sniffling, and you can hear him gently shoving Steve off the table, followed by the glass scraping against the wood, “That’s it. I’m throwing these away, and you can tell him it was me who did it. If he even notices it.”
You were blinking away the stars dotting your vision while he yanks the flowers out of the vase, throws them into the trash bag, ties it up, and places it right outside your door for him to take when he leaves. The entire time, you can hear him incoherently mumbling under his breath, but you don’t ask him what he was saying. The bits and pieces you think you’re able to make out were enough to tell you that he was far from impressed with your new boyfriend, and the last thing you wanted to face was his blatant disapproval head on.
However, little did you know, there was a much more prominent thought running amok in his mind. One that would change everything if you found out.
2.
The cafe was calm. A gentle hum of conversation filtering through the air, soft light decorating the space, comely art scattered on the walls. It had always brought you a sense of serenity you couldn’t find anywhere else. Well, almost anywhere else. Joaquín had a knack for bringing out the same tranquil feeling whenever he was around, but you didn’t dare admit that out loud. Not to yourself, and most certainly not to him.
“So, what did he get you for the big six months,” He asks, adjusting in the seat across from you as his knee almost brushes the inside of your thigh.
It was innocent. A fleeting rush of air against the skin, but it makes your breathing falter. It makes a wave of heat rush to your cheeks, and a cloud of fog roll over your thoughts, but you shake it off like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the exact feeling you’d been waiting for the aforementioned He to give you since you’d met. You distract yourself by grabbing at the cup in front of you, twisting it on the table as you nip at the skin of your bottom lip and force the words to come out of your mouth.
“Concert tickets,” You mumble without meeting his stare.
“What concert,” He presses with a quirk of his brow, mentally going over the list of all the artists he knew would be visiting D.C. soon. He couldn’t think of any you were interested in.
You sheepishly tell him the name of the rapper Tyler liked, and you have to busy yourself with aimlessly searching through your bag to spare yourself from the look that had undoubtedly twisted on his face. You’d already heard a long enough speech from your best friend and neighbor about how selfish the gift was, and you were praying that Joaquín was kind enough to spare you from his own. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to handle it from him. A few beats of silence pass, and you know you wouldn’t be able to avoid his gaze for too long, so, with your tube of lip balm between your fingers, you straighten your back and find his eyes.
“But you don’t like that kind of music,” He finally speaks up, voice strained with something terse and wired.
“I know,” You shrug, dragging the chapstick across your lips, “But he does.”
Joaquín’s focus briefly shifts to your mouth, but he’s quick to bring them back to your eyes so you don’t notice, his own lips pressed into a thin line before a deep breath passes through them, “Don’t you think an anniversary gift should be something you like? Or something you both like?”
Your body tenses as his words settle in your chest. He’s right, and you know he’s right, but you had already convinced yourself that it didn’t matter. That part of being in a relationship came with the obligatory notion of doing something for your partner that you didn’t necessarily like. Even if you had yet to do something with him that was just for you. It would happen eventually, right?
“It’s not a big deal,” You brush him off with a forced chuckle, “I’m sure it’ll still be fun.”
Joaquín doesn’t say anything else on the matter, choosing to let it drop because your words were painfully unconvincing, even to yourself, but there was nothing he could do. He knew the lingering comments he had been leaving were starting to irritate you, and he didn’t want to overstep in fear that all it would do was drive you away, because that was the last thing he wanted to do. All he can do is hope that you’ll see it yourself one day.
3.
When Joaquín had texted you and asked if you were free to come over to his place so that he could give you your birthday present, you were more than happy to agree. Mostly because it’s been a few weeks since you had last seen him, and you missed being around him, but also because you were curious to see what he had gotten you. He had always been a phenomenal gift-giver, and the fact that he knew you better than you knew yourself at times left you clueless as to what it could even be.
“Who are you,” Joaquín forces his face to fall flat when he pulls the door open, “You look like someone I used to know, but I haven’t seen her in a year.”
“Okay,” You draw out with a feigned eye roll, “Tone down the dramatics, Torres. It’s been less than a month, and that’s no way to treat the birthday girl.”
“Your birthday was two weeks ago,” He playfully shouts as you push past him and into his apartment.
“Semantics,” You wave him off, eyes darting around the kitchen and living room to see if he’d
left the box or bag lying around.
“Calm down,” He chuckles, letting the door fall shut behind him before he strides to you, knocking his shoulder against yours, “It’s in my room. I’ll go get it before you pop a blood vessel.”
He shouts at you to get comfortable while he retreats down the hall, and you do just that. You had already kicked your shoes off by the door, which made it easy to fall onto the couch and pull one of your feet under your thigh as you wait for him to come back. Your gaze flutters around, taking everything in as if you hadn’t seen it a hundred times before. Pictures of his family littered the walls along with pictures of the two of you, and you can’t help but smile at that. Some of them are your most cherished memories, and the fact that Joaquín values them enough to display them makes something inside your chest swell.
Your peek into his choice of home decor comes to a stop when his voice echoes from his bedroom, shouting about how you need to close your eyes before he comes out. You do as he says, but not without a little complaining first, and wait for him to find his way into the living room. You can hear his footsteps slow when he nears the end of the hall, and you know he’s peeking around the corner to make sure your eyes are actually closed.
“Don’t open your eyes yet,” His voice is closer now, only a few feet away.
You feel the dip of the cushion next to you, followed by the soft crinkle of paper as he sets the bag on the coffee table. His shaky breath was so quiet you almost miss it, but you don’t say anything about it. You were growing impatient, the curiosity of the gift gnawing at you, and you were ready to see what he had gotten you. The teasing could always come later.
“Okay, you can open your eyes.”
Your eyes fly open, immediately finding the light purple bag that was stuffed to the brim with white tissue paper. Joaquín lets out a light laugh as he gestures for you to open it before he goes on a spiel about how hard it was to find. As you grab the bag, you realize it’s got some weight to it, which surprises you a little, though you don’t dwell on it for too long. You’re making sure to place the excessive amount of stuffing to the side, but you freeze when you catch a glimpse of what was underneath it all.
“Joaquín, what the fuck,” You gasp, fingers tracing the stitching of the bag, “How much was this?”
“We both know I’m not going to tell you that,” He flatly says, his hands grasping the edge of the cushion as he leans forward to drag his eyes across your face, “Do you like it?”
“Like it? I love it,” You murmur, pulling the bag out so you can look at it in its entirety, “I’ve been looking at this for months, but haven’t been able to find one anywhere.”
“I know,” His voice is gentle and hesitant, “I remember you talked about it a while ago, so I pulled a few strings and managed to find one.”
You toss the bag to the side, instantly throwing your arms around Joaquín and pulling him into your hold. Without missing a beat, he winds his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder. The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest wasn’t uncommon when you found yourself in his embrace, but this time it felt like there was something more. Something that someone in a relationship shouldn’t be feeling with someone else, and it made your stomach twist with guilt.
You hastily pull away, giving him a sheepish smile before Joaquín’s gaze locks onto the chain around your neck, his eyes quickly narrowing into a glare. You already know what he’s looking at, so you don’t ask. You let him find the words he wants to say as you uncomfortably sink into your seat, waiting for the unavoidable to come.
“That’s a gold necklace,” He states, finally dragging his eyes away from your chest, "You don’t wear gold.”
“No, but it’s cute,” You pipe up, though the squeak in your voice gives way to the cracks in your facade, “Tyler got it for my birthday.”
The silence that follows makes you want to vomit.
“Look, I’m sorry for what I’m about to say,” He straightens in his seat, his chest tightening when your face visibly twists in discomfort, “But the two of you have been dating for almost a year and he doesn’t know all your jewelry is silver? He still seems to “forget” you’re allergic to lilies and that you hate rap music? He cancels on you last minute to hang out with his friends, which is really shitty. He’s shitty and you deserve so much better than that.”
Someone like me, he wants to say. Someone who knows you inside and out. Someone who would get rid of all the lilies in the world if it meant you could walk around without sneezing. Someone who would shamelessly ask Sam to pull any strings necessary to find a purse that had been sold out for over a year. Someone who wouldn’t even look at gold jewelry when shopping for you. Someone who saw you.
“I—,” You cut yourself off, jaw going slack and shoulders falling as his words settle in your chest.
Any words you were going to say die in your throat as you nervously wring your hands together and chew on the inside of your cheek. The tension that fills the room around you doesn’t bother you all that much because you know that he’s right, and there’s nothing left for you to say.
4.
When you woke up with a scratchy throat and a runny nose, you told yourself that it would go away. That if you took enough allergy medicine and drank enough tea, you would be able to drug yourself up enough to be fine, but you were wrong. Two o’clock came, and you felt considerably worse than you had when you woke up. Now, you’re toying with your phone as you try to find the right way to tell Tyler that you can’t make it to the concert. A few rehearsed conversations later, you’re clicking the call button under his name.
“Sup,” He mumbles into the receiver, making you outwardly cringe.
Who greets their girlfriend they haven’t talked to all day with ‘sup’?
“Hey,” You harshly rasp, “I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight. I’ve been feeling pretty bad all day, and I don’t want to get anyone sick.”
“Damn, babe, that sucks,” He plainly groans, and you can practically see his head being thrown back, “I think Garrett wants to come, so I’ll ask him right now.”
Before you even get the chance to open your mouth, the line disconnects. Slowly blinking, you pull the phone away from your ear, stunned and in disbelief.
What the fuck?
Sure, you were going to tell him to find someone to go in your place anyway, but he didn’t even ask if you were okay. If you needed anything. He just hung up like nothing else except his stupid concert mattered, but the worst part is, is that you’re not even upset about that. You’re mad.
Mad that you’ve been wasting so much time on him. Mad that you haven’t been paying attention to the dozens of red flags being waved in your face. Mad that you’ve been making excuses for a man who considered swimming in a pool a replacement for a shower. Everything you’ve been brushing off as ‘not a big deal’ came rushing to the surface at once, and it made your head throb.
You knew that you wanted to break up with him, which was something you should have done a long time ago, but you also knew couldn’t do it yet. You were civilized enough not to do it over a text, and had enough human decency not to do it before a concert he was excited for. Not that he would care either way, but unfortunately, you still had morals. Instead, you decided to call the one person you knew you could always count on, no matter what.
“What’s up stranger,” Joaquín brightly greets, a quiet buzz of people in the background.
“Whatcha doin’,” You cooly ask, clearing the obnoxious tickle in your throat.
“I’m not doing anything,” You can hear a familiar deep voice protest in the background, “Are you feeling okay? You sound sick.”
“It’s nothing bad,” You try and play it off despite knowing he would be able to see right through you, “Just a sore throat and a headache. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll let you get back to your date with Sam.”
“No,” He rushes out, still ignoring Sam’s teasing comments beside him, “No, it’s okay. We were just finishing up. I actually have some sopita left in the fridge, so I’ll bring that to you, okay? I’ll see you soon.”
While you wait for Joaquín, you get comfortable on the couch and let your mind wander. You begin asking yourself the question you’ve been trying to ignore: Why stay with Tyler for so long? When you really thought about everything you looked for in a partner, he lacked almost every single one of those attributes. He wasn’t necessarily your type on paper, either. What he was, was close and low maintenance, and you thought if you were able to convince yourself that it was working, that maybe one day it would.
You couldn’t have been more wrong about something if you tried.
By the time Joaquín was walking through the door, you had rolled yourself up in your blanket and dozed off into a short nap. You only roused when he was delicately shaking your shoulder, his small smile and soft eyes being the first things you see when you flutter your eyes open. He gently guides your body into a more upright position before turning to the coffee table, and as he pulls everything you’ve ever asked for when you were sick out of the bag, you realize that maybe everything you had been looking for had been in front of you the whole time.
+1.
A few months have passed since you broke up with Tyler, who took it a lot harder than you expected, and things in your life seemed to fall back into place afterwards Work seemed to be going smoother, you seemed to be in an overall better mood, the stubborn acne on your forehead, seemed to disappear, and you were back to spending all of your spare time with Joaquín. You felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, yet there was one constant thought nagging at the back of your mind.
Maybe you felt something more for Joaquín than you had ever let on. Scratch that, you know you do.
The more time you spent with him, the harder your feelings got to ignore, which, in turn, meant that your loose lips and uncontrollable facial expressions got the best of you every once in a while. You would leave passing comments that made his brow quirk in curiosity, you would sit a little closer to him than necessary, which didn’t go unnoticed by anyone, you would uncomfortably grimace when girls made obvious passes at him right in front of you. Not that you had a right to feel any sort of way about that, which you knew, but it served as a consistent reminder that even though he was right in front of you, he was still out of reach.
Well, you thought so, at least.
When Joaquín got back home from some sort of mission with Sam, the first thing he did when he landed was call you and ask if you wanted to go to the state fair that was in town for the week. The speed at which you had said yes was slightly embarrassing, but he didn’t seem to mind it one bit. In fact, he matched your eagerness with his own and began spouting off a list of plans he had for the evening. All of which made it sound like a date, but you didn’t dare point that out.
The two of you have only been there for an hour, and Joaquín has already managed to beat six of the seven rigged games he wanted to try. After the last prize he asked you to pick out for him, you playfully ask him to slow it down a tiny bit because you weren’t going to be able to carry that many cheap stuffed animals all night. Through feigned reluctance, he agrees to give them a break and guides you through the crowd in search of something else to do that wasn’t the ferris wheel. He wants to wait until the sun sets to do that.
“C’mon,” He gently urges, palm splayed against your lower back as he applies the slightest bit of pressure, “Let’s go to the photobooth.”
You wordlessly nod, letting him usher you towards the empty booth with a small sign that said ‘Picture this!’ above it and was tucked in a quieter part of the lot. He doesn’t move his hand away, and it was taking everything in you to concentrate on what was in front of you rather than the way his touch made your skin burn even through the material of your shirt. It was a simple touch, something he’s done a thousand times before, but this time it was making your head spin and your heart race. It was making it harder to focus, harder to act like you aren’t about to run headfirst into the wall of feelings you’d been trying to dodge.
Joaquín pulls the curtain back, head slightly jerking towards the inside before he’s gently shoving you in before him. You place the bag he had conned one of the workers into giving you for the prizes between your feet and move over in an attempt to give him as much room as possible, but the space was small. Even with your body at an angle and a shoulder pressed against the wall, there was still virtually no space between you. You weren’t sure where you ended and he began. Without a second thought, he throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you even closer to his side while he clicks through the various backdrops.
“What are we thinking,” His fingers brush against your collarbone, making your breath catch in your throat and a shiver run down your spine. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice, or he’s just really good at hiding it. “Old school Captain America layout, some weird safari one, or…”
His voice trails off while he shifts his gaze to you, dark brown eyes finding your own as his brow twitches. The subtle tilt of the head lets you know that he can tell something is off, but he can’t quite figure out what it is. The way he’s looking at you, like he was peering into the deepest parts of your soul, was making you breathless. It was making you forget how to speak. How to think. You force yourself to look away, instead leaning forward to select the ‘random’ button in the corner of the screen. You can hear Joaquín’s amused chuckle behind you, but you ignore it as you settle back into the seat and watch the numbers count down from ten.
“Smiles first,” You firmly nod, adjusting under his arm and focusing on the screen in front of you.
With a nod of his head, Joaquín tightens his grip on your shoulder and his lips tug into a bright smile that outshines your own. After the first one, he suggests that the two of you take a less serious picture, so you poke your tongue out of the corner of your mouth and wait for the second shutter click to go off. However, just as the number two rolls across the screen, he reaches over his torso and begins prodding your side, bringing out a round of involuntary giggles and shouts of mangled protests.
“I hate you,” You breathlessly call out, lightly slapping his chest while you attempt to squirm away from him despite there being nowhere for you to go.
“No you don’t,” His voice lowly rumbles, making warmth spread from your chest to your stomach until your entire body is on fire.
When your nervous, yet curious gaze begins to slide up to his, everything that follows seemingly happens in slow motion. You meet his piercing stare. Your eyes flicker all across his face. He’s mirroring your every movement, but he lingers on your lips for a beat longer than you did. You swallow hard. The flash of the camera goes off. He brings his hand to cradle your jaw and his thumb caresses the apex of your check. Slowly, agonizingly so, the space between you becomes nonexistent. His lips are on yours.
It wasn’t rushed, desperate, or hungry. It was soft, tentative, and quietly needy in a way that made it feel like you were being kissed for the first time all over again. He’s kissing you like you were anchoring him to earth, keeping him grounded and tethered to something that was raw and real. He slides his other hand down your spine, goosebumps forming in the wake of its path, until he reaches your lower back, and he’s pulling you closer into him than you thought possible. The loud hum of fair goers fade into nothing as your lips mold against his like you were made for each other. Though if you ask Joaquín, he would say that the two of you were made for one another.
Neither of you register the last flash of the camera, both too lost in the feeling of each other, and it wasn’t until you hear a faint knocking on the outside that you reluctantly pull away. Your lips are parted as you try to catch your breath, blood pounding in your ears and your mind hazy from the feeling of his lips. Joaquín’s palm remains cradling your cheek, the skin underneath tingling from the touch alone, and he’s peering down at you with a look you’d seen on his face far too many times to count, but this time you aren’t afraid to face what it truly meant.
“Told you you didn’t hate me,” He cheekily mumbles, thumb ghosting over your lips.
“I guess not,” You bashfully hum, averting your gaze away from him before you weren’t able to resist the aching desire to kiss him again, “We should probably get out before the people in line hate both of us.”
With an amused shake of the head, Joaquín places a quick and delicate kiss to your lips before he reaches to grab the bag from the floor and pulls the curtain back. You ignore the knowing looks the small group of people outside are tossing your way, choosing to quickly grab the printed pictures and tug him away from the photobooth. You don’t bother to drop his hand when you feel you’re a safe distance from the crowd, not that he would’ve let you if you tried, and it makes a certain feeling blossom in your chest. A feeling you’d been wasting your time trying to replicate with others for so long when it had been right in front of you all along.
“Let me see the pictures,” Joaquín softly demands, pulling you to a quick stop at one of the benches.
You hand him one of the strips while you keep the other, eyes scanning each picture like you wanted to commit them to memory. They were all in black and white with various shaped green hearts decorating the edges. The first one is simple and cute. Smiles on both your faces, gentle twinkle in your eyes. The second one makes you playfully roll your eyes. Joaquín was poking at your side and your hands were pushing at his forearm, faces scrunched up with laughter.
The third one might be your favorite of the four. You're both looking at each other with the same look in your eyes, the look of two people who are totally and entirely entranced with one another. It was the kind of look you would see couples give each other when they thought no one was looking. The fourth one makes you blush. Joaquín’s hand was cradling your face and his lips were pressed against yours, your visible hand clinging to his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear. It was a kiss straight out of a movie.
“We look hot,” He speaks up, nudging you with his shoulder, “I like them all, but the second one is my favorite.”
“That’s the worst one of me,” You throw your head back with a groan, “I look crazy.”
“Hey, don’t talk about my girl like that,” He mockingly protests, hand clutching at his chest, “I happen to like that crazy look, and think it’s the most beautiful sight in the world.”
You falter for a moment, two of his words ringing in your ears as you try to compose yourself. “Your girl, huh,” You quirk one of your brows, fighting off the urge to smile.
Joaquín’s entire body freezes before he sputters, “I mean, only if you want to be. Obviously if you don’t that’s okay. It is totally fine if you’re not into that. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.”
You’ve seen him get flustered before, but this was a whole different level. His eyes are cast to the ground, his entire face to his ears are flushing a deep crimson color, garbled words are tumbling from his lips and he’s shifting his weight on his feet. You curl your fingers around his bicep, forcing his attention back to you and you can visibly see him relax once he notices the teasing glint in your eyes.
“Obviously I’m totally into that,” You lightheartedly retort, “But you’ve got to take me on a proper date.”
His entire face lights up at your admission before he’s surging forward and peppering your mouth, cheeks, forehead, and nose with small kisses. “I’m going,” Kiss, “To take you,” Kiss, “On all the dates,” Kiss, “I’ll never stop taking you on dates.”
He kissed you a little longer this last time, not bothered by the blur of people crossing by you or the random comments from people who think they might recognize him. When he pulls away, it was only just enough for your lips to not be touching. He places his forehead against yours and pulls you into his warm embrace by your hips, your arms winding around his torso as you try and stifle a nervous giggle from being so close to him.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this,” He mumbles, his breath fanning across your face, “How long I’ve wanted you.”
You let your head fall to the side as you pretend to think about it. “I’m guessing since you almost hit me with your oversized backpack three years ago.”
“Close,” He chuckles at the memory of your first meeting, his hands squeezing at your hips, “It was a few days before that, actually. I was leaving the sandwich shop and I saw you trying to shoo these pigeons off the sidewalk because a group of cyclists were coming. The second I saw you, I swear it was like everyone else disappeared except for you.”
His confession catches you a little off guard. You have a vague memory of that day, but you can’t recall seeing Joaquín anywhere near there. Although, you didn’t know him yet so you weren’t exactly looking for him then. Even then, you never would have assumed Joaquín saw you like that this whole time.
“Well, it seems like we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for, yeah?”
summary: it was only ever supposed to be casual. convenient. roommates with benefits—two rules: no kissing, no falling in love. but when joaquín returns from a week-long mission and his mother comes to stay, tensions rise, jealousy snaps, boundaries blur, and breaking those rules becomes inevitable.
notes: surprise joaquín fic?! my goodness, i've been working on this for months (so i'm sorry if it feels disjointed). i abandoned it back in july and have been slowly adding to it but just recently got the urge to fully finish it, so here ya go! i hope it's good? i hope it's enjoyable? it was really fun, more angsty than i originally planned, and a little more lyrical than i ever intended? i also did a lot of random research for this fic... so please (as always) let me know what you think!!! (and i made a playlist)
warnings: so many metaphors and similies (like seriously, i'm sorry), nevada slander (i'm sorry, again! i just chose a desert state, i promise there's no meaning behind it), jealousy, tension, a bit of angst, italics, likely incorrect spanish, denial (duh), and SMUT (dirty talk-ish, f oral receiving, making out, unprotected p in v, and sorry if it sucks i feel like i struggled with the last spicy scene) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 18779
It started on a random Tuesday night.
You’d been living with Joaquín for almost six months at that point—after years of friendship forged through comms static and high-stakes calls working for the United States Air Force.
You were his handler back in the day. You worked for a joint taskforce—half independent intelligence, half Air Force—coordinating tactical comms and field support. Joaquín was one of your primary field assets, and you were the voice in his ear. You watched his vitals, fed him real-time intel, and talked him out of some seriously bad situations.
After a while, he stopped feeling like an asset and more like a friend—a good friend. You trusted each other more than anyone else in the field. And even after he got pulled into Captain America's world and rotated out of your roster, you stayed close.
You left the handler life not long after—burned out from too many ops gone wrong, long hours, and the creeping sense that your whole life was passing you by. Now you’re a threat analyst contractor—still intelligence, just less intense. More sane. You pick your own hours, turn down jobs that feel like lost causes, and best of all, you get to do most of it from home.
When Joaquín officially inherited the Falcon wings, he started looping you in again—running contracts through Sam’s office, bringing you back into the fold, piece by piece. The work felt familiar. So did he. And when he brought up the idea of sharing an apartment in D.C., it made perfect sense.
Rent was brutal. Joaquín was gone on missions half the time anyway. And you already knew each other well enough to live in sync—how to read each other’s moods, how to exist in tight spaces without getting on each other’s nerves.
You trust him—always have—and the first six months were easier than you imagined.
Then… that Tuesday night happened.
You were sitting on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some action movie Joaquín had put on while you complained about the lack of fuckable men in your life. Joaquín, of course, acted all offended and joked about how incredibly fuckable he was—at which you snorted, but silently agreed.
There was one long, charged second where neither of you knew what to say.
Then Joaquín said it. He offered. Asked if you wanted to have sex—no strings, just good old-fashioned stress relief between friends.
You hesitated, of course. Torn between tearing off your—admittedly sexy—best friend’s clothes, or telling him that in no way was this kind of arrangement a good idea. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. Living with him was great, and the thought of messing all that up made you nauseous.
But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.
And something deep inside you snapped.
You agreed. With two conditions: no kissing, and no falling in love.
Simple, right?
Well, you thought so. Until you found yourself under him—or on top of him, or beside him, or in some other twisted position—every second night. Panting, whimpering, crying out his name while he made you come with his mouth, his fingers, his very impressive cock. Once you started, you couldn’t get enough.
And slowly—somehow—you started feeling different. About him. About everything. Different in a way that made your heart race, your cheeks flush, and your stomach do weird somersaults every time he flashed that boyish grin.
You haven’t quite admitted it yet, but you’re pretty sure you’ve gone and broken one of those rules.
And not even the one that should have been the easiest to break—because even after almost three months of being roommates with benefits, you still haven’t kissed him. Not once. Not even almost.
The click of the front door lock startles you. You blink hard at the TV screen you’ve been pretending to watch for the past few hours, then crane your neck to peer over the back of the couch. And sure enough, there he is.
His curls are damp from the rain, clothes a little soaked too, and there are deep purple circles beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—but somehow, still gorgeous. Still infuriatingly hot, even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t slept the entire week he’s been gone.
“Hey,” you call, pushing up from the couch.
He drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes. “Hey,” he says, eyes lighting up the second they land on you. “I missed you.”
And God, it doesn’t help when he says things like that.
You roll your eyes and walk around the couch, leaning a hip against the back of it while he shrugs out of his wet jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. The apartment isn’t huge—just an open-plan living and dining space, with the kitchen off to the side—which means there are only a few strides left between you and him.
“Don’t roll your eyes when I say that,” he adds. “I’m allowed to miss my best friend after being forced to spend a week in hell—or Nevada, as the locals like to call it.”
You laugh quietly, folding your arms just to stop yourself from reaching out. Because holy shit, you've missed him—but you’re not about to admit it out loud.
He misses his best friend.
You miss the boy you’re in love with.
It’s not the same. Not even close.
“I almost cried when it started raining on the cab ride home,” he says with a soft chuckle. “The desert sucked. I’m never going back there. I told Sam he can find a new Falcon if he wants to do more recon in a state that’s more red dirt than grass.”
“Wow,” you mutter. “Maybe Sam should find a new Falcon, then. One that complains less.”
He narrows his eyes as he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you.
“You know,” he says, stopping barely a foot away, “this isn’t the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”
You lift a brow. “And what exactly were you hoping for?”
He shrugs, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Candles. Rose petals. Romantic music.” He steps in again, eyes dragging up your body—slow and deliberate. “You. On my bed. Naked.”
Your heart thuds in your throat, and heat blooms across your skin, but you refuse to let it show. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You’re used to this—to him. He was flirty even before you started sleeping together, but now? Now it’s like making you blush is his full-time job.
“Really?” you ask, keeping your voice level. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight. Aren’t you tired?”
“Never too tired for you, baby,” he mutters—low and dangerous—as he closes the space between you entirely.
His hands find your waist and his lips drop to your neck, just above the collar of your shirt—his shirt—where he knows exactly how to make you sigh.
And you do.
Like you’ve been holding your breath all week, just waiting for his touch. And now, with his soft lips and wet tongue drawing a slow bruise into your skin, just above your shoulder—you can finally breathe again.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, “I’m your roommate, not your—”
He shoves his body against yours, the unmistakable, rock-hard length beneath his jeans pressing into your hip.
“Cariño,” he murmurs against your neck, “I’ve been living in a one-bedroom safe house with Sam for seven days. I haven’t come since you made me before I left. If I don’t come inside you tonight, it’ll be into my own hand while thinking about you. And I know which I’d prefer.” He presses a wet kiss just beneath your jaw. “What do you prefer?”
Your eyes almost roll back as he slides one hand beneath your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh at your waist. His lips continue their assault on your neck—sucking, licking, biting, soothing—while you choke back moans and grip the front of his shirt for dear life.
“Come on, baby,” he sighs, breath hot on your skin. “Don’t make me beg.”
You bite back a grin as you tip your head back, breath stuttering. “Maybe I want you to beg.”
He pulls back—lips puffy, eyes glazed, that familiar smirk still very much in place. “Want me to beg?” he echoes, brows lifting. “I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed.”
Then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands slide down your body, igniting fires in their wake and making your pulse stumble.
“I want to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, tongue darting across his lower lip. “Please let me.”
The sight of him makes your knees weak—curls tousled, lips damp, eyes dark with lust and something darker, hungrier. God, if you said no to a man like this, you’d have to be insane.
Your breath hitches as he lifts the hem of your shirt and presses a kiss just above the waistband of your sweatpants.
“Please, cariño,” he whispers. “Please let me fuck you.”
He slowly pulls the grey fabric down, sliding it over your hips until it drops in a pool at your feet—leaving only a lacy pair of pink panties between him and what he wants.
You lean harder against the back of the couch, gripping it like a lifeline as he leans in again, lips brushing the tops of your thighs.
“Gonna need you to say something, baby,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Joaquín, you can f-fuck me.”
He grins up at you—boyish charm and deadly intention—as his fingers hook beneath your panties and slide them down. You gasp at the sudden exposure, and before you can say or do anything else, his hands grip the insides of your thighs and part them. Your grip tightens on the couch before your knees can give out, and you hear him chuckle as your legs shake with anticipation.
“So wet already,” he breathes, face barely an inch away. “Mierda, cariño… ¿todo esto para mí?”
(Shit, baby… all this for me?)
You nod, once, because you know you can’t speak. Not with him on his knees. Not with his mouth so close to your cunt. Not after a whole week of that useless vibrator, waiting for him to get back.
“Been thinkin’ about this pussy all week,” he mutters, eyes locked on the apex of your thighs like he’s praying.
Then he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder—and his mouth is on you.
Warm, wet, and worshipful, he licks a slow stripe through your folds, lips and tongue coaxing every nerve alive. You gasp, fingers flying into his curls, and your back arches as a strangled moan slips free.
He works you open like he’s savouring every second, tongue deliberate and unhurried, lapping up every drop like it means something. A low moan rumbles in his throat—part pleasure, part hunger—and the vibration shoots straight through you.
Your hips twitch. Your grip tightens in his hair. He doesn’t flinch.
One hand steadies the back of your thigh. The other slides between your legs, fingers teasing your soaked entrance while his mouth keeps working, determined and relentless.
“Fuck,” he groans. “She missed me, huh?”
Two fingers push inside you—slow, careful, deep—and your whole body jolts. You cry out before you can stop yourself, head tipped back as he curls them just right, dragging along that spongey spot that makes your knees buckle.
His mouth stays pressed against you, tongue flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with every thrust of his hand.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.
He’s so good at this. Too good. It’s almost unfair—the way he pulls you apart with his mouth and fingers like it’s nothing. Like he was made for it.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, barely able to speak. “I—fuck—”
He hums again, lips sealed to you like he can’t stand to let go. His fingers move faster, deeper, knuckles brushing as he works you open. Your whole body tightens, strung up and ready to snap.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice ruined and reverent. “Come for me, baby.”
It builds fast—hot and sharp and blinding. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pulling you tighter against his face, guiding you against his tongue until you can’t think, can’t breathe.
He sucks hard on your clit, and it hits. You let out a broken cry, hips jerking, grinding against his mouth as your eyes squeeze shut and—
You shatter.
The wave crashes over you, tearing through every nerve, and you collapse forward with a moan caught in your throat. Your thighs tremble. Your lungs burn. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
And he doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally goes slack, and the only sound you can make is a soft, helpless little whimper you don’t even recognise.
He lingers for a beat, lips pressing soft, soothing kisses to your thigh, breath warm against your skin, his hands sliding gently up your sides to steady you. Then he finally pulls back and looks up—curls messy, lips swollen, face glistening. And fuck, he’s never looked hotter.
“That was—”
“Quick,” you mutter, a little breathless, cheeks burning.
He blinks, then grins—slow and wicked. “I was going to say hot. But sure, quick works too.”
“Thanks,” you mutter dryly, eyes locked on the slick shine around his mouth. “You want to clean yourself up, or—”
“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, his brows drawing together just slightly. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”
Before you can reply, he straightens up and grabs the backs of your thighs, lifting you easily. You let out a startled yelp, but your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your arms locking behind his neck.
“It’s my turn, baby,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And then probably your turn again, and again if you’re up for it.” He pauses, ducking his head to brush his lips against your collarbone. “Your vibrator dead yet?”
You frown as he starts walking down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He chuckles. “I figured with me gone all week, you’d be handling things the old-fashioned way. Thinkin’ about me while you—”
You smack the back of his head, which only makes him laugh harder.
“Just because you can’t stop thinking about me doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you,” you say, even though it’s a total lie.
He leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he kicks open his bedroom door and steps inside, stopping at the edge of the bed.
“Okay then,” he says, voice dark with challenge. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you ‘til you can’t think about anything but me.”
Then he drops you.
You hit the bed with a squeal, bounce once, and barely have time to register the ceiling before his weight presses you down. He slots perfectly between your thighs, dragging the hard line of his denim-clad cock along your soaked cunt.
And God, does he fuck you.
He fucks you until you can’t think about anything but him. Until you forget your own name. Until your muscles shake and your lungs burn and your voice is hoarse from moaning his.
And then—after all of it—you fall asleep in his bed. In his arms.
And it’s the best sleep you’ve had since he left.
-
You wake before Joaquín, your nose pressed to his bare chest and his arms wrapped tight around you. One is tucked beneath your neck, the other curled over your shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s holding something precious. His chin is resting at the crown of your head, and he’s softly snoring—a sure sign that he’s still deep asleep.
You wriggle a little, testing. He hums and tightens his hold, but doesn’t wake. He’s hard against your lower belly, and for a second you consider waking him with your mouth—but your bladder protests.
And so does your heart.
God, you should’ve made more rules. You should’ve protected yourself. You’ve always known you were soft for Joaquín—already halfway gone long before this whole thing started. And now? Now you’re all the way gone. Completely fucked. Up the creek without a paddle and regretting that you didn’t make a rule about cuddling, because waking up like this feels a lot heavier than just roommates.
You ease your way down the bed, slipping gently from his grip, being careful not to rouse him. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and you realise just how tired he must be after that mission—yet somehow, not too tired to fuck your brains out last night.
You pick up the nearest item of clothing—his shirt, obviously—and slip it over your head as you pad across the hall to the bathroom. The only bathroom in the apartment, which hadn’t seemed like a problem when you first moved in—at least, not until Joaquín got very comfortable walking in on you mid-shower. Not that it matters much now. But still.
You go to the toilet, brush your teeth, wash your face, and count four new bruises along your collarbone—one a little higher than you’d normally let him get away with. Then you head into the living area to find your sweatpants—still crumpled on the floor behind the couch—and slip them on before starting a fresh pot of coffee.
You’ve got your head in the fridge, looking for the packet of bacon you know you bought the other day, when a knock at the door startles you. You stand up so quickly you bump your head on the way, cursing under your breath as you rub the sore spot and glance at the microwave clock—10:27AM.
It’s Sunday, which means no work, no plans. And you know Joaquín has this week off after the mission—so it definitely isn’t Sam here to collect his baby bird.
Another knock echoes through the apartment.
You shut the fridge, still frowning, and walk across the kitchen toward the front door. Every now and then, it does cross your mind that a dangerous criminal could show up looking for Joaquín—he is a superhero now—but today you decide that even criminals probably take Sundays off.
So you open the door.
“Hola… tú no eres Joaquín.”
(Hi... you’re not Joaquín.)
It’s a woman, late fifties—you’re guessing—a little on the shorter side, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are dark and sharp, dragging up and down your body not with judgment, just curiosity. Her dark brows are drawn slightly, forming two small creases in the middle of her otherwise perfectly tan skin.
She looks familiar. But you know you’ve never met her before.
Oh no.
“¿Tú quién eres y por qué estás usando la ropa de mi hijo?”
(Who are you and why are you wearing my son’s clothes?)
You step back, eyes wide. “Uh, I—I’m sorry, Joaquín is just—”
“¡Mamá! Ay, por favor—¿por qué no me avisaste que estabas en camino?”
(Mom! Oh, please—why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?)
You whip around to see Joaquín—curls messy, shirt only half on—appearing from his bedroom.
“No me dijiste que tenías novia,” the woman—Joaquín’s mother—says.
(You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.)
Joaquín sighs. “No es mi novia, mamá. Es mi roomie.”
(She’s not my girlfriend, Mom. She’s my roommate.)
She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “¿Entonces por qué está usando tu camisa ella?”
(So why is she wearing your shirt?)
“Porque ella solo—” He hesitates, clearly frustrated. “¡Ugh! No importa. Somos amigos. Don’t make it weird.”
(Because she just— Ugh! It doesn’t matter. We’re friends. Don’t make it weird.)
“Lo raro es dormir con una amiga, mijo,” she says with a little smirk.
(What’s weird is sleeping with a friend, my son.)
“¡Mamá!”
She shrugs. “Solo digo. Estas cosas nunca terminan bien. Además, es muy bonita—deberías salir con ella de verdad.”
(Just saying. These things never end well. Besides, she’s very pretty—you should actually date her.)
Joaquín’s brow furrows, not in anger but something like defeat. “No es así.”
(It’s not like that.)
“¡Podría serlo! Quiero nietos.”
(It could be! I want grandbabies.)
“Mamá… ella entiende casi todo lo que dices.”
(Mom... she understands almost everything you’re saying.)
His mother laughs again. “¡Qué bueno! Así sabe que necesito nietos antes de morirme.”
(How good! That way she knows I need grandchildren before I die.)
Joaquín sighs, shaking his head. “Ay, Dios mío. Just speak English. If you're gonna embarrass me, just do it in English.” Then he turns to you with a sheepish smile. “This is my mom.”
You give him a wide-eyed look before turning back to his mother, who’s now grinning at you like you’ve just told her you’re expecting.
“Hi.” You give her a tight smile. “I’m the roommate.”
She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers. “I’m Lucía, but you can call me—”
“She is not call you mamá,” Joaquín cuts in, exasperated. “We’re just friends, ¿sí?”
Lucía rolls her eyes, dropping your hand. “Okay, okay. Just friends.”
“Give me those,” Joaquín mutters, stepping up beside you to take her bags.
You move aside as he takes her things and ushers her into the apartment. Your feet feel heavy, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and your cheeks are burning so hot you wouldn’t be surprised if you spontaneously combusted.
“This place is nice, Joaquín,” Lucía says, her English carrying just the slightest accent. “Though I suppose it has a woman’s touch.”
She glances at you with a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, like she’s already two steps ahead.
“Mamá,” Joaquín says, dropping her bags at his bedroom door, “are you going to be weird the whole time you’re here?”
She gives him a sharp smile. “And are you going to be oblivious your whole life?”
He frowns. “Oblivious?”
She looks back at you and nods. And God, you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
“Joaquín,” you murmur, voice tight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
His cheeks flush pink. “Yeah—uh, Mamá, we’re just going to—”
“It’s okay, mijo,” Lucía says, drifting toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pour myself a coffee.”
Joaquín smiles and nods, his eyes flicking back to you. “Come help me strip my bed?”
His mother chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything else.
You bite back the urge to whack Joaquín square in the chest as you walk past him, slipping into his room with him a step behind and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me your mother was coming to visit?” you snap, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs. “I was going to. I just didn’t get a chance.”
“Oh, so you decided eating me out and fucking me four times was more important?”
His eyes go wide. “Shh! That woman hears everything—she has ears like a bat.”
You step forward, brow furrowed. “Joaquín Torres, I swear to God—”
“I’m sorry, okay?” he cuts in, lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. “I honestly forgot. I didn’t think she’d be here until later tonight. She called last week, said she missed me, and got all upset that I hadn’t invited her to visit since moving.”
“You could have texted me,” you mutter.
“I said sorry. I just—” He pauses, eyes dropping to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “I got distracted. But she’s here now, and she seems to like you. So, that’s a good start.”
You blink. “You didn’t think she’d like me?”
His eyes go wide. “No, no! I knew she’d like you... eventually. She’s just not always warm the first time she meets someone.”
“Joaquín,” you deadpan. “She was talking about me having your babies before you even introduced us. Doesn’t get much warmer than that.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, she did say that.”
You raise your brows. “Do you really think this is funny?”
He shrugs. “A little.”
You sigh out a heavy breath and drop your head into your hands, wishing you could close your eyes and start the day all over again.
“She’s not going to be here long,” Joaquín says. “Two nights, that’s it. Then she’s going to Tía Carla’s in Baltimore.”
You drop your hands. “Two nights?”
He nods.
“Where’s she going to sleep?”
He glances at the bed. “My bed.” Then he looks back at you, smirking. “After I change the sheets.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay. Where are you sleeping?”
“Well,” he says slowly, “I was thinking—”
“No,” you snap. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping with me.”
He frowns. “Why not? We slept together last night.”
“Because your mother is going to be on the other side of the wall!”
He grins—slow and wicked. “I’ve got ways I could keep you quiet.”
Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”
“Okay,” he chuckles, “okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be fine. It’s only two nights.”
You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”
“Besides,” he sighs, turning toward the bed, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”
You step around to the foot of the bed and start helping him pull the sheets up. “Excuse me?”
He flashes you another grin. “You heard me.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s not forget who practically mauled me the minute he got home last night.”
He bundles up the sheets and dumps them in a pile on the floor. “And let’s not forget who couldn’t stand on her own in the shower.”
You narrow your eyes, tongue running along your top teeth, watching him dismantle the bed with a shit-eating grin. You want to walk over there and slap it off his face. Or better yet, you want to shove him on the bed and let him fuck you so full of grandbabies you won’t be able to stand again.
Because like it or not, you’re hopelessly in love with Joaquín Torres—and you’re starting to worry that he might just know it.
After helping him make his bed with clean sheets and picking up all the evidence from last night, you reemerge from his room and head straight into your own. You can hear him and his mother chatting away as you gather fresh clothes and pad quietly into the bathroom.
You take a little extra time showering and getting ready, inexplicably wanting to impress his mother—as if you have something to prove.
Please, Mrs. Torres. Tell your son to fall in love with me!
You roll your eyes at your reflection as you apply a generous layer of lip gloss, then you quickly tidy the bathroom—making extra room on the vanity for Lucía—and step out.
“We could go to La Ventana Roja,” Joaquín says, his voice carrying down the hall.
Lucía sighs. “If I wanted to eat Mexican food, I’d cook dinner myself, chico estúpido.”
You press your lips together to keep from giggling as you drop your dirty clothes in the hamper just inside your bedroom door.
“Why do you come here just to insult me?” Joaquín asks, the pout audible in his voice.
“I come here to make sure you’re alive so you can give me grandbabies one day,” Lucía replies.
You step around the corner and spot them in the kitchen, each standing on opposite sides of the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of them.
“Speaking of grandbabies,” she adds with a grin, “you look lovely, linda.”
You give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Lucía.”
Joaquín clears his throat, eyes flicking up and down your body as you come to stand at the end of the counter. “We’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner,” he says. “Sam’s coming too.”
“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.
He nods. “Italian. I could do Italian.” Then he looks at his mother. “Mamá?”
She smiles. “Yes. Good boy, listening to your novia.”
Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you quickly turn toward the fridge, deciding to distract yourself with food.
“Ay, Mamá,” Joaquín sighs. “Stop saying that. She’s not my girlfriend.”
Lucía just shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee while you keep your attention firmly fixed on the inside of the fridge—though you can feel Joaquín’s gaze burning into the side of your face.
Eventually he gives up on trying to get your attention and dials the Italian restaurant to make a reservation for tonight. You busy yourself making toast while he and his mom continue to catch up, muttering half in Spanish and half in English.
After two cups of coffee, they decide to head to the mall—Miami doesn’t have a Crate & Barrel like D.C., and apparently Lucía loves that place. They ask you to go with them, but your cheeks are still burning and there’s a strange tightness in your chest—because watching Joaquín with his mom, soft and attentive and effortlessly sweet, is making your heart do stupid things. So you decline.
Instead, you spend the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry, taking extra care in Joaquín’s room to ensure Lucía won’t stumble upon any more evidence of your very not-so-friendly relationship with her son. You also take some time to plan an outfit for dinner—you haven’t gone out in a while, and you wouldn’t mind making it a little harder for Joaquín to keep his hands to himself.
By the time you hear them get home, you’re already halfway through getting ready. You’re in your room, sitting at the small mirror in the corner by the window, wondering what colour blush to use—or if you should use any at all. You’re wearing nothing but your underwear, with the silky, dark green dress you picked for tonight laid across the bed.
“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.
“I’m in my room!” you call back.
You can hear shuffling—paper bags, muffled voices—and then footsteps, getting louder down the hall.
You jump up quickly and dart across your room, planting both hands against the door just as the handle turns, stopping it from opening fully.
Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”
“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”
He peers at you through the gap, brows raised, lips twitching. “And?”
You stare. “And we’re roommates. Remember?”
“Right.” He chuckles. “Well then, roommate, are you going to be ready in half an hour? Sam said he’ll meet us there.”
“Yes,” you mutter. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be ready.”
He leans in a little, trying to see more through the narrow gap—like he thinks he’s subtle. “And if I don’t leave you alone?”
You brace yourself harder against the door. “Then you’ll be limping for the next week.”
He grins, challenging. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He snorts. “You barely survived the week I was away. You wouldn’t add another—”
“Mijo, leave the poor girl alone!” Lucía calls from the kitchen. “Come help me unpack, and then you can get in the shower so you don’t smell at dinner.”
You can’t help but smile, laughter catching somewhere in your chest as you watch him roll his eyes and trudge back down the hall. Then you shove your bedroom door shut again and return to getting ready.
You finish your makeup, do your hair, and slip into the dress that slides against your skin like butter. It falls just above the knee—silky and forest green—draped in all the right places with a neckline that isn’t too low, but low enough to tease the smallest sliver of black lace if you lean forward just right. You finish the outfit with a pair of knee-high boots and an oversized leather jacket—for modesty, of course. Nothing to do with wanting to shed the jacket at dinner and make Joaquín choke on his own breath.
Half an hour later, you step out of your room into the bright, pungent cloud of Chanel No. 5 saturating the apartment. The bathroom door is shut, but you can hear Joaquín humming behind it, and at the end of the hall you spot Lucía waiting at the dining table.
“Just waiting on Joaquín?” you ask as you step into the kitchen.
Lucía hums. “Like always. He takes so long with the hair, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
You bite back a laugh. “Neither do I.”
Just as you unzip your purse to look for your lip gloss, you hear the bathroom door squeak open. The fan clicks off, footsteps echo up the hall—and then Joaquín steps into the kitchen like some kind of smug, fully-formed thirst trap the universe handcrafted to ruin your night.
His curls are damp and pushed back off his forehead, dark ringlets dripping slightly onto the collar of a clean, fitted black button-up. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His jeans are dark and well-worn in ways that should be illegal. And of course—of course—his shirt is unbuttoned one extra button more than necessary, exposing just a hint of warm, tanned chest.
Then he sees you.
And he stops.
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, landing squarely on your boots.
“Well,” he says, voice lower than it needs to be, “look at you.”
You fold your arms to hide the way your hands start to shake. “Look at you.”
He hums—soft, appreciative—as his gaze drags up your legs again. “New boots?”
You shrug like your heart isn’t sprinting laps. “Maybe.”
He steps closer, leaning his weight onto one hip and folding his arms to mirror you. “Buy those just for me?"
You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Lucía clears her throat from the dining table, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Ay, por favor. The both of you—stop looking at each other like that. We are going to eat.”
You cough, straighten your jacket, and grab your bag. “Ready to go, then?”
Joaquín just grins—slow, wicked, knowing—and gestures for you to go ahead of him. Lucía sighs, muttering something in Spanish under her breath as the three of you head out the door.
The Uber ride to the restaurant isn’t long—but it feels like hours. With Joaquín’s dark eyes fixed on you through the rear-view mirror, you can barely follow whatever Lucía is saying as she points out the window. The driver tries to make small talk with Joaquín too, but it’s useless. The two of you are somewhere else entirely—a different universe, thick with tension and eye contact, and you’re about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting and leveling half of D.C.
“Oh, we’re here,” Lucía announces at last—and only then do you realise the car has stopped. “Joaquín, ven a ayudar a tu mamá a bajar del auto.”
(Joaquín, come help your mom get out of the car.)
Joaquín shakes his head and fumbles with his seatbelt, mumbling a quick thanks to the driver before stepping out. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to reality, and follow—circling around the rear of the car to find him helping his mother onto the sidewalk.
It’s almost annoying how sweet he is with her. Sure, he’s always polite—you’ve always known he was well raised—but seeing it is something else entirely. And seeing it while trying to ignore the fact that you’re already stupidly, painfully in love with him makes the thorns tighten around your heart. Clawing up your chest. Flower buds blooming in your throat.
“There she is!” Sam throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “How long has it been?”
You roll your eyes even though your lips twitch. “It’s been, like, two weeks, Sam. No need to be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” he echoes. “Try spending a week in the desert with Fly Boy over there.” He jerks a thumb toward Joaquín, whose eyes are slowly widening. “Man would not shut up about you.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”
Sam nods with the weight of someone bearing deep emotional trauma. “Every day. Every night. ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’ ‘Do you think she’s sleeping?’ ‘Should I text her?’ ‘What if she—’”
“Sam,” Joaquín warns.
“No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me,” he fires back. “You were a pain in my ass all week.”
You bite back a smile, heat blooming under your skin. “Wow. I know you missed me, but… that much?”
He shrugs a little too casually. “Sam exaggerates.”
Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”
Joaquín shoots him a glare that peel paint—but Sam just pats your arm.
“Anyway,” he adds with a grin, “good to see you again. Next time, don’t make me suffer through another mission with Lover Boy pining the whole time. You can tag along.”
Lover Boy?
Your heart starts to beat a little faster, heat crawling up your neck as you turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He doesn’t really mean that, right? Lover Boy. Sam’s just joking. Being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of Joaquín.
Right?
You glance at Joaquín, but he refuses to meet your eyes. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his cheeks a little redder than they were a few seconds ago. And when you look back at Sam, he’s already moved on—Lucía has her arm looped through his as they chat like old friends.
You follow them into the restaurant, pausing at the podium while the host checks the reservation under Joaquín’s name. Then you weave through tables until you reach a low booth, bathed in soft gold lighting and tucked away from the rest of the crowd.
Sam slides in first before Joaquín helps his mom onto the end.
“Can I take your coat, ma’am?” the host asks, almost startling you.
You glance at him, nodding. “Uh—yes. Please. That’d be great.”
You slip the leather jacket off your shoulders, and the reaction is instant.
Joaquín freezes.
His jaw drops, eyes dragging down the line of your dress, slow and hungry and stunned. He looks like he’s genuinely forgotten how to function.
“Holy fu—”
“¡Joaquín!” Lucía snaps, swatting the air. “Lenguaje.”
He swallows hard, jaw working as if he’s trying to form a second sentence and failing miserably.
Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amused snort. “Yeah,” he murmurs into his glass of water, “now I see why he wouldn’t shut up about you.”
Joaquín shoots him a murderous glare—but then his eyes flick straight back to you. The humour fades from his expression, leaving something quieter, darker, like gravity pulling between the two of you.
“You look…” His voice comes out rough, quieter than before. “Dios mío.”
Lucía clasps her hands together like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever seen, but Joaquín doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is pinned to you, every muscle in his body tense like he’s holding himself back.
Sam leans back in the booth, smirking. “Just pretend we're not here.”
And that’s when you finally look away—because if you don’t, you’re going to forget how to breathe.
Lucía clears her throat, clearly delighted. “Come, querida. Sit, sit—antes de que alguien se desmaye.”
(Come, dear. Sit, sit—before someone faints.)
You keep your eyes down as you slide into the booth beside Joaquín—not across from him. His thigh presses against yours under the table, warm and solid and definitely intentional. Lucía is already telling Sam about today's trip to Crate & Barrel, but it all washes over you like white noise with Joaquín’s arm brushing yours.
Then the waiter appears.
He’s tall, all clean lines and easy confidence, a white towel draped over one arm. “Good evening,” he says, flashing a very professional—and very appreciative—smile in your direction. “Can I start you all with drinks?”
“We’ll start with a bottle of the house red,” Sam says.
The waiter nods—but his eyes stay on you. “And for you?” he asks.
“Oh—same is fine,” you say quickly, because it’s hard to think when Joaquín is sitting so close.
The waiter offers you another smile—warmer now. “Great choice.”
“Thanks,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Joaquín shifts just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s reclaiming space.
“I’ll grab that bottle for you now,” the waiter says, barely even glancing at the rest of the table.
The second he’s gone, Sam looks pointedly at Joaquín, brows raised like he’s waiting for something. But Joaquín doesn’t say a word—he just clears his throat and busies himself with arranging his napkin on one knee like it’s a tactical operation.
“So, Lucía,” you say, desperate for distraction. “How long are you staying with your sister?”
She sets her glass down with a soft thunk, dark eyes meeting yours across the table. “However long it takes for me to convince Carla to break up with that criminal boyfriend of hers.”
Your brows shoot up, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Oh?”
Joaquín sighs. “Mamá, he’s not a criminal.”
“Yes, he is,” she argues. “He has that awful little—uh, ¿cómo se dice perilla?”
“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.
“Oh!” You giggle, turning to face him. “Weren’t you trying to grow a goatee last month?”
Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”
“That’s right,” Sam laughs. “Looked like he glued pubes to his chin.”
You laugh harder, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like a maniac.
Joaquín scowls at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.
He whips around to you. “You said you didn’t mind it.”
You shrug. “I didn’t hate it, but it—”
“Tickled, I know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.
Your eyes go wide.
“Tickled?” Sam echoes, nearly choking on his water.
You drop your face into your hands. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Joaquín turns bright red. “Oh—no, I— that’s not—”
Before Joaquín can finish digging himself into a deeper grave, the waiter returns—wine bottle in hand.
“House red,” he says smoothly, presenting the bottle to you first. “Should I start you off?”
You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”
He uncorks it with practiced ease, and the whole table goes quiet. Even Sam stops smirking. The waiter pours a small amount into your glass and tilts it toward you with a gentle smile meant only for you.
“Tell me what you think.”
You pick it up and take a small sip. “It’s great.”
“Good,” he says—voice low and a little too warm. “I’ll pour for everyone else.”
He fills the other glasses—Lucía first, Sam second—and when he reaches Joaquín, he finally breaks eye contact with you. Just barely.
Joaquín meets his gaze, unwavering. His fingers tap once against the table. Sharp. Controlled.
The waiter doesn’t notice—or maybe he does, but his eyes slide right back to you anyway. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or should I give you a few more minutes?”
“Um.” You glance down at the menu, unopened on the table. “Maybe five more minutes.”
He nods once, still smiling. “Of course.”
Then he turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back.
Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”
“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.
You slide the menu off the table and finally flip it open. “He’s just doing his job."
Joaquín shifts beside you—his knee knocking yours, elbow brushing your arm—as he flips open his own menu. You glance at his other side, where he clearly has enough room to move over. But no. He’s going to stay right beside you, practically pressed against you, for some ridiculous reason.
Lucía and Sam start muttering about the menu, pointing at dishes and debating what to order. You can barely focus on any of it though—not with the heat still crawling under your skin thanks to Joaquín’s earlier slip-up. Your brain is fried, your whole body too warm, and by the time the waiter returns—not a second more than five minutes later—you haven’t even made it past the appetisers.
“Are we ready to order?” he asks, looking straight at you.
“Oh, um—” You glance at the menu, then back at him. “If you could just give me a couple more seconds, I—”
“Of course. I’ll start with the other side of the table.” He turns to Lucía. “What can I get you, ma’am?”
You drop your gaze again and start skimming the list. You’re not even that hungry—or at least, not for food—but this place has a great reputation, so you can’t not order one of the main dishes.
“You’ll like this one,” Joaquín says, pointing at a pasta dish. “Or that one.” He points to another.
You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you just saying that because you want to try those ones?”
His lips twitch. “Can’t both be true?”
You shake your head, eyes sliding back to the menu. “God, I know you too well, Torres.”
“And for you?” the waiter asks, turning to Joaquín with raised brows, no smile. “Sir?”
“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Joaquín says, handing back his menu without breaking eye contact.
The waiter hums, scribbles something down, then looks at you. He’s smiling again—too warm—and his gaze flicks up to your face just a beat too late as you lift your head.
“Which would you recommend between the pappardelle and the ravioli?” you ask.
“I always recommend the pappardelle,” he says, leaning in slightly. “It’s rich. Creamy. Really indulgent.”
Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.
“Great.” You close the menu and hand it to him. “I’ll get that.”
“Good choice.” His fingers brush yours—lingering just a second too long. “And if you need anything else, just let me know.”
You blink, the small frown between your brows slowly softening as realisation finally hits—he's flirting with you.
With one last smile, aimed only at you, he turns and walks away.
“I think—” you tilt your head, lowering your voice, “I think he was flirting with me.”
Sam snorts, and even Lucía gives a soft little laugh.
“No shit,” Joaquín mutters into his wine glass.
Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.
Was that... jealousy?
No. It couldn’t be. Joaquín doesn’t get jealous. Not over you. Not when this whole arrangement is supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. Just two roommates who occasionally—and far too easily—find themselves tangled in each other’s sheets.
But there’s a tightness in his jaw now, and a stubborn set to his shoulders like he’s holding something back. Like that little brush of the waiter’s fingers just punched straight through something he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge.
And maybe you’re just imagining it.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But the warmth in your chest says otherwise, and suddenly the room feels smaller. His arm is still against yours, warm and steady, like he’s holding you there—or staking a claim.
You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want the weight of it.
But you do.
You want him to be jealous.
“So,” Sam says, looking at you, “how’s work?”
You clear your throat, setting your wine down with an unsteady hand. “Good. Busy. But good.”
He nods, smirking. “Any interesting contracts lately?”
“None you’re cleared to know about.”
His brows shoot up. “Excuse me? I’m Captain America.”
You shrug, leaning back in the booth. “A spandex suit and an oversized frisbee doesn’t give you security clearance.”
Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”
You turn to him, one brow arched. “And what are you laughing about, fly boy? You think a mechanical bird costume is any better?”
“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “You actually managed to insult me twice.”
You laugh softly, fingers curling around your wine glass again. “I’m good, aren’t I?”
Sam rolls his eyes, Joaquín shakes his head, and Lucía just smiles into her sip of wine—like she knows something you don’t.
It doesn’t take long before Sam starts talking about their week in Nevada—joking about how much fun it was while Joaquín launches into a dramatic recount of why he’s never, ever going back. Lucía just laughs, muttering in Spanish about how much of a drama queen he can be.
You stay quiet, keeping your wine glass close to your chin and taking a sip every few seconds just to distract yourself from the warmth of sitting so close to him. From the way his thigh presses against yours, the way his arm keeps brushing yours every time he talks with his hands.
You’re so lost in the heat and the burn of wine at the back of your throat that you almost jump when the waiter steps up beside the table again.
“We’ve got the chicken marsala,” he says, placing a dish in front of Lucía. “And the lasagne.” He sets Sam’s plate down next.
Then he turns to your side of the booth.
He doesn’t announce Joaquín’s dish—he just sets it down without looking at him, then shifts the last plate into both hands and lowers it gently in front of you.
“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.
You sit up a little straighter, creating the smallest sliver of space between you and Joaquín. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”
The waiter leans in—subtle, but noticeable. “It tastes even better.”
You glance up at him. “I bet.”
There’s a beat of silence—a quiet pause where everything at the table seems to still, leaving you and the waiter holding eye contact longer than you meant to.
Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.
“Right.” The waiter straightens, clasping his hands behind his back—but his eyes don't leave yours. “If you need anything else, just wave.”
You tilt your head, lips curving into a small smirk. “Or just read my mind?”
His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”
When he finally walks away, the table doesn’t fall back into easy conversation—not right away. There’s a subtle shift in the air, the kind that buzzes under your skin before you even turn your head.
Sam is staring at you like you’ve just pulled off something mildly impressive and deeply inconvenient for him. Lucía hides another knowing smile behind her wine glass. And Joaquín… hasn’t moved.
You shift a little and reach for your fork. “So… this looks great, right?”
Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh. Sure does.”
You shoot him a look. “What?”
Lucía waves a hand. “Nada, querida. Absolutely nothing.”
But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.
Beside you, Joaquín finally shifts—only just—but it’s enough to draw your attention. His fingers tighten around his napkin, smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, and then he reaches for his fork.
“Eat,” he says softly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Before it gets cold.”
You watch him for a beat, unsure whether he’s annoyed, flustered, or trying very hard to pretend he’s neither. “Okay,” you murmur, twirling your pasta.
The moment you lean slightly forward, his thigh presses into yours again—firmer this time, unmistakable in its intent. And unlike earlier, you don’t move. You let him close that tiny distance between you—and his shoulders visibly relax.
But Sam notices, because of course he does, and he kicks Joaquín under the table.
Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”
Sam just raises his brows, the universal expression for please, I am begging you, get a grip.
Joaquín glares at him, then grabs his wine and takes a long, steady drink—long enough for you to feel the heat gathering in your cheeks again, pooling low in your stomach.
You look back at your plate, stirring the pasta you haven’t even tasted yet, trying—and failing—not to smile.
Because dinner suddenly feels less like dinner… and more like Joaquín’s own personal brand of torture.
The rest of the meal settles into something surprisingly easy. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and the earlier heat simmering beneath the surface evens out into something warm and comfortable—tensions forgotten.
Conversation drifts from Nevada to work gossip to an argument about the best empanada filling, and somewhere between the second glass of wine and Joaquín stealing a forkful of your pasta, the sharp edges of the night soften.
Lucía tells a story about Tía Carla’s neighbour who owns seventeen cats and one very unhappy parrot. Sam nearly spits his wine laughing. And Joaquín mutters something ridiculous about government oversight for bird safety, which makes you roll your eyes so hard your head tips back against the booth.
And all the while, his thigh stays pressed to yours—not tense anymore, not deliberate, just there. Warm. Familiar. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
By the time everyone’s plates are scraped clean and the last drops of wine have been poured, the earlier tension feels like a distant echo. You’re a little flushed, a little full, and dangerously close to believing this moment could last forever.
Then Lucía sets down her glass—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes slide to you with the kind of gentle curiosity that should terrify anyone in a ten-mile radius.
“So, querida…” she begins, voice warm and sweet and laced with landmines, “how long have you and my son been so… close?”
The air stills.
Your pulse skips.
Joaquín goes rigid beside you, wine glass halfway to his lips.
Sam inhales sharply through his nose like he knows exactly how fast this is about to spiral.
And before any of you can even attempt to recover—
“How’s everything going?”
The waiter appears beside the table with a bright smile and absolutely disastrous timing, dessert menus fanned in one hand like this is the best moment in the world to ask about tiramisu.
The waiter hands both Lucía and Sam a menu, then places one on the table in front of Joaquín before turning back to you with a soft smile.
“If you’re thinking about something sweet,” he says, handing you the menu slowly, “the torta al cioccolato is my favourite. Rich. Intense.” His eyes flick to your mouth—subtle, but unmistakable. “And very, very satisfying.”
You let out a soft hum as you take the menu. “Well… I do like to be satisfied.”
Joaquín goes completely still beside you.
The waiter smirks. “Then it’s perfect for you.”
You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “You sure?”
“Positive.” His voice drops. “And if you want, I can—”
“We’ll take the check,” Joaquín says—sharp, controlled, dangerous.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”
“Check,” Joaquín repeats through his teeth. “Now.”
Lucía sighs, dropping the menu on the table. “Ay, Dios.”
The waiter hesitates—only for a second—before retreating in stiff silence, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Sam groans, dragging a palm down his face like he’s aging in real time.
“Este niño…” Lucía mutters under her breath, shaking her head.
You’ve stopped breathing. Completely. All you can do is stare at Joaquín—at his rigid shoulders, clenched jaw, the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.
“Are you—”
“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing his wine and finishing what’s left in one gulp before he sets the glass down harder than he means to. “Totally fine.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s definitely the vibe you’re giving off.”
Joaquín shoots him a warning glare just as the waiter returns with the check, placing it delicately in the middle as if worried someone might bite him. Understandable.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he offers gently.
Joaquín snatches it before anyone else can blink. “We’re ready.”
Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”
“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.
Everyone shuffles out of the booth and gathers their things. Lucía slings her purse over her shoulder, a different waiter—female this time—brings you your coat, and Sam adjusts the waistband of his jeans like he’s eaten far more than he planned to.
You reach for your bag, but Joaquín grabs it before you can. “I’ve got it.”
Then he brushes past you and stalks toward the front of the restaurant, broad shoulders tense, every heavy step barely controlled. The host standing by the register sees him coming and visibly pales, his eyes growing wider the closer Joaquín gets.
Sam whistles under his breath. “Well. This was fun.”
Lucía pats your hand. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s just… feeling something.”
Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
She only smiles—too soft, too knowing. “You’ll see.”
The three of you weave through the tables until you meet Joaquín by the front door—receipt in hand, jaw still set, mouth a tense line.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
There’s no room for argument. No waiting for anyone to gather themselves. He shifts until he's walking behind you, his hand hovering at your lower back but never quite touching—like he wants to guide you out but refuses to let himself.
The walk out is quiet. Heavy. Charged. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, the kind that sinks beneath your skin and twists deep in your stomach. And the moment you step outside into the cool night air, he exhales—sharp, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.
After Sam bids everyone a good night—giving Lucía an extra warm hug and wishing her luck—the rest of you climb into an Uber. The ride home is almost completely silent, save for the soft crackle of the radio. Not even Lucía tries to make conversation. It feels like hours before the car finally pulls up in front of your apartment block, and when you climb out, Joaquín is already offering his mother an arm—just like he had outside the restaurant.
You make your way through the lobby in that same thick quiet, ride the elevator up without a single word, and by the time the doors slide open onto your floor, the silence has turned into something almost suffocating.
Lucía exhales loudly—dramatically. “Ay, por favor. I’m done. I need a shower and a prayer.” Her eyes flick to Joaquín, then to you. “And tomorrow? I expect better comportamiento from both of you.”
Once inside the apartment, Lucía beelines straight for the bathroom, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath as she shuts the door behind her.
The moment the lock clicks, silence settles over the living room. Heavy. Awkward. Ridiculous.
Joaquín stands in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but you. You stay by the door, arms crossed, not moving. Not blinking. Not giving him an inch.
You glare at him.
He pretends not to notice.
From the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on—pipes creaking, water running, Lucía humming softly to herself.
Neither of you move.
Neither of you speak.
You just... wait.
After what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Lucía finally steps out of the bathroom, calls her goodnights, and disappears into Joaquín’s room. You hear the light switch click, the faint rustle of sheets, and then—silence.
Real silence.
Nothing but the muted sounds of the city outside, and the two of you standing in the dimly lit apartment. Still. Tense. Frustrated.
You break the silence first.
“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”
He finally looks at you. “My problem?”
“Yes, your problem. Because you spent the entire dinner looking like you wanted to throw that waiter off a building.”
He steps forward, jaw tightening. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t flirt with someone who can’t read a room.”
“Oh, you mean you?”
“Me?” he snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. “Your mom doesn’t need to hear—”
“My mom just watched you shamelessly flirt with the waiter for two hours straight—I don’t think a little argument is going to shock her.”
“Shamelessly?” you echo, incredulous. “You really think I was the one in the wrong?”
He drags a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired, I just—”
“No,” you fire back. “You've been acting like an asshole all night and you made a whole scene over dessert—so yeah, we’re doing this.”
“I didn’t make a scene.”
“You asked for the check like you were about to arrest him.”
“He was flirting with you,” Joaquín snaps. “Right in front of me.”
You frown. “So?”
He looks away, jaw flexing hard.
You take a step forward. “Answer me, Joaquín. Why is that a problem?”
“Because,” he starts, “we were—I mean, wasn’t it obvious that we’re—”
He stops.
Your breath catches.
“He was being unprofessional,” he mutters, too fast. “That’s all.”
“Oh?” You fold your arms, trying to hide the heat starting to crawl up your neck. “So I’m supposed to believe this is about restaurant etiquette?”
“Yes!” he snaps. “Friends don’t—” He cuts himself off too late, frustration spilling over. “Friends don’t do shit like that.”
The words hit you like a slap—and you go still. Very still.
“Right.” You try to laugh, but it comes out thin, broken. “Okay. You want to talk about what friends don’t do?”
His throat works once—visible, panicked—but he stays silent.
You step in, heat rising, heart beating too hard.
“Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds,” you say, voice low and surprisingly steady. “They don’t shower together, or pin each other against walls, or—God, Joaquín—friends don’t fuck.”
His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.
“And friends definitely don’t get jealous,” you finish, barely above a whisper. “So what exactly are we doing?”
Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“I… I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “I thought we were just... friends. I thought we could do this without it getting too complicated but maybe—maybe we should just stop.”
You feel the words hit like a punch to the ribs.
“Stop?” Your voice is soft—dangerous. “That’s what you want?”
“That’s not—” He drags both hands through his curls, taking a step back, panic rising fast. “Look, I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”
Mistake.
The word hollows you out.
You let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “Wow. That’s great. Really, Torres—thank you so much for finally realising what a mistake I am.”
He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“Save it,” you mutter. “Just... don’t bother.”
Then you turn on your heel, fury and humiliation burning hot beneath your skin as you march down the hall.
Behind you, he calls your name—once, soft, almost pleading—but you don’t look back.
You stop at your bedroom doorway, the last of your patience snapping clean in half.
“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.
Then you slam your door.
Hard.
-
You wake late and lie in bed until you can’t ignore your bladder any longer. The light leaking through your curtains is soft and grey—because of course it’s raining today. The universe would never miss a chance for dramatic ambiance.
When you finally drag yourself out of bed, you avoid the mirror, already knowing you look like heartbreak leftovers thanks to all the crying last night. You shuffle into the bathroom, hearing the faint sound of voices from the kitchen and hating the way your stomach twists with nausea. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and emerge hoping—praying—Joaquín might have left for the day.
But he hasn’t.
Of course he hasn’t.
You step into the kitchen and find him standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messy, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands like it personally offended him. He stiffens when he hears your footsteps, but he doesn’t look up.
You clear your throat. “Morning.”
His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”
Lucía is sitting at the dining table watching with exasperation, her brows drawn, lips pressed, eyes flicking between the two of you—and the fourteen inches of stubborn silence between your bodies.
“Niños,” she mutters into her coffee mug. “You look like you’re in mourning."
You blink, but stay quiet. Joaquín just sips his coffee.
The silence stretches—too long, too heavy—until you finally sigh and step into the kitchen, moving around him like he’s a live wire. You keep your gaze fixed on the coffee machine, every nerve acutely aware of him standing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but stubbornly refusing to look at you—or move away.
Lucía watches you silently, stirring her spoon with the slow, patient judgement of a woman who has already written both of your wedding vows in her head.
“So,” she says, far too innocently. “Did everyone sleep well?”
“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.
“Fine,” you lie right after.
Lucía hums. “Interesting. Because the couch,” she glances at her son pointedly, “is not comfortable.”
Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”
Lucía eyes the both of you one more time, clearly unimpressed with the silence thick enough to spread on toast.
“Voy a cambiarme,” she announces, rising from the table. “Then we go out. I didn’t fly all this way to watch you two stare at walls.”
Joaquín nods without looking up. You nod without looking at him. It’s pathetic. She knows it. You all know it.
When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the apartment slips into that same strained quiet as last night—all sharp edges and swallowed words. You scull your coffee while Joaquín rinses his mug. Twice. Maybe three times. Then, without a word, you head back to your room and try not to cry while you pick something to wear for the day.
Eventually, you all reconvene in the living room. Joaquín grabs his jacket. You grab your keys. And you both follow Lucía out the door like lost ghosts.
She drags you both across D.C. like a tourist seeing the city for the first time—museums, a market stall, a coffee cart where she insists you try something sweet.
Joaquín softens around her. He links her arm in his, laughs when she teases him, smiles without thinking. It hurts in a stupid, petty way. And you can’t bring yourself to walk too close. To join them. You’re just near. Hovering. Following.
Joaquín steals glances when he thinks you’re not looking.
You look away every time, pretending to be fascinated by a city you’ve known for years.
Then there’s lunch—which is worse. Much worse.
Lucía, clearly at her limit with the brooding, decides to try—bless her meddling soul—to lighten the mood.
“So, querida… Juan was very handsome, no? The waiter last night?”
You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.
Lucía smiles like she’s one rude comment away from exploding into laughter.
“Yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at Joaquín. “I guess.”
Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.
And that’s the end of lunch. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.
By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re all exhausted. Not just from walking through the city, but from tiptoeing around whatever fragile thing is hanging precariously between you and Joaquín right now.
Lucía sighs as she kicks off her shoes, then presses two fingers to her temples. “I’m going to lie down,” she murmurs.
Joaquín gives her a soft smile as she starts down the hall toward his bedroom, and when the door clicks shut, silence spreads through the apartment again, heavy like smoke—slow and impossible to ignore. You move into the kitchen just to have somewhere to stand, fingers hovering at the pantry door even though you have no idea what you’re looking for.
Behind you, Joaquín clears his throat. “I can order dinner later,” he says. “If you’d like.”
A peace offering—fragile as glass.
You keep staring at the cereal box in front of you. “I’m not hungry.”
He shifts—the kind of shift you feel rather than see. “You barely ate at lunch.”
“And you barely spoke,” you say before you can stop yourself, finally turning to face him.
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have anything to say.”
“You could’ve tried,” you murmur. “You could have said something.”
He swallows once. Hard. “I’m trying now,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to eat dinner with me.”
It should feel good. It should feel like effort. Growth. Something inching toward reconciliation. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise to check if it still hurts.
You exhale hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t sit across from you and pretend we’re fine.”
He steps closer—barely—but it still feels like too much. “We’re not fine?”
Your eyes flick up, a short, hollow laugh slipping out. “You tell me, Joaquín.”
He doesn’t answer—he just looks at you, apology lingering at the edges of his gaze, swallowed by fear before it can reach his mouth.
“I’m gonna shower,” you say, already turning away. “I’ll... see you later.”
The bathroom door closes behind you without a slam—which is worse, somehow—a gentle surrender instead of rage. A reminder that you’re not angry, not really. You’re just... sad. Heartbroken. Finally at the crossroads you’ve been dreading, where you have to give up what you’ve been hopelessly holding on to.
Because it’s not real.
And you can’t keep pretending it is.
Under the hot spray of the shower, you press your forehead to the wall and let the water hide the tears you swore you were done with. When you emerge thirty minutes later, hair damp, wearing an old t-shirt you’re not even sure belongs to you, you can hear him in the kitchen with his mom—cutlery clinking over quiet conversation.
You hover in the hallway—not eavesdropping, just... overhearing.
Lucía’s voice is low, but not low enough.
“Joaquín,” she sighs gently, “¿Qué te pasa? You were cruel last night. And today? You barely spoke to her.”
“I wasn’t cruel,” he mutters. “I just—it's complicated and it got out of hand.”
Lucía sighs, exasperated. “You are so blind. How do you not see the way that girl looks at you? Desde el momento que abrió la puerta, I knew she was in love with my son.”
Your breath catches. Hard.
A chair shifts, scraping softly against the hardwood floor. You imagine him sitting back, rubbing the back of his neck—embarrassed, uncomfortable, running from the truth like it burns.
“Mamá…” Joaquín’s voice is soft, frustrated—afraid. “You’re reading too much into things. It’s not—we’re not—it’s just casual. Nothing more.”
Your heart lodges in your throat, fresh tears burning your eyes.
Lucía huffs. “Casual? Joaquín, cariño, nothing about the way you look at her is casual.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. You know too well that kind—the kind full of truths that could shatter either one of you if you dared touch them.
You don’t wait to hear more.
Before anyone notices you standing there, you slip silently back to your room and close the door without a sound. You climb into bed, pulling the blankets up like armour, and stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat stutters in your throat.
Because she sees it.
Everyone sees it.
Everyone but him.
You lie there for what feels like hours. Or maybe it’s twenty minutes. Time is strange when your chest feels too tight to hold air properly. You stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift, then you roll over, curl into yourself, unfold again. You toss. You turn. You try to sleep.
But you don’t.
Your eyes burn, and you swipe at them with the heel of your hand like it might stop the ache. But it doesn’t. So you grab your phone, dim the brightness, and scroll mindlessly—news, memes, someone’s engagement announcement you want to be happy for but mostly you just feel hollow. You watch three videos of raccoons washing grapes and read half an article about hair loss you don’t absorb.
Eventually, you hear Lucía’s voice—soft, muffled—saying goodnight to Joaquín. Then a door closes, footsteps fade, and the apartment settles into stillness. The kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts. The kind you wish you could outrun.
You switch off your phone and try again—eyes shut, breathing slow, blanket tucked up to your chin. It’s peaceful for maybe sixty seconds.
Then thunder starts to roll, low and lazy across the night sky. Not dramatic, not a storm—just enough to rattle the window and stir something restless under your ribs. The kind of sound that makes you think of company, warmth, someone’s chest to press your ear against.
You squeeze your eyes tighter. It shouldn’t be like this. You don’t get to think about him right now.
He’s not yours—no matter how much you wish he was.
Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.
You shift onto your back and stare at the ceiling again—heart beating too loud, the air too thick, the walls too close. Every second stretches until you’re sure you could hear a pin drop.
And then—a knock.
So soft, it’s barely a tap.
You stop breathing.
Another knock—gentle, hesitant—the kind that asks for permission instead of expecting it.
You know that knock. You’ve felt it against this door before—late nights, whispered laughter, the weight of a body sliding under the sheets beside yours like it was natural.
“Hey—uh, are you awake?”
Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.
“Um. Yeah.”
There’s a pause—like he’s gathering courage, or trying to decide if he should turn around.
“…Can I come in?”
For a moment, you consider saying no. You should say no. It’d be easier. Simpler. But your heart betrays you like it always does.
“…Yeah. It’s open.”
The door creaks, opening just enough for him to slip inside. The hallway light silhouettes him for a second—messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, uncertainty shaped into a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept either. He closes the door softly behind him, as if a noise too loud might break whatever fragile thing hangs between you.
You sit up, dragging your knees to your chest and hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “What’s up?”
He looks at you, then the blankets, then the window behind you.
“I… heard the thunder,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know if it bothered you.”
You huff a laugh. “It’s just weather, Torres. I’ll survive.”
He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But... still didn’t feel right leaving you alone.”
Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.
You tilt your head toward the foot of the bed. “You can—uh, you can sit. If you want.”
He hesitates—just a second—then sits at the edge of your bed, careful to keep space between you. Not touching, but close enough that the mattress dips toward him. Close enough that you feel him like static.
Silence settles. Not heavy like earlier—but fragile. Delicate. Like one wrong move could shatter everything.
Then Joaquín sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this,” he admits.
Your throat tightens. “Me too.”
He nods, staring at his hands like the words he needs might be written in the lines of his palms.
“I keep trying to figure out what to say,” he murmurs. “But every version sounds wrong.”
You shift, not away from him but toward, the blankets rustling as you pull your knees tighter and wrap your arms around them. “You could try just... talking to me,” you whisper.
He exhales—a long, slow release that softens something rigid in his posture—and when he looks up, his eyes catch yours with a kind of tired honesty that twists something deep in your ribs.
“But what if I say something that ruins everything?”
Your breath stutters, just a little.
He notices—of course he notices. He always does.
Then, slowly, he shifts closer, like gravity is doing the work instead of intention. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel it—not just physically, but in the air, in your bones, in the way your pulse picks up like it recognises something familiar approaching.
His knee brushes yours, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
Neither of you move.
The room is dim—only the glow of moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains, soft and silver, painting the curve of his cheekbone, the soft dent beneath his lower lip where he bit down earlier without thinking. His curls fall messy across his forehead, still a little damp from his own shower, and he’s close enough now that you could count the beauty marks scattered across his skin.
He clears his throat quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he regrets looking—but can’t help it. “Do you remember,” he asks, voice low and too warm, “the rules we made? Back when this was supposed to be simple?”
Your heart squeezes, painfully.
You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”
He leans in a fraction, voice soft with something vulnerable. “What were they again?”
You feel it then—the moment the floor drops out from beneath you, the air thickens, the entire world shrinking down to the fragile space between your bodies and that question sitting between you like a live wire.
He knows the answer.
You know he knows it.
But he wants you to say it.
He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.
And God, it’s intimate.
Intimate in a way sex with him never scared you, but this does.
He waits—eyes searching your face like whatever you say next could ruin him completely.
Your voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. “There were only two rules.”
Something shifts behind his eyes—recognition, regret, something carved deep and unspoken. He leans closer. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something he’s wanted for a long time but never trusted himself to touch.
Your breath catches when his thigh presses flush against your hip, when you can feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. You don’t move away. You couldn’t if you tried.
“What were they?” he asks—soft, coaxing, like he wants you to ruin him.
You swallow, hard, because saying them now feels like prying open your own ribcage and handing him your heart still beating.
“No kissing,” you say, your voice thin.
His gaze drops to your mouth—slow, reverent—as though he’s memorising the shape of the rule he’s been breaking in every touch, every look, every moment he let himself linger. He’s close enough that one tilt of your chin would erase the space between you, and he knows it. God, he knows it.
“And the second?” he breathes.
Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. You lick your lips without thinking—and his eyes follow the movement like he’s starving.
You breathe in once. Shaky. Unsteady. Then you give him the second rule like reopening a wound half-healed.
“No falling in love.”
The words hang between you. Heavy. Bare. Irreversible.
His breath stutters. You feel it—the tiny hitch in his chest, the way his fingers curl into the sheets like he needs to hold onto something before he reaches for you instead. He leans in a fraction closer, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly brush.
“Shit,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. “We really fucked that up, didn’t we?”
Your lips part—but nothing comes out. You’re not sure you could speak even if you tried.
He lifts a hand, slow as forgiveness, fingertips trailing along your jaw in a feather-light graze. A question. A plea. Permission hanging on a breath.
“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.
“And I’m about to break both of those rules.” His voice drops low, wrecked. “Unless you tell me not to.”
The whole world stops.
You don’t say no.
You don’t even think it.
You just breathe his name—soft, helpless, like a prayer you’re tired of choking down. “Joaquín.”
And that’s all it takes.
He moves first—barely—just a tilt of his head, the faintest brush of his lips to yours like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he touches you too quickly. It’s soft, tentative, a question disguised as a kiss. His mouth is warm, careful, almost reverent. Like he’s been waiting to do this for a lifetime and doesn’t want to rush the first second of it.
You inhale sharply—not out of surprise, but relief. Relief so deep it aches. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers curling in the sheets like you need something to anchor you before gravity takes over.
And it does.
Because when you don’t pull away—when you lean in the smallest amount, when your lips part on a quiet, helpless sound he swallows up—Joaquín breaks.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a desperation he’s fought too long to hide. The kiss deepens—slow at first, then hungry, then all-consuming—months of every touch but this, every touch but the one that mattered, breaking open between your mouths like those rules were never meant to exist.
He tastes like mint toothpaste and that fruity soda he had with dinner—familiar and new all at once, like something you’ve known forever and only just realised you were starving for. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, tugging you across the sheets and into him like he needs you closer—closer still—not just next to him, but against him.
You go willingly.
Your knees uncurl, your body shifting until you’re pressed chest to chest, breath mingling, heartbeats stumbling over one another. His curls brush your forehead, damp and soft, and he makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—just pure want.
When you kiss him deeper, his fingers tighten at your waist; when you slide your hand into his hair, he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. The world narrows to mouths and heat and the slow drag of his thumb at your jaw as if he can’t believe you’re real.
He pulls back just a fraction, lips hovering over yours, breath shaky and warm.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
And the way he says it—raw, unguarded, like confession and promise tangled together—makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse leap, makes any distance between you feel unbearable.
You kiss him again.
Harder this time.
His mouth meets yours, deeper this time—no hesitation, no gentleness left unspoken. The kiss steals whatever is left of your breath and gives back something hotter, hungrier. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he goes willingly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to be asked.
As you lay back, his weight settles fully between your thighs—careful, but urgent—and the low sound he makes against your lips borders on a plea. He’s everywhere at once—the warm press of his chest, the slow drag of his palm up the back of your thigh, the way his nose bumps yours when he tilts his head to kiss you harder.
He pulls back only far enough to speak, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispers—like he needs the words to anchor him. “Tell me you want me.”
Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, soft and trembling. “I want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”
Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.
He surges forward, kissing you like he’s making up for every night he talked himself out of this—slow, then deep, then deeper still, like he’s afraid to come up for air in case you disappear.
His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribs, reverent fingertips mapping skin he’s only ever touched in half-dark—never like this, never with your lips and your heart, never sacred.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—really look—eyes glassy like something inside him cracked open and light spilled out.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. “My mom’s still here, we can just—”
“Joaquín,” you breathe, “shut up and fuck me.”
He drops his head and groans against your throat, lips brushing your pulse, each word a confession pressed into skin. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs. “I want every last part of you—I need you."
He lifts the hem of your shirt higher—slow enough to back out if you push his hand away, slow enough for consent to breathe between you—but your hips arch instead, inviting, answering without words.
He exhales a shaky laugh—relief, disbelief, hunger—before pressing a kiss to your sternum through the thin cotton.
He helps you sit up just enough for the shirt to slip over your head, leaving you in nothing but underwear and the soft shadowed light. His gaze drags over you like a touch, slow and adoring, and his voice drops to something quiet and raw.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Then he leans down again, kissing the newly bared skin of your collarbone, then lower—trailing devotion like a rosary he’s repeating in reverse. His hands slide along your waist, your hips, your thighs, guiding you back into the pillows with something between gentleness and possession.
Your hands skim down his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up until you can’t pull it any higher. A soft whine slips from your throat—wordless, pleading. He breaks the kiss only long enough to laugh under his breath, a low sound that vibrates where your palms rest on his skin, and then the shirt is gone—pulled over his head and tossed somewhere you’ll never find again.
He barely has it off before you’re touching him again, palms exploring lower, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach. He exhales like the contact winded him, like your touch is enough to undo him. Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts—hooking, tugging—and his breath catches as he shifts to help, pushing them down over his hips with a quick, desperate motion, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.
Your panties are last. The last thing between you and everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t real. Wasn’t more.
His fingers hook in the waistband, dragging them slowly down your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship—slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough to make your whole body spark. You gasp when his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, a shock of heat rippling through you, arching you off the mattress without conscious thought—just hunger. Just him.
When they’re finally gone, he settles between your legs again—and you gasp, sharp and helpless. He’s already hard, heavy, sliding through your slick with a slow grind that feels like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Like he needs the friction. Like he needs it more than he’ll ever admit.
A strangled, unhinged sound tears out of you when the head catches just barely at your entrance—too close to ignore, not close enough to satisfy. Just torture.
He smiles against your mouth, voice a low murmur of affection and arrogance all tangled together. “Always ready for me, huh, cariño?”
Then he moves lower, his mouth closing over your nipple, and you break—back arching, thighs squeezing around his hips as his tongue flicks and his teeth graze just enough to make you burn. His hand cups your other breast, thumb circling lazily in a rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs.
“Joaquín—” your voice catches when his hips roll, dragging the thick length of him over your clit, slow and deliberate.
“Shh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin as he moves to your other nipple. “Gotta be quiet for me.”
You bite your bottom lip hard—copper blooming faint on your tongue—trying to hold in the sounds clawing up your throat as your body arches beneath his mouth. He’s warm above you, solid and shaking, teasing you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that skim right where you’re aching for him. Heat coils low and deep, tightening with every breath, every touch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers as his mouth trails up your collarbone, voice rough like gravel dragged over confession. “I was jealous last night.”
You let out a sound—half laugh, half desperate moan—nails digging into his back like you need something to hold onto before you break apart under him. Words scatter. Thinking is impossible.
“I wanted to kill that guy,” he breathes, lips brushing along your jaw, voice dark and sinful. “The way he looked at you…” His tone drops lower—a growl you feel in your spine. “You’re mine.”
The word detonates inside you. A shockwave of want. Of relief. Your back arches, thighs trembling as heat rushes through you like a fuse lit too fast. You swallow a moan, shoulders pressing into the mattress.
“P—please,” you pant. “Joaquín, just—”
He shifts, slow and deliberate, guiding himself against you again—teasing, sliding through your slick, dragging pleasure through you in agonising, perfect strokes that make your vision spark.
“Please what?” he breathes, noses brushing, lips hovering over yours. “Use your words, cariño.”
His forehead rests against yours, breaths shared, hot and uneven. You feel him steady himself before sliding along you again, slow strokes that have your whole body trembling, coating himself inch by inch in the proof of how badly you want him.
You whimper, hips tipping up instinctively in invitation, but he still doesn’t push in—not yet. Instead he catches your mouth again, kissing you slow and messy like he’s trying to burn the shape of your desperation into his mind, rocking his hips just enough to drag pleasure through you until your legs shake.
He groans against your lips, the sound deep and unguarded. “Dios, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”
“Joaquín—” your voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you.”
He lets out a sound—half laugh, half pained relief—and shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand sliding between your bodies like he needs to feel exactly how ready you are for him.
“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your eyes like he’s asking for more than just consent—like he’s asking for trust.
Your hands move to cradle his face, holding him there, close. “Joaquín, I’m going to scream if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds.”
His answering laugh is wrecked, soft with something dangerously close to love. “As you wish.”
Then he moves.
He drags himself down, nudging right where you’re open for him, and pushes in—slowly, unbearably slowly—like he wants to feel every inch of you take him. Your body stretches around him, tight and warm, and his breath breaks in a shuddered moan at the sensation.
“Fuck—” he manages, voice thick and ruined. “You feel… Dios… you always feel so good.”
Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer without thinking, legs tightening around his hips like instinct. He sinks deeper, then stills, foreheads pressed, chests heaving together as the moment settles—heavy, holy, too much and not enough all at once.
His eyes open just enough for you to see them—dark, vulnerable, worshipful. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he finally understands it.
Then his mouth is on yours again, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—and then he sinks into you fully, slow and steady, until he’s as deep as you can take him. The sound that escapes the both of you is almost identical—relief, disbelief, something too raw to name.
For one suspended, impossible second, you just hold each other there.
Breathing. Shaking. Whole.
Then—on a breath that brushes your lips—he starts to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Each roll of his hips measured, deliberate, like he’s speaking with the motion instead of words—I love you. I want you. I’m yours. You’re mine.
Your fingers find his back, shoulders, curls, anything you can hold onto as your body moves with his like instinct. Your lips graze his jaw, a half-moaned, half-cracked sound caught in your throat.
“Fuck, Joaquín—”
He answers with a groan that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He pulls back only to return with more intent, more need, and the drag of his body against yours sets your nerves alight. Heat coils low and tight in your belly, slow-building and unstoppable.
“Feels so good,” he whispers against your mouth, voice frayed. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not—God—I’m not gonna last long.”
Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, urging more, and he kisses you again—slow, hungry, desperate—even as his rhythm deepens, pace picking up like he can’t help it. Like you’re pulling it from him.
Each movement has you gasping softly into his mouth, the world narrowing to shared breath and heat and the way he holds you like you’re something holy.
“You’re mine,” he breathes between kisses, voice rough, almost breakable. “All mine. Gonna keep you right here—wrapped around me, making those pretty little sounds.”
You whimper, helpless to stop it. Every inch of him is inside you, moving through you, dragging against that tender spot that makes your vision blur. The tension between you—months of denial and longing—sparks like a live wire, lighting up every nerve in your body.
His thrusts grow harder, quicker—hungry now—each one hitting deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. Heat coils lower in your belly, winding tight, your whole body trembling under the rhythm of him. There’s nothing but the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the drag of his body inside yours. Too much. Not enough. Everything.
“That’s it, cariño,” he groans in your ear, voice rough. “You take me so fucking well.”
You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—something broken, needy—and your hand slides up your chest, fingers pinching lightly at your nipple. His rhythm stutters, a shaky moan falling out of him at the sight.
“Shh,” you breathe, or try to, voice wrecked. “Gotta be quiet—your mom—”
“Fuck,” he gasps, hips snapping harder. “How am I supposed to be quiet when you—God—when you feel like this?”
His hand tightens on your hip, the other pushing your leg open wider so he can drive deeper, like he wants to carve himself into every part of you. Each thrust is devastating—deep and relentless—pleasure building sharp and fast, curling tight behind your ribs.
Skin meets skin in soft, desperate rhythm—wet, breathless, messy—the only sound in the room besides your shared panting, his soft curses pressed against your mouth, your throat, your shoulder.
Your thighs shake where he holds you open, but you barely register anything beyond the pressure building, climbing too fast, too much. Your fingers tug at your breast again, desperate for more, your voice breaking against his shoulder.
“Joaquín—” it’s barely a word, more a prayer. “I’m close. I’m—fuck—I’m already so close.”
“I know, cariño,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”
His pace stutters, then finds a slow, devastating rhythm—deep enough to bruise, tender enough to worship. He kisses you again, sloppy and hungry, like letting go would kill him. You feel how close he is too, can hear it in his jagged breathing, feel it in the way his muscles tremble with restraint.
“Gonna come for me, baby?” he breathes against your mouth, voice raw enough to break you.
You whimper, nodding helplessly. Words are impossible now—your mind gone, your body nothing but nerve endings and him. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, grinding up into your clit with each downward roll of his hips. It’s maddening. Hot. Unforgiving. You’re shaking, eyes fluttering, breath catching in broken gasps.
Your fingers claw down his back, reaching for any grounding you can find, your other hand sliding down your stomach—needing more, needing something—
But he catches your wrist, pushes it away, replacing it with his own hand like he knows exactly what you’re asking for without you saying it. His thumb finds your clit and circles—slow at first, then with steady, knowing pressure that has your breath catching sharp in your throat.
Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”
Your thighs tremble around him, the pleasure twisting tight like a live wire pulled to snapping point. You choke out something broken—half a sob, half a plea. “‘S too soon—”
He lets out a wrecked, disbelieving laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “No it’s not. I’m right there with you. I—fuck—”
You crash your mouth to his, hips rising to meet the next thrust just as his thumb presses down perfectly—
And then everything goes white.
It hits you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through you so fiercely it borders on pain, heat flooding every nerve as your body locks tight around him. You cry out before you can stop yourself, legs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’ll fall through the mattress if you don’t hold on. You pulse around him—slow, deep, relentless—and it feels endless.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked as he buries his face in your neck. He keeps moving through it, slower now but deeper, like he wants to feel every second of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
You don’t even have time to breathe before he breaks too.
His hips falter, then stutter, and he lets out a sound you’re going to think about for the rest of your life—something raw and helpless and entirely yours. He thrusts once, hard and final, and you feel him come with a shudder that shakes through both of you, spilling into you as he gasps out a broken, devastating, “Fuck—I love you.”
You hold him as he falls apart, his body trembling against yours, his breath hot and uneven at your throat. The room is quiet except for your mixed breathing—heavy, tangled, like you’re still sharing lungs.
For a long moment, neither of you move. You just exist in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts trying to beat out of your chests and into each other’s.
Then he lifts his head and kisses you—slow and gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a promise and a confession all at once.
You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.
“I think,” you whisper, “we might have been a little loud.”
A huff of laughter escapes him—soft, breathless—like he’s too wrung out to laugh properly but too happy not to. He presses another slow kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t decide where to love you first now that he’s allowed to.
You both sink back into the pillows, limbs tangled without thinking. His weight settles partially on top of you, heavy in the nicest way—grounding, real. His hand slides under your ribcage and tugs you closer until your thigh is hooked over his hip, your chests pressed together, hearts finally beating in something that feels like harmony instead of war.
He noses your temple.
You smile.
And for a long moment, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Warm. Shared. Safe.
Your fingers trace lazy shapes up and down his spine, memorising him in quiet ways—the dip at his waist, the slope of his shoulder, the tremor still hiding in his breathing. You’re both wrecked. You’re both glowing. You’re both absolutely done for.
“Why now?” you murmur into the dark, voice soft and a little fragile. “We’ve been doing this for months. So… why now?”
He stills—not tense, just thoughtful—his thumb brushing the underside of your breast absentmindedly, like he’s touching you just to reassure himself you’re real.
“I’ve always loved you,” he says finally, voice quiet and unbearably honest. “I just… didn’t let myself say it. Or think it.”
You swallow, chest tightening.
He shifts, just enough to see your face in the low spill of moonlight, curls falling across his forehead. You run your thumb along the curve of his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut like the touch knocks something loose inside him.
“When we were in Nevada,” he admits, “I kept turning over in bed expecting to find you there. I kept looking for you in every stupid moment—at breakfast, in the hall, brushing my teeth—and you weren’t. And it felt like someone carved something out of me and forgot to put it back.”
Your breath catches. “It was only a week, Joaquín.”
“And then last night,” he continues, voice even softer, “watching that waiter look at you like he had a chance—like he could be the one to make you laugh, or hold you, or wake up next to you—I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t share you. Couldn’t pretend this was casual. Not when every part of me already feels like it belongs to you.”
Your eyes burn—warm, aching.
“Joaquín...” you whisper, not sure how to hold everything he’s giving you.
“I don’t know why it took me so long,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles at your hip. “But I know we broke that rule months ago. I just didn’t have the guts to say it.”
You run your hand through the curls at his nape, gentle and slow.
“And now?” you ask.
He kisses you—soft, sure—like the answer is in his breath and not his words.
“Now I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re stuck with me.”
You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, breathing him in—warm skin, mint, something that feels like home. His arm curls around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t plan to let go this time. Maybe ever.
This time, when you shut your eyes, sleep comes easy.
And when it finds you, it’s tangled together—his fingers laced with yours, your leg thrown over his, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder like a promise.
Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.
Lucía’s door, maybe.
Or fate laughing quietly to itself.
Either way, you fall asleep smiling.
-
Sunlight wakes you before anything else—soft, warm, slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes across the sheets. The first thing you register is heat against your back. A slow rise and fall. An arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours like he anchored himself there in his sleep and never let go.
You turn your head just enough to see him—hair a mess, mouth soft, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks young like this. Peaceful. Like last night cracked something open and let light in.
For a few minutes you don’t move.
You just watch him breathe.
Like a creep—maybe—but you don’t care.
Eventually, he stirs—nose brushing your shoulder, fingers flexing at your hip like his body notices you’re awake before his mind does.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You turn enough for your noses to brush, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret being shared instead of stolen. His hand slides up your spine, fingertips barely there, just tracing, memorising.
It would be easy to stay here forever.
Too easy.
But your stomach growls—loudly. You didn’t eat dinner last night.
Joaquín snorts, his laughter warm against your mouth. “Okay,” he says, “I think that was a cry for food.”
You shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Five more minutes.”
He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips like punctuation marks. “If we wait five minutes, we won’t leave this bed.”
And he’s right—because the way he’s looking at you makes it a dangerous truth. So you groan, flop onto your back, and let him sit up, curls messy and lit by the bright morning sun.
He offers his hand, and you take it.
You both slowly find your clothes from last night, thrown somewhere across the room. It isn’t fast, because every time you get close, you pull each other in for another kiss. Just one more. Which is a lie every time, because after ten minutes of getting dressed, you’re both still only halfway there—sprawled across the bed again, hands roaming, smiles pressed against each other.
By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re both half-dazed, hair scrambled, wearing the kind of glow you couldn’t hide if you tried.
Joaquín moves around the kitchen with that easy familiarity he always has—barefoot, shirtless, sunlight catching the slope of his shoulders as he rummages through the pantry. You hop up onto the counter just to watch him move, legs swinging, hands gripping the counter edge. It’s embarrassingly domestic how natural it all feels.
When he reaches the coffee machine, you feel your skin warm with recognition. His hand brushes your knee on the way, thumb lingering just a second too long. And the moment the button clicks on and the machine hums to life, you wrap a hand around his bicep and tug him closer.
He lets out a surprised laugh but goes willingly—slotting between your legs like he belongs there, looking up at you with those stupidly soft brown eyes that have completely ruined you.
“Can I help you?” he asks, smile lazy and lovesick.
You hum, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw. “I don’t know. Got anything to offer?”
“For you?” His fingers tighten at your hips, warm and sure. “Anything. Everything. Just ask.”
You try to roll your eyes, but it dies halfway with a lovesick grin to match his. “God, you’re cheesy.”
“But you love me.”
You inhale, leaning in until your noses brush. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve got me there.”
And then you kiss him again.
Slow at first—soft and morning-warm—but it deepens quickly, heat sparking under your skin like flint to tinder. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he goes pliant in your hands, mouth parting for you like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact contact.
The kiss turns lingering. Then hungry. Then something sweeter—fed by new honesty instead of tension.
His mouth trails to your jaw, down your throat, kisses slow and sweet and sinful, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses closer, hips nudging against the counter between your thighs. You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound eagerly, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes dark with softness and hunger all at once.
And that’s when—
“Ahem.”
You jolt so hard you nearly knee Joaquín in the stomach.
Lucía is standing at the edge of the kitchen—still in her slippers and robe, smirking like God personally handed her front-row tickets.
“Well,” she says, “glad you two have finally learned how to communicate.”
Joaquín’s cheeks go pink, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“Buenos días, Mamá,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly wrecked.
“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smirk widening as she steps around you both toward the coffee machine.
Joaquín peels himself away from you, strategically keeping his back to his mother as he rounds the breakfast bar to stand on the other side in the world’s most obvious attempt at dignity. His ears are red. His neck is red. He is, in fact, a tomato with abs.
You slide off the counter and drift to his side, like gravity is a concept invented just for the two of you.
“Sleep well, Lucía?” you ask, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
She hums as she pours her coffee. “Very well.”
Then she pauses, takes a slow sip, and turns to face you both—with a smile so smug it should be federally regulated.
“Although,” she says lightly, “I think this apartment is embrujada.”
Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”
She nods, far too innocent. “Sí. I heard… noises… in the middle of the night.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks so violently you’re surprised the lights don’t flicker.
“Oh?” Joaquín replies, edging behind you like the coward he is. “What kind of noises?”
Lucía takes another sip—slow, dramatic, weaponised. Her eyes never leave her son.
“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”
Lucía sets her mug down, eyes twinkling with wicked amusement. You already know she’s about to deliver something lethal—and she does.
“Bueno,” she says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “if you two are finished making the walls shake, maybe we can celebrate properly. A nice dinner? Or…” she pauses just long enough to kill you both, “the engagement party later?”
You choke on air. Joaquín chokes harder, spluttering like someone handed him a live grenade instead of a mug.
“Mamá,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “We literally just—”
She waves a hand, dismissing his suffering. “Ay, por favor. Why so embarrassed? You’re grown adults. You don’t think I know how these things work?”
She pauses—taking another slow, theatrical sip of coffee.
“I know where babies come from, hijo.”
You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.
Heat floods your cheeks and you step back, searching desperately for dignity and finding absolutely none. “I’m—uh—going to… get dressed before I die of embarrassment,” you say, words tripping over each other as you retreat like you’re escaping a burning building.
You make it halfway down the hall when arms wrap around your waist from behind—warm, strong, sure—and a laugh ghosts against your neck.
“You’re really just going to leave me to suffer alone out there?” Joaquín murmurs, voice low, teasing, already smiling.
You try for stern and fail spectacularly. “Yes. Obviously. That's your mother.”
He spins you gently—not dramatic, just enough that your toes leave the floor and you let out a startled squeal you’ll deny later. You land against his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, and he looks at you like last night wasn’t a mistake or a question—like it was a beginning.
His forehead dips to yours, voices low enough that Lucía can’t hear.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you, worshipping you in the simplest way. “Not a chance.”
Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—
“¡Cierren la puerta si van a hacer más ruido!”
(Close the door if you're going to make more noise!)
You bury your face in Joaquín’s shoulder as he walks you backward toward your room, and he’s shaking with silent laughter, kiss landing on your cheek like it belongs there.
The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.
And when he nudges your door open with his foot, you know exactly how your day is going to end—happy, stupidly in love, tangled up in him with no intention of ever letting go.
summary: When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.
warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.
word count: 43.2k
a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.
Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.
Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.
“Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.
“Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.
Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.
“Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.
“I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.
“Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.
“Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.
“I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”
“Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.
“I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.
Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.
Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.
“A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”
“You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.
“I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?
“The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.
“I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.
“You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”
“I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.
“I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.
When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.
The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.
Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.
“I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”
Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.
“The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”
As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.
“Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.
“Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”
“What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.
“We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”
It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.
“Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.
“I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.
“Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.
“I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.
“Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”
You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.
Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.
“It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.
“Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.
“Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.
“Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.
“Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.
“It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?
Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?
He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.
In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.
“What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.
“You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”
“Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.
“At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.
“What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.
“You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.
“You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.
“I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.
“And I should? What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.
“It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.
“It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.
“It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”
“It’s not Sharon.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”
His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.
“You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.
“You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.
“What?”
“I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.
“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.
“You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.
“I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”
You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.
“Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?
“What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.
“Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.
“What the hell does—”
“He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”
“Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.
The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.
“You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.
“Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”
“You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.
“So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.
“My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.
You can’t stand him.
Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.
“I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.
“If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.
“I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”
“There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”
“That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”
“I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.
Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?
Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.
He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.
He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.
He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.
Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.
He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.
“Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.
You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.
You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.
Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.
He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.
When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?
Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.
“You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”
“Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.
You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.
“Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.
“Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.
“Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.
“Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.
Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.
“Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.
“I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.
“I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”
“I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.
“I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.
“Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.
He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.
“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.
You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?
As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.
The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.
“You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.
“You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”
“I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.
“A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”
“Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.
“Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.
“Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”
As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.
“I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.
“Why are you looking at me when you say that?”
“You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.
“You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.
“You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.
“Aren’t we all?”
Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.
As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.
“I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.
“Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.
Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.
“They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.
“Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.
You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.
The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.
“I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.
Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.
Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.
Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.
Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.
“Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.
“What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”
“Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.
Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.
But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.
“Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.
With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?
“Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.
“You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.
“You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.
Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.
With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.
Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?
As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.
You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.
“I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”
“Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.
“No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.
“You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.
“You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.
“I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.
“You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”
Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.
“Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”
With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.
Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.
You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?
The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.
It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?
Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.
She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.
The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.
“We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”
“Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.
“Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.
“Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.
Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…
“I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.
“You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”
As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.
You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.
Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.
“You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.
“But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.
“Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.
“They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.
“Say it isn’t enough.”
“Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.
You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.
Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in. You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.
He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.
Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.
“Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.
“Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.
“Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.
“There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.
“You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.
“My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.
“Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.” You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.
“Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.
“But it looks so damn good on you.” He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.
“Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”
“I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”
“You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”
With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?
You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.
Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.
One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.
When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.
Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.
You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.
Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?
You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.
When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.
If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.
Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.
The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.
Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.
You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.
Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.
“We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”
“It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”
“As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.
“Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”
“They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.
It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?
“Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.
“Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”
“Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.
“Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.
“It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.
“I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.
His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.
“Three, two, one…”
With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.
Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.
She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.
“Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.
The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.
“Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.
“Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”
“Not at all.” You respond honestly.
Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.
The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.
“Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.
“What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.
“I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.
“Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.
“Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.
Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.
You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.
You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.
“Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.
“What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?
“I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”
“Can’t be?”
“I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.
“I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.
“Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.
“You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.
“He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.
“He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.
“You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”
“I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.
“I know.”
“Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.
“I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”
“Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.
“Like what?”
“You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.
“The lines have been blurred for a long time.”
“Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.
“I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.
“That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.
“How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.
“Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”
“You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.
“The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?
Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.
Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.
It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.
“Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.
“It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.
Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.
“Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.
“If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.
“I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.
“Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”
As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.
When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.
“Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.
“If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.
“I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.
“You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.
“Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.
“That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.
Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.
“Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.
Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.
You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.
You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow. Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…
A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.
You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.
“I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.
“Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.
“I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”
“Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.
“How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.
“How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”
“Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”
“Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.
“I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.
“I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”
“You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”
“I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”
“You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.
“Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”
You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.
“It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”
“Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.
“You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.
“Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.
“Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”
“Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”
“Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”
“No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.
“You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”
“I do not.”
“That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”
Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.
There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.
As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.
You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.
Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.
Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.
“You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.
“You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.
“Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.
“I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.
Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.
“Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt. “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.
Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.
“What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.
“He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”
You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.
“It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.
“You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.
“If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.
“Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.
“He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.” A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.
“Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.
You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.
“Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.
“Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.
“How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.
“I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.
“You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.
“Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.
“I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.
“How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.
“Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.
“Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.
“Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.
“I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.
“Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.
“Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”
“Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.
“Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”
Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.
You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.
Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.
“You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.
“I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.
“Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”
“Peggy—”
“Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.
“I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.
“I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”
“My problem?”
“You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”
“You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.
“It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”
Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.
“They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.
“How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.
“It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.
He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.
“Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure. The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.
“Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.
“Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”
“Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.
“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.
“You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.
“I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”
“And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”
“With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.
“Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.
Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.
It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?
Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?
The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.
“She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”
“You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”
“I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.
“You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.
“It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.
“If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”
“Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.
“I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.
“How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.
“Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.
“Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.
No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.
“There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.
“Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?
“Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.
“You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.
“You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.
Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.
You taste like honey.
You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.
“What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.
“Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”
“That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”
Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?
“Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.
“He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.
“Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”
“It’s different for me.”
“How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.
“It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.
“You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”
Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.
When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.
“The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.
“I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.
“Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.
“Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”
“How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.
“Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.
“It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”
“That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.
“He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, he did."
“No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”
“Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.
“That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.
“I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”
You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.
Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.
“He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”
It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.
“That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.
“You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.
“I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.
“Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”
“I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.
“What?”
“I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.
“No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.
You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.
“Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.
“What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.
“Sit.”
The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.
“You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.
“Why not?”
“Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"
“But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.
“Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.
“Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.
“I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”
Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.
“You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.
“Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.
“Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?
Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.
“I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.
You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.
“He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.
“Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.
You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.
Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.
“Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.
“What?”
“Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”
Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.
“Bucky—”
“You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.
“Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.
“If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”
“Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.
“This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.
“Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.
“Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.
“It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”
“I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.
“I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.
“You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.
“That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”
Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.
“You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.
“Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.
“I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”
Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.
“I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.
“You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.
“I can’t, but still…”
“You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.
The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”
“Bucky, I love you.”
He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.
His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.
“If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.
“You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.
“Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”
“I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.
“That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.
“Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”
“I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.
“I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.
“How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.
“Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”
As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.
Summary: Some bitch at work flirts with your husband by baking for him. Frank makes sure it never happens again. You make sure Frank never forgets who’s the sweetest. And the tightest.
Warnings: jealousy, slight angst, hurt/comfort, explicit smut, jealous/possessive sex, biting/hickies, matched freak sex, table sex, standing sex, breeding kink, size diff, cock stomach bulge, dirty talk, lowkey funny ending bc you gotta be silly with the love of ur life, pwp. 18+ only. MDNI. Reader is always a consenting adult. smut written while listening to this banger
w/c: 7k
MASTERLIST
requested by a moot via DMs that wishes to remain anon 🤎
One of your favorite things to do is to surprise Frank on the job. Hell, it’s one of his, too, even if he’s got to fend off the drooling, indecent rats he works with.
But today?
Today you get a surprise.
And you’re not very fond of it.
Through the white haze of the sun, you walk from the gravel construction lot and to the prefabricated office building. Nothing more than a box of four walls and two screen windows by the door. Inside, just as bare. A water jug, a portable AC unit for the manager (perks of being up on the ladder, eh?) and a desk that’s usually empty. But, when you can’t get ahold of Frank—like today—this is where you check on the off chance the site manager’s around and he’ll retrieve your husband.
The heat brings flush to your cheeks, neck. The wind over the metal skeleton landscape slings bits of dirt into the grease-sponged brown paper bag you swing at your side. It’s not much, but it’s all you could manage over your thirty minute break at work. Frank’s favorite sandwich from the deli downtown.
Nearing the door, though… voices carry from the prefab. You scuff to a stop, ear tilting to listen.
“Jeez, Pete, it’s not a cookie eating contest,” says a feminine voice; one of velvet and easy confidence and breathy laugh. “I made them for you, big guy.”
Pete. Surely there are other Petes. Peters. Whatever. Surely it’s not your Frank someone else is baking cookies for.
“Mm,” but it’s your husband that hums, his mouth obviously stuffed. “Shit’s good. Real good. Ain’t had some ‘a these in a while.”
Okay. So. It is your husband. And she called him big guy. What the fuck? No other woman needs to be calling your husband big guy.
“Well, you said they’re your favorite, and they’re easy enough to make, so… I figured, why not?” A little pause, like maybe she’s watching Frank, relishing in his satisfaction. “…You like them?” A lift of her tone, seeking approval… seeking your husband’s approval.
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, real good. Did a nice job on ‘em.”
“Thaaanks!” she chimes, and you’re almost sick imaging what kind of smile she has plastered to her face right now.
Whoever the fuck this is. Last you checked, women didn’t work here. So— who the hell is she? Frank’s done nothing wrong. It’s not him you’re worried about. But you’re not blind, not stupid.
“So you said it’s been awhile, Pete. Since you’ve had any of these. I’m only here part-time. I bake a lot in my free time. Why don’t I bring you in some stuff when I can? You can be my taste tester. I get to bake, you get to go less than a while without cookies and such. How’s that sound?”
Face cinching with a scowl, you brace for the answer.
“Sounds like ‘m gonna get fat,” Frank huffs. “Wife ain’t gonna like that.”
“I have a feeling it’d just turn to more muscle on you, big guy,” carried by an undercutting laugh at your mention. “Well, then your wife should be the one feeding you, not me—”
Before the conversation skins you alive, your shoes stab up the two grated stairs and yank open the flimsy prefab door.
In a whirl of wind, dust, and threat, you appear with the shriek of hinges.
Old tactical memory—to react to surprise—Frank whirls to face the door, fists around a cookie and a plastic cup of water.
And there, at the fucking desk— her. Whoever the fuck she thinks she is, making your husband cookies. “Uhm, ma’am—?” Comes a polite scoff instead of who the fuck are you?, but Frank’s the one to answer with a low, praising whistle.
“Hey, there she is,” he says, a smirk pulling sideways to show his teeth. “There’s m’girl. Look at ‘er, huh?“ Frank discards the water and cookie on the desk like yesterday’s news: old, over it. He makes room for you, on you as you make the step in, his hand finding yours to help you up. Wired for you. “Showin’ up here, wearin’ m’favorite shirt like that, Jesus— how I get so lucky, huh?“
“So lucky,” you reiterate with your chin tipped up to him, a burning attention fixed entirely on Frank hot enough it singes the air. The mildew of the AC recycles the sweetness of the cookies; the stench of undermining. “Luckier now, since I’m feeding you, hmm?” And you hold you the brown baggie with the stiff raise of your brow, a smile too rigid. “I’d hate if you had to get full on junk food.”
Bag in his periphery, his eyes leaving yours for half a second to confirm it’s a sandwich from that deli down on Main, Frank’s expression sparks. “I got th’ best wife, huh? Tell these guys all th’ damn time. Best damn woman I ever met. Still dunno what she’s doin’ with an asshole like me, ‘less this’s m’last meal.”
“Well, it’d be a way to go,” you say, too tight. “Dessert before real food.”
Frank falters, but before he can question the tension in your cheeks, the subtle lashings of your tongue, she interrupts. A forced clearing of her throat, the chair rolling in place for attention.
The gentleman he is, Frank’s attention does divide. Two more seconds, though, his eyes linger on you. Trying to dissect the ice in your stare, the scrunch of your face.
“Hey, uh…” Frank opens up, but keeps you tucked snug into his side. “Marissa, this’s m’wife. Sweetheart, this’s Marissa. Temp site clerk.” Frank gestures an introduction.
Wrecking ball sounds more fitting, you think.
The worst part is she’s… pretty. Ridiculously pretty. Your stomach flops over, inverts like it might dispel your breakfast. A seemingly flawless complexion only few people are blessed with. A long sheet of silk for hair, hiked into a neat, slick ponytail so it swishes an intoxicating pendulum when she moves her head. You wedge deeper into Frank’s side, standing tall. Unmovable from what’s yours.
“…Hi.” She forces a smile.
“Hi.” You don’t.
And nothing else follows. Nothing but the nasty humidity of possession; a tangible ick of a woman’s place being challenged. Not threatened. Challenged.
Sensing the tension (repulsion) in the air from either side, Frank shifts. Holds you closer, bounces you a bit.
“Say, uh… Marissa made these cookies here,” Frank says, nodding at the plate on the desk. “Ain’t bad. Try one, yeah? You’re the cookie expert. See what you think, huh?”
You glance at the cookies. At Marissa. A flick of cold indifference in your eyes. Then back up to Frank. God, he’s so handsome. Handsome and oblivious. Quiet delight in his dark eyes, in the crinkles in the corners of them that only appear at the sight of you. Damn him. So you shrug. Take a step to grab one without leaving Frank’s side, lips in a cutting smile.
Marissa rolls her eyes elsewhere.
You don’t. You stare. Unrelenting. A threat that doesn’t require speech. And you take a bite.
“Mm,” you hum, moving the cookie you don’t chew into your cheek. “Tastes like the prepackaged cookies from Walmart. Using real ingredients’ll take that right out.”
You’d like to say it didn’t bother you that much. Earlier. Marissa. You’d really like to. But your heart rate hasn’t gone down since noon, your responses come out all bark waiting to bite, and Frank knows to tread lightly—just doesn’t know why.
You sit posted up on one side of the couch, back on the armrest. Chin high, face of stone angled away, bundled into yourself under a blanket, eyes glued to the television without giving a rat’s ass what’s on. The only place you allow Frank to touch are your feet, and he dragged those over into his lap himself minutes ago.
Frank… Oh, your husband reads you like a book. One in simple English, magnified text, because your attitude speaks volumes without a peep. Big paws knead your feet in his lap. Thumbs drive into the sole of your foot as he blinks glances from the tv, to you. Tv, you. He doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for the right time, questions on his tongue, suspicions stuck behind his teeth.
“Would you like some real dessert?” You finally offer, the question baited with petty contempt. Not towards Frank.
It gets his full attention. Hands work your feet, but his head turns to fully look at you. All icy reluctance and clipped words coming full circle. Confirming the suspicion. “…S’a weeknight.”
“And?”
“You don’t bake on weeknights.”
“Want me to start?”
“Sweetheart— why’d I want that, huh? Think ‘m some kinda asshole? ’Spect you t’come home after workin’ all day t’make me dessert?” Frank huffs at the thought, faint shake of his head.
“Yeah, but would you like that? Someone that does come home after work to whip you up some store-bought crap so you’re not going unfed?”
Now Frank stops. His hands go motionless. Eyes slit. “You mad over that? Her makin’ cookies?”
“It’s not making cookies. She’s flirting, Frank.”
Frank’s in the middle of scoffing a laugh, but the look you give shuts him the fuck up. His brows pitch up, face screwed. “…That’s flirtin’?”
“Frank.” You face palm. “Good god, yes. That’s the equivalent of pulling your pants down and sucking you on the spot.”
“S’a, huh, lil’ extreme, sweetheart—”
“Frank. It is.”
“…So, uh…” The memories rewind, his eyes searching ahead. “All those times before we…” vague hand gestures to signal fucking, getting together, admitting feelings, whatever, “…you baked f’me… you was flirtin’? ……….with me?”
Deadpan disbelief, you blink at him. “…Are you seriously just now realizing that?” Yes. The silence says yes. “…God, it’s a good thing you’re not single.”
“Alright.” Frank nods slow understanding. “So you’re mad ‘bout that. You mad with me?”
“Not mad…” you mumble, brows pinched as you find the right words. “Okay. Maybe mad, yeah. Mad somewhere along the way you said I wasn’t baking them, that she found out they’re your favorite so she felt the need to take it upon herself to satisfy you.”
“Satisfy—? Christ. Ain’t like I asked f’any ‘a that—”
“I’m not saying you did. That’s not the point. The point is she thought of you enough to remember that. Go to the store. Spend money on them. Buy them for you. Bake them for you. Bring them in for you. You do realize that’s some pretty intentional flirting, right?” You ask, both brows hiked up to drill the essence of your case across. “It’s not a harmless joke or even a comment about your rugged good looks. She put time into this. Planned it.”
In slow motion, it unfolds. His brows smooth out. His jaw unlocks. His mouth opens, but it’s for a small inhale to help finalize the message between the lines.
“I don’t like someone else feeding my husband like he’s some neglected stray that needs attention,” you say as he processes. “No one else should ever think they get that right.” You scoff, take your feet back to burrow into yourself. Blanket at your chin, glaring at the D-Day documentary instead of him. “And I hate she did. And I hate that you enjoyed it. And that you didn’t realize they’re the bullshit refrigerator cookies that taste like stale dog ass.”
Normally he would’ve chuckled at the language. Right now he just nods. Looks down. Gnaws his bottom lip. Hands empty on his thighs, he offers them up in a yeah, you’re right. He says it, too. “Yeah, sweetheart,” hoarse with realization. “Yeah. You’re right. No one’s got that right but you, hm? Ain’t no one compares t’you, know that? Yeah. You’re my goddamn everythin’. Give me everythin’ thought I’d never have. Shit I don’t deserve.”
Jealousy’s an ugly monster. And when she leaves? She leaves a sickening guilt behind, residue jellied to your insides. Face falling to that guilt, frowning, you look down at the blanket; a safe space from the pound-puppy look you know Frank has. “Don’t say that…” you mumble, the fire diminished. Smoke in its wake. “You deserve every good thing. And I try to give you all of them. All that I can, anyway. Sometimes I think I get so caught up in the day-to-day I forget. Forget how easy it is to whip up some brownies or cookies or whatever just to say I love you. Because it’s the small things like that, that speak the loudest… right? And I do, god, I do… I love you so much, Frankie. It made me sick seeing someone else so… so… lit up by you.”
“Baby… C’mere. C’mon. Come t’Frankie, yeah?” Both legs spread wide, he pats his thighs. Wants you close. Wants to hold you, feel you, love you.
You fervidly shake your head. How’re you supposed to melt into him when you’ve been a bitch the entire night? When he’s so fucking sweet even after you’ve been so fucking sour?
“Look at me, sweetheart.”
Nuh-uh nuh-uh nuh-uh.
“No?” he asks. “Alright. Fine.”
“Eee! Frank!” Jostling as he yanks you across the couch, a gentle manhandle as he tucks you in a cradle for a comforting timeout.
Frank paws the blanket around your arms, under your chin. Tucks you comfy in the curve of his arm, your body draped over his lap. So sweet, so gentle you do nothing but lock your mouth shut. Quieted by his determination for resolution, your glare softening with reluctance.
“You’re it f’me, sweetheart,” he says, finger scratching under your chin. “No competition. You. M’ number one. You got me, I got you, yeah? How it’s always been. Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout nothin’. No one, hm?”
Cheeks hot from Marissa irk, you huff, eyes slanted away. He’s right. You know he’s right. It doesn’t make it any easier to witness someone actively providing a service for your husband. “It’s not you I worry about. I trust you. I don’t trust her.”
“Said you trust me?” Frank settles back between the cushions, your rigid weight defrosting over his chest and stomach. He waits for you to nod. “Then you gotta trust I’ll handle it, sweetheart. Trust your man’ll handle it?”
You don’t know what handling it looks like. He won’t punch an innocent (unfortunately it’s not criminal to flirt) desk clerk. So what will he do? God it pisses you off. Being in this situation. Some dumb bitch thinks it’s okay to spend money on your husband, bake for him, even dare to soil your name like you don’t cherish him enough because you haven’t made cookies in a while.
“Hey.” Frank bounces an arm, getting you from your thoughts. “Asked you a question. Trust me t’handle it?”
“Yeah,” you mutter, a fierce thought spearing through your mind. If you can’t get rid of Marissa… you’ll make sure she’s never even a thought. “I know you’ll handle it.”
You’ll believe it when you see it.
In the meantime?
You have your own plan.
Frank’s intentionally loud when he gets home. Finagles the key in the lock so the ribs scratch and click. Rattles the doorknob unnecessarily before actually turning it. Scuffs and stamps his boots, the sound streaking through the house. Works better than any doorbell ‘cause it’s personal.
When you hear him?
Shit.
Always come runnin’.
Frank loves the way you slide into the hall, feet goin’ too damn fast for polished wood, body fishtailin’ as you bulldoze straight into him after a day apart.
Today, though…
Today Frank comes in. Made all his usual noise. Didn’t work. Nothin’. No you. So he made more noise. Sniffed. Huffed. Cursed. Even coughed. Hacked up half a goddamn lung, still— nothin’.
Shuffled to a stop in the entryway, Frank pauses. Listens. Drone of the kitchen fan. Squeak of the dish washer. The smell, though… His nose takes to the air, nostrils flexing in their search. Cocoa… sugar… Warm oven air fannin’ out from the kitchen.
Baked.
You baked.
Christ. That can’t mean anythin’ good. Not after yesterday.
“Sweetheart?” he calls.
Two… three… four…
The seconds tick up in time with his worry.
Seven… eight… nine…
“Frankie?” Ultra sweet, drifting down the hall from the kitchen.
Longest ten seconds ‘a his goddamn life.
His shoulders deflate, a sigh of relief puffing his cheeks.
“You alright in here, sweetheart?” He asks while in motion; an intuitive navigation to you. “Didn’t hear me come in, huh?”
Jesus. He ain’t in the dog house. He’s in the fuckin’ pound, huh?
“Dessert,” Frank repeats, a wary amble through the hall, light at the end showin’ him an empty stove. “‘Fore dinner?”
“Mmmhmmm… Figured you could use a real treat. You want a treat? Would you like a treat?”
Rounding the corner with the roll of his eyes, “Baby, I ain’t a fuckin’ dog—”
You prove him wrong.
The sight? Stuns him. Stops him dead in his tracks, mouth open ‘cause he’s either speechless or might start barkin’ like a fuckin’ dog. Whatever comes first. Drools beats both, saliva submerging his teeth.
You. On the table. Dolled up in black lingerie. Black lace. Silky legs dangling. Crossed at the knee. A hand propping you up, nails ticking a leisurely click.
Beside you. Cupcakes. A full platter. Pink cups. Perfect top over the crinkled paper. Dark chocolate cake. Icing swirled high and tight. A dark, fat cherry the color of sin in a pillow at the peak.
Your eyes pin Frank’s, relishing in the way he looks back over his shoulder like he walked into a dream instead of his own home.
“Welcome home, honey,” you say with a hum, casual as you pluck a cherry from the icing by the stem. You twirl it in your finger and thumb, head tilting so your hair falls. “Are you… hungry?”
“Jesus,” his throat slinks, eyes roving you. “Fuckin’ starved.” Downright hypnotized when you inhale the cherry between your puckered lips, trapping it between your teeth for a slow… devastating… tempting… delicious… crush.
A spurt of red juice trickles down your chin as you chew. “Oops,” as if it’s not your plan when the sticky sweetness slides down your neck. “You wanna… get this for me, baby?” you ask, lashes batting innocence.
Frank’s feet carry him to the paper towels, but he can’t stop looking at you. Is it a game? A threat? A test? After last night, it can’t be a reward.
…Right?
“Ah-ah,” you correct as he goes to rip a towel off. “Don’t waste one of those. You can clean me up yourself, can’t you?”
Say less.
Frank approaches like he’s waiting to catch trip wire. A cautioned excitement scuffing his boots to a stop in front of you, towering over you where you sit. His tongue traces slow over the line of his upper lip, eyes everywhere. Every inch of your face. Following the line of juice where it stops on your throat. The swell of your tits in the lingerie. So fuckin’ beautiful he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch. Tries anyway. Both hands lift, an automatic reach for your breasts, but stops himself. Eyes you for permission.
“Waited all day to see you like this,” you tease, grin lopsided, quieter under the weight of his wonder. “Don’t make me beg for it.”
Frank musters some decency. Remembers the task at hand. Using the curve of his bent finger, he eases your chin up, baring your neck. Enthralled when the column moves. A slow, rolling swallow under delicate skin.
“Whatchu doin’, huh?” he asks, question hot against the subtle mound of your throat. “Sittin’ here like m’last goddamn meal.”
Your head falls back, eyes closing. “Reminding you there’s no place like home…”
His tongue pads a small sweep over your adam’s apple, tasting cherry-sweetened skin. Lips latch, sealing the saliva with a kiss disguised as good-natured. “Ain’t no place like home,” he mumbles against you, skimming along the juice line with a pointed tongue, planting an open-mouthed kiss every inch.
You’re getting lost in it. The gravity of intention in his touch. His hands smooth over your sides, thumbs spanning lazy arcs to memorize the soft lace rasping under his worn hands.
He kisses up to your chin. Nips the round of it. Hovers his lips over yours, the last spot he needs to clean. He waits there until you bat your eyes open. Look up at him, all soft surrender decorated in lace.
Both of you wear the same expression: hazy lust, the apologies of yesterday.
“Still mad?” he asks, a hand holding your jaw, fingers lightly squishing your lips.
“Mmm… not really,” you murmur, words slurred.
“Not really ain’t no, pretty girl. Lemme ask again…” a pause, the two of you sharing the same hushed, hot breath. “You still mad?”
Your shoulders bunch gradually. “A bit. I don’t like her, Frankie.”
“You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout her—”
“I know…”
“You don’t. Didn’t lemme finish. Gonna lemme finish, hm?” Soft, no bite. He gives your head a little sway by his hand, smooshing your mouth up more.
You nod, bunching your hands in the front of his shirt.
“Requested a site transfer. Got th’ transfer.”
You snap upright. “What? Frank, I didn’t mean to—”
“Sh-sh. Didn’t do nothin’ wrong, pretty girl. You had a problem with somethin’, I handled it. S’how this works, yeah? I ain’t gonna keep us ‘round trouble. Ain’t gonna worry you like that. Told you that, day one. Trouble don’t always look like blood ‘n guns, baby.” A warmth in his stare down at you, face hovering yours. The smallest tug of a smirk softens his face. “Trouble looks like that goddamn Walmart cookie dough ‘n tastes like stale dog ass.”
You laugh, cheeks pudging under his fingers. It spurs him.
“Huh? Yeah? You like that? Trouble lookin’ like bullshit cookies ‘n tastin’ like dog ass? Yeah, there she is. There’s m’ girl.” He leans the rest of the way down. Slots your lips to his though you’re mid-laugh. A firm mold claiming you as his number one, promising again, through actions and words, you’re always first. You taste like cherries and powdered sugar icing—the real stuff, nothin’ from the fridges. Forgiveness has a taste. It’s this.
Frank tastes like gum and coffee. Safety has a taste, too. It’s him.
Separating in a quiet, reluctant smooch, Frank grazes a finger back and forth over your lips. Slow. Content. “Where else you got cherry juice, huh? Where else I need t’get?”
You uncross your knees, the movement getting Frank’s attention, and when it does…
“Fuck, you been sittin’ here like that th’ whole time?” Standing between your knees, the realization so profound it’s painful, Frank licks his lips at the sight of the crotchless lingerie. Puffy little pussy on display, waiting for him, right there on the goddamn table. A wet glisten already on your folds. Access to the main course while the rest of you stays gift-wrapped.
You catch fire under his blatant stare at your bare cunt.
He licks his lips, eyes snapping to yours in a blink. No play. All hunger, a necessity to satiate himself on the taste of your pussy as your thighs break his neck. “Wider, baby. Spread ‘em wider, yeah? Gotta fuckin’ taste you.”
Little movements, you shake your head.
“No?” Frank’s brows jerk up. Maybe this is punishment. “Ain’t wantin’ that? Alright, sweetheart. Alright. How ‘bout you ride my hand, huh? Make a mess on me ‘fore I fill you up, yeah?”
His hand dips down but you snatch his wrist. “No. No, Frank, please. I want you to feel how tight I am for you. I need you to feel this, please.”
A groan lodges in his throat, a sound of borderline agony. “Baby… I gotta,” hoarse, his brows knit up, pained honesty. “You know I gotta otherwise it don’t fit.”
Your knees latch over his hips, fingers digging into the tabletop. “Make it fit.”
His eyes go black, devoured by hunger. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he pushes through his teeth, hands kneading the crease of your thighs as he drags you against him.
A rattled breath leaves you, your wet cunt pressed against the taut denim of his pants. You leave a glistening streak over the dark wash. “I’m asking you to make it fit, Frank. Please.”
“Goddamn it…”
You know Frank’s magic words. You know Frank can’t deny you.
Your hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, shoving your palms up his abdomen. “Off,” you pant, a frenzy of anticipation. “Off now.” You’ve never had your husband like this before— never without his hands working you open first.
You’ve tried. It just… doesn’t fit. He’s too big. You’re too small.
Hand in the collar of his shirt, Frank hauls it over his head. Throws it on the stovetop, burner still warm.
You dive for his belt, tearing his hips side to side in your struggle.
“Got it, baby, got it,” Frank mutters his assurance, replacing your hands with the swift solution of his.
The buckle jingles; the prelude to what’s yours. Pants and boxers go down together, the vein-threaded rod of his cock bowing free and heavy.
Just as his clothes are shed in a heap, you perch on the edge of the table, legs gathering him, ankles hooking above his ass.
Frank lines himself up. Uses a hand to wedge the tip over the slick of your folds, coating the leaky slit, other hand planted on the table behind your ass to cage you there with him.
Chest heaving, cunt aching, twitching with the swipes of his head, you hook your arms around his neck.
“Ready, baby?” he asks, all heat and husk.
You nod quick bursts, words lost and dried up.
“Breathe, baby, alright? Don’t f’get t’breathe f’me. Gonna get you open f’me. Make it fit, alright? Make you sit real nice ‘n pretty on it—”
Agony equal to bliss, your eyes widen, your chest inflates with a searing gasp as just the fat tip of Frank’s cock splits the vise of your cunt. Your spine springs a deep arch into him, nails flying to his shoulders to dig into the meat—to cling.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ—” Frank hisses through clenched teeth, face contorted like he’s malfunctioning under the pressure, the slick defiance of your cunt. His eyes cross from the wet clamp. Flared nostrils, bared teeth. A snarl of overwhelming euphoria as he tries to feed you another inch. “Breathe f’me, baby, c’mon. Relax, huh?” One hand blankets your lower stomach, his chest heaving as he pauses. Relaxes with you, an instruction for you to follow. “You sure ‘bout this, baby? Want you comfortable, hm?” The hand from your belly cradles your face instead, fingers extended into your hair, thumb pushing rough assurance over your cheek. “Wanna make you feel good. Don’t wanna be hurtin’ my pretty girl.”
Teeth chattering, body trembling, you lean into his touch. “Please, Frank…” a velvety whisper, a desperation popping out your collarbones. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Surrender to your please, Frank’s forehead drops against yours. “Tell me ‘f it’s too much, yeah?” A low rumble. “You tell me. Ain’t nothin’ you gotta prove like this, alright? Nothin’.” A hand kneading the crease of your thigh, the other dragging down the lace-lined curve of your spine with reverent patience. “Love you, pretty girl.”
Your cunt pulses around his heavy tip once—he grunts, jolts.
You gasp, hum. “Love you so much, Frankie.”
And brace.
Frank dips his head. Scoops your mouth into a slow, crude kiss. All tongue between your lips, drawing yours out. Spit slick and deliciously warm, your tongues lap and lips suck around each other. Greedy, sloppy kisses of ownership.
“Fuck yeah, baby,” Frank groans into your mouth, his hips rolling a persistent nudge. “Fuck, feel so good.”
Arms winding around his shoulders, head dropped to the side, you suck his bottom lip into your mouth. Free it by raking your teeth over the flesh on the draw back. “More.”
“Yeah? Gonna fill you up. Ain’t gonna have room f’more,” he pants, eyes hooded as he marvels over the spit-sheen on your lips, the string draped between your mouths. “Spit on it f’me, hm? You do that, pretty girl? Spit ‘n I’ll give ya more.”
Breathless, lust-drunk, you nod quick agreement and peel back. Head dropping, your eyes widen when you see how he tries to conjoin you. Engorged veins cinch down his shaft, the first two inches (all he can fit right now) coated in your slick. In careful ruts—so fucking careful you whine—he pushes the hot clench of your cunt to open you up.
Frank meets you there, his head bowed in sheer awe as you both admire the tight fit, the near-impossible stretch of your pussy for his cock.
“Yeah, baby, yeah. Love how you take m’fuckin’ dick. So fuckin’ good. Look at ‘er,” he says, a thumb skimming your folds to graze them apart as he tip-fucks you, rub your arousal over the soft, sensitive skin. “C’mon baby, you forget you need t’spit on me, hm?”
Taking everything in your mouth, you pucker your lips. You drop out a cord of spit spanning from your pretty lips to his shaft, drizzling over him in thin spins until it all pools down.
“Ooh, that’s it, attagirl,” Frank praises in a ragged breath, thrusts picking up with the added slip. Tendons in his neck wire. Muscles in his forearms carve out, hands locked at the crease of your thighs. Pushes his cock in deeper, pushes through the strangle of your pussy around him. “Fuckin’ chokin’ me baby, huh? Pussy’s chokin’ me, fuck.”
“F-fuck!” You cry, body jolting once with the electric on of feeling him everywhere, prodding your guts. “Fuck, I told you, Frank. T-told you. So tight. So tight I didn’t think you’d fit—”
“—almost there, baby, almost, c’mon—”
“So tight around my own fingers, Frank, fuck—had to- had to feel you like this.”
He growls. An animalistic heave of possession; a starvation stemming from your confession. “Touchin’ yourself ‘fore I got here? Huh? Playin’ with that pretty pussy ‘fore I got home?”
“Couldn’t- couldn’t wait—” you pant, hands everywhere on him. Tearing through his hair, nails piercing his shoulder blades, clawing down the sides of his neck. “Thought about you. This. All day. All fucking day, Frank. Had to feel how wet I got just from thinking about you.”
A harder slam of his hips—punishment, praise. Reward for you in the stretch that sucks your breath dry, parching the cry leaving your lips.
“You cum?” he grits, yanking you so your ass teeters the very edge of the table. Forehead smashed against yours, mouth panting open and salivating for yours. “Make y’self cum without me, hm?”
“No,” you adamantly shake your head, knees spurring his ribs. “No. Just- just felt. One finger! That’s all. I was so fucking tight I needed you to feel, Frankie. I waited on you. Just like this. Just for you.”
Sweat slipping your foreheads, Frank grunts, hips rolling greedier, short snaps as the last. inch. goes. in—
“Oooh-ahhh! Frank—!”
Stuffed until you choke on the sob in your chest, body seized by an outburst of brilliant pain, a sharp sensation of such fullness you’re complete.
“Fuuuck, baby,” Frank grits out, head bowed to gape at how your cunt throbs around every fat inch. Cunt pressed flush to his base. Fit so perfectly, a bulge prodding the lace over your lower tummy where his cock banks. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect, baby, so fuckin’ tight. Look at you. Look at that. Every fuckin’ inch in that tight little pussy. Still breathin’, baby? C’mon. Breathe f’me.”
You do. You listen. Small huffs. Stunned hums. A tumbling, breathy laugh as you look down and see how you sheath him.
“Feel your fuckin’ heartbeat ‘round me, baby,” Frank murmurs, lips grazing the corner of your parted mouth, “yeah, feels so fuckin’ good. Ain’t no one made f’me like you.”
Perked through the lace of the lingerie, you graze your nipples over his chest, a feline arch to your back. The cupcakes wait within reach. Ass perched on the ledge of the table, arms draped over his shoulders. Frank’s both your rescue and your ruin. You shimmy your hips just to hear him grunt a curse, feel the jump of his cock as it sits an idle pipe inside of you. Blindly reaching over, you scoop a glob of icing onto your finger. Head tipped back, you hold it an inch from his lips and his eyes cloud black. “Then fuck me like no one’s made for you but me.”
Without blinking, Frank leans that one inch in. Opens his mouth. And swallows your finger to the goddamn knuckle.
Your eyes widen, breath catches. As you begin a lewd, languid retreat of your finger, Frank flattens his tongue. And sucks. Drags off every bit of icing as your joints come out in a slow, spit-shimmering leave and pop off his lips. Stomach fluttering, eyes sparking— you’re done for.
And so is he.
Instinct over thought, you both clash. Both find union in desperation, in the hot vulgarity that hunger breeds.
Bodies tacky with sweat, both you grind. Frank stays buried inside of you, ruts into you, unwilling to leave the rapture of your pussy.
Shaky moans spill from your mouth and into the strong slant of his neck. Your hips curl down, out, in time with his, chasing the friction, the galvanizing totality of your husband.
A filthy slow motion, your swollen clit grinding the coarse hair at his thick base. Smears a white cream circle in his hair, frothing over his cock.
It starts low in your belly. The squeeze. The exhilarating, white-hot panic from overstimulation. Watching as his cock shifts under your lace, feeling the tip knock the deepest parts of you; places no one has ever touched—places no one else can reach.
The table creaks, legs scraping resistance thrust by thrust until it drives into the wall. Pinned—just like you. Nowhere to go. More leverage for Frank to wreck you.
“All fuckin’ mine—” he slams in.
“Mine.”
Slam.
“My pretty fuckin’ wife.”
Slam.
“Pretty fuckin’ pussy.”
Slam.
“Cum on my cock, baby, c’mon. Cum f’me, hm? Gettin’ close. Feel it, way you’re suckin’ me, yeah, fuckin’ love it.”
“Frank!” you cry out with urgency, clawing every conceivable place on him—biceps, chest, eventually sinking into his shoulders—as your world starts to plummet. Legs quaking. Stomach quivering. Eyes fluttering back. Then, softer, a plea you know he’ll answer: “Hold me, Frank, please, hold me while I—”
His arms form an immediate cage around you, unbreakable and unconditional. The safest place for you to fall apart in. Him.
“C’mon, pretty girl, c’mon— cum on m’cock, baby.”
The wet slap of skin. The pouring heat of sex and sweat and possession. Intoxicating lust teetering explosion as he rocks into you, hair scraping just right over your needy clit, arms an enclosure until—
“Oooh, Frank! Frank, I’m—!”
Cumming. Bliss, straight in his fuckin’ ear. Moans a fuckin’ choir, his name a prayer as you fall apart, climbing him for relief until relief’s all you have and you need him to come back down.
You gush on his dick, walls thrumming frantic compressions around him.
“Oh, yeah, there she is,” Frank coos, hips slowing to an agonizingly tender tease, hitting each pulsating shock. “There’s m’fuckin’ girl. Attagirl.”
Hair stuck to your face, you collapse over him. Cheek smooshed on his shoulder, arms locked in a shaking bolt around him. “Mm,” you hum, soft pants through the little part of your lips. One weak leg falls off his hip, and you’re too spent to care.
Frank rumbles a chuckle. Picks your leg up so it doesn’t dangle. Pins it back against his hip with his elbow. Strums his fingers over your thigh, other hand rubbing the nape of your neck. “You good, huh?” Softer now, still rough with lust. “Pretty girl. Always so good f’me. Look so fuckin’ pretty when you cum on m’dick like that.”
“Mhm,” your lashes flutter, head picking up. Heat blankets your face, chest. The lingerie’s damp and itchy on your skin. You sit up just enough to prove you’re okay, and Frank… god, he— Well, he looks like he’s seen God.
But it’s you.
“You ain’t done yet,” he says, and it’s a warning. “Ain’t done makin’ you mine. You do somethin’ f’me, baby, hm?”
Cock still buried, cunt sucking him with aftershocks, your breath catches as you nod. “Tell me. Anything.”
“Marks. Want ‘em. Fuck— want ‘em all over. You do that f’me? Bruise me up, huh?”
“Wha— Frankie, you sure? You never—”
One look shuts you up. Pupils a total eclipse of over his eyes, he wears this exact face into a war zone: brutal, a man unafraid to take victory by whatever means necessary, all dark possession with the mission but this is different. This is warfare in home territory; a battle where loss is unacceptable.
“Lemme feel you,” he says, head canted to offer the thick conduits of muscle and tendons in his neck.
A second—one—of mesmerization, your eyes dart from his to his neck. The stretch of his neck’s all you need.
You bite down on the sharp slant, a mouthful of muscle and his pulse. Hard enough he hisses. Hard enough your teeth impress to bruise.
“Fuck, yeah, s’it,” Frank groans and lifts you off the table. Standing, balancing you both, his fingers sprawl hooks under your ass and thighs, dropping you down and lifting you up on his cock in time with the plunge of his hips. “Don’t fuckin’ stop. Use that pretty lil’ mouth. Show ‘em what I got waitin’ at home, huh? Good girl waitin’ f’me. Tight fuckin’ pussy. Fuckin’ cupcakes—”
You leech onto his skin as he bounces you upright on his dick. Spit smearing your mouth, his neck, a trail of red-mottled bruises in your wake as tongue and teeth collide to assert your rightful possession over this body, this man. It starts again— the squeeze. Low in your belly, whittling ecstasy over your clit.
Pussy drunk, lust-induced, Frank’s head tips back. The shlick thumps of his cock bottoming out your cunt fills the kitchen, the slap of his balls, your muffled moans scoring through the walls.
Head spinning, lips swollen, you pry yourself off Frank in a gasp. Tits bounce in lace, hair disheveled, face flushed. You’re a goddamn angel of sin. You meet his wild stare. He’s just as disoriented as you. He’s beautiful, the strength in his neck and shoulders blooming contusions in the print of your teeth and shape of your lips.
You watch in flustered awe how he impales you, your cunt dripping and folds adhered to him. Crammed so fucking full, no more stretch to give, thrown on his cock with the sharp slap of skin.
The wide span of his fingers pull your ass apart so your cunt chokes tighter around every throbbing inch as he hammers up and in. His balls tighten. Biceps pumped from dragging your weight effortlessly over his cock.
“Frank,” his name quakes out your mouth. You swallow, legs quivering around his waist. “I’m gonna— oh, god, I’m gonna cum again, Frankie.”
“Yeah, baby?” he pants, “too full, huh? Can’t get enough, can you?”
“F-feel you everywhere,” you choke out, hole clamping down around him as your body seizes.
“Yeah? Where. Show me. C’mon. Show me, sweetheart. Where you feel me, huh?”
A trembling hand grasps your tummy. Here. It skates up your chest, squeezing your sternum. Here. And around your throat. Here.
That does something to him.
Rewires every fuckin’ instinct in his head ‘til it’s just you. You. You. You. It becomes consumption, fucking you to an oblivion where you’re one. Whole. Fucks you like he’ll die without you. Fucks you like his cock’s sustenance you need.
Fucks you to completion.
Neither without the other.
He fucks you stupid, your jaw slack as little, breathless moans punch out.
Primal inclination to breed you, to blow his load so deep you taste it in the back of your throat, Frank climbs onto the table—with you beneath him. One hand glued to the edge of the table, using it for leverage. Your head rests in the crook of his elbow, thrown back over his forearm as he fucks a brutal, senseless pace. Your hips lift off the table, Frank’s arm jerking them up for a deeper angle, for a harder drive so when he does bust? You’ll get every fucking drop. Yeah.
Trying to breed you.
Broad shoulders acting as spreader bars, Frank hooks your knees over them. Spreads you wide, deep, your legs down his back. By the plunging neck of the lingerie, he rips two fingers down it, breaking your tits free. Both of his hands bind around the edge of the table, veins swollen channels up his forearms, disappearing into the biceps that ensnare you.
Fuckin’ folds you in half. Growled grunts knock out of him in time with his hips. The pace stutters as pressure builds in his gut.
“Gonna fill you ‘til you fuckin’ leak,” he says, a man possessed. “Ain’t gonna be able t’walk without thinkin’ ‘bout me. That what you want?”
You nod, but it’s not enough.
“Words,” he coaxes, a gentle reprieve. “Use your words, baby. C’mon. Lemme hear you, huh?”
“Yes,” pure bliss, your nails hooking into his sides as your eyes roll back. “Yes, Frank, fuckyes. Wanna feel you in my stomach for days after. Want my legs to shake every step I take. Forget my own fucking name—”
“Nuh-uh, nah, ain’t f’gettin’ your name. You’re m’ fuckin’ wife. Mrs. Castle. My wife. You got that?”
As you reach your peak, Frank’s name tearing from your lungs as you claw into him, Frank plows two more balls-deep ruts before he’s spilling hot ropes of cum into your pulsating cunt with the guttural mercy of your name.
There’s nothing left but panted breath, sweat, and chocolate cupcakes.
Frank unfolds you gently, without a word. A bead of sweat trickles from his sweat-logged hair, easing your legs from his shoulders. With a kiss to each knee, Frank places your legs down on the table, cock burrowed deep in you yet.
Lingerie hanging on by willpower, you lie beneath him. Winded, blissed, dripping his cum. Heavy, hazy eyes follow his every move, the silent praise in his fingers as he carefully tucks your breasts back into the lace. He drops his head, pressing a kiss to the swell of each one. Then the sweat-salted curve of your neck. The soft line of your jaw. And finally, the parted line of your lips.
“You okay?” he murmurs, a gravel dredge, nudging his nose against yours.
“…I think I’m gonna need a wheelchair.”
Crickets.
Then—
You both laugh.
You bubble.
He rumbles.
“Le’s start with a cupcake, yeah?”
“Frank, are you seriously—?”
“Oh yeah.”
Dick in you, still riding the high in aftershocks, Frank reaches beside your head and grabs a cupcake. Settles back in, elbows on either side of your head.
Hovering inches from your face, ass cheeks out, Frank takes a bite equivalent to half the cupcake. Groans all over again, eyes fluttering.
“Good thing ‘m still in you. Think I came again,” he praises with a mouthful of cupcake, frosting smeared on his bottom lip. “Need your pussy ate f’this one, sweetheart.”
“That good, huh?”
“Need broads t’flirt with me more often.”
“Ass.”
“Great idea, pretty girl. Flip over. Gonna eat this off your ass, hm?”
“Frank—!”
Laughter rings through the kitchen. His impish chuckle. The slow, lazy smooch of kisses and murmured nothings. More laughter when he plops icing on your nose. And… other places. Different noises when he cleans up the mess he makes.
One thing about you and Frank?
This is it.
You. Him.
Handling trouble as it comes your way.
Trouble isn’t always blood and guns, remember.
Sometimes it’s dog shit cookies and a goddamn temp.
Trouble can’t touch this.
Frank won’t let it.
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frank doesn't like giving up control, especially not in the bedroom. but when you try to prove that you can give as well as you take, he decides to entertain you...for about thirty seconds.
WARNINGS: pornwhatplot, cunnilingus, hair pulling, unprotected p in v, cowgirl, missionary too, r slaps frank and he's kinda into it, lots of talk about "making him your bitch", rough sex, lots of condescension, creampie <3
NOTES: i haven't written for this guy in years, but BND got me feeling things...this is pure brain fart FILTH.
Orgasms never come quietly, not when you're with him. That's something you learned a long time ago.
Keeping it down becomes an impossible task when his head is buried between your thighs, tonguing your cunt like he has something to prove. Indelicate and hungry; unapologetically Frank. You've never known someone be so brash with a mouth full of pussy. Never known someone make you feel as incredible as he does.
Maybe the key to female pleasure is this. Devotion that borders on cruelty. All tongue and teeth and scratchy stubble; a war waged by a mean mouth that knows you far better than anyone ever should.
He groans against your clit, holds you firmly in place as the pleasure drives you to writhe. Brown eyes flick up, meeting yours through the haze—face squished between trembling thighs, fingers bruising plush skin—as he shifts, dragging his hips against the mattress.
Eye contact proves too much for you to handle, and you let your head fall back. Your fingers curl into the sheets in search of relief but find nothing, so they move instead to his hair, driving him deeper into you as you sing his praises ("Fuck, that's it…"; "Makin' me feel so good, Frankie…"; "Don't stop, please, I'm so— shitt…").
Climax hits as it always does; sudden, explosive, and fucking blinding.
Frank hisses as you yank on his hair and retaliates by pressing his tongue flat against your clit, drawing out a filthy whine and sending a fresh pang of pleasure shooting through you; electricity on electricity. A circuit overload.
You lose a handful of seconds to the climax, and when you come to you've lost feeling in your hands. All that remains is the slight tingle of lingering sparks in your fingertips. The post-coital numbness used to freak him out until you explained the science to him, and now he takes pride in knowing that he can make you come so hard it essentially rewires your nervous system.
"Sweetheart," his voice comes out as a low rumble against your inner thigh, unamused, as he eases your hands from his hair, "you keep pullin' like that, and I'll go get the fuckin' clippers."
"…hey," you mumble, a lazy, almost drunken smile creeping up your face, "don't act like you don't like it."
Scoffing, Frank pulls himself up and leans over you, matching your expression with his own, sharper, smile. "You think I enjoy havin' my shit yanked on? I swear to God, I can feel my scalp separatin' from my fuckin' skull."
"The Punisher can't handle a little tug on his hair?" You jut out your bottom lip, voice taking on a honeyed, mocking tone. "Oh, poor Frankie..."
"Real cute," he mutters. "Real fuckin' cute. You tryin' to piss me off here, after all the work I just did?"
Skipping over his question completely, you nudge him with your foot. "Get on your back, Frank."
"On my back?" He catches your ankle in one strong hand, holds it firm as he raises his eyebrows. "What you want me on my back for, huh?"
"Well, after all the work you just did…" You give his shoulder a light push, grinning. "I figured I should repay the favour. Make it even."
Frank purses his lips into a tight smile, and you watch the subtle workings of his jaw as he nods along with your words. "Right, right…cause you're miss generosity all of a sudden, aren't ya? Bein' all nice, wantin' to take care of me…yeah, I'm not buyin' it."
You roll your eyes. "Frank—"
"No. No, I'm talkin' now. If I'm gonna fuck you, I'm gonna do it my way, and I'm gonna do it properly, alright? I'm not gonna let you hop on top and make me your bitch, sweetheart, no fuckin' way."
"Frank," you try again, like you're talking to a child. Cocking your head to one side, you gaze up at him through your lashes, using the afterglow to your advantage. "Get on your back."
A twitchy frown, a curled lip, and, finally…a huff of resignation. It takes less than five seconds for his oh-so-stubborn resolve to come crashing down, and you didn't even have bust out the big guns, like saying "please".
Slowly, Frank retreats off of you, movements stiff and drawn out; if you didn't know him, you'd misinterpret his theatrics for pain. He flops down onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling like a man awaiting execution, and you waste no time in climbing on top of him.
The weight of you alone is enough to put a crack in his sulky facade. He sits up, leaning back on his hands as you make yourself comfortable. His gaze fixes on your face, soft behind that furrowed brow.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that? A real pretty piece of— fuck—"
You sink onto his cock without bothering to warn him, and what you earn in response is a gorgeous, unfettered groan—all low and resonant, too caught off guard to try and suppress. It reverberates in your chest like a heavy strum of a bass guitar, hurtles down to your core and has you clamping down on his length like a vise grip, and you've only taken half of him.
Head thrown back, Frank wipes his mouth with his hand, cursing into his palm as he cleans up the slow-drying mess of sweat and slick. "The fuck is your problem?" he grunts. "You can't give me a goddamn minute?"
"What?" You steady yourself on his shoulders, breathless, as you take him to the hilt, hips flush against each other. His cock sits so nicely inside of you, pushing up against that spongy spot that'll have you unravelling far too soon if you aren't careful. Teeth clenched, you push through the pleasure to taunt him. "…Can't take it?"
He barks out a laugh, but it's weak. Frail at the edges. The effect that you're having on him is something he can't quite mask, even as he snarls. "Oh, I can take it," he murmurs, licking his lips as he flashes you a dark smile. "You sure you can give it, sweetheart?"
A rough jerk of his hips sends you reeling, rips a moan from your throat as your curl your fingers into his shoulders, nails digging into rough skin. Pleasure takes root in your stomach, blooms into static.
"'Cause you seem pretty fuckin' shaky to me." He's grinning now, teeth bared as he watches you struggle to stay composed. "How 'bout you stop being such a damn brat and let me fuck you, huh? I'll be nice, I swear…"
He brushes his knuckles against the flushed skin of your cheek, chases your lips with his own as you try to pull away. Hot breath fans across your face as he waits with smug impatience for you to cave, because, in his mind, he's already won; he can't fathom you standing up to him in earnest.
Which makes it all the more satisfying when your palm strikes his cheek. The slap is loud, but the force behind it is minimal; just enough to surprise him.
And he laughs in your face.
"Oh, what's wrong?" He tilts his head, eyeing you with shameless amusement. "Am I pissin' you off, pretty girl? Is Frankie makin' you all mad? Aww, you poor thing." A firm hand grabs your jaw, holds it steady as he smiles up at you, expression nothing but pure glee. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than that—"
The second slap is the real thing.
His head snaps back with a sharp grunt and, for a couple seconds, you wipe that smile clean from his face.
"On your back," you repeat, trying to keep the pride swelling in your chest from spilling into your voice.
Inside you, his cock jumps.
Frank leans back, taking a moment to study you as his lips curl back up into a smile—but this one reads more as impressed than it does smug. Something about it makes your heart leap into your throat.
"You've got bigger balls than I thought," he murmurs. The cheek that you struck is turning red. "And what if I misbehave? You gon' hit me again?"
…Christ, now who's the brat?
You raise your hand, daring him to keep talking, but you can't help the smile that cracks your stern look as he flinches away with a defensive "woahh!".
"Easy there, sweetheart." He catches your wrist, uses it to pull you in closer. "Wouldn't wanna hurt that pretty lil' hand of yours beatin' on me, would you?"
Before you can respond, he silences you with a kiss. You feel him grinning against your lips as he lies back, bringing you down on top of him. The movement alone is enough to make both of you moan, and you grind down on him instinctively, desperate to pull more noises from him.
Breaking the kiss, you sit up, one hand on his chest to keep him down as you roll your hips. He melts under you, head thrown back against the mattress as he resigns himself to watching you.
His large hands find your waist, but he doesn't try to hold you still or guide you as he usually would; no, just this once, he's letting you take the reins, set the pace, take control—the tiny amount he's willing to relinquish.
"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, thumbs pressing into your lower stomach as you find a rhythm that suits both of you. "That's it, that's my girl, taking me so fuckin' well…"
The praise does straight to your head, and you're sure he can feel it in the way you clench around him. He drums his fingers against your sides, not bothering to hide his smug little smirk.
"Lookin' like a damn angel," he continues, slipping a hand down until his calloused fingers find your swollen clit. It makes you jolt, pulls a moan from your lips as he applies a little pressure on the oversensitive bundle of nerves. "Doin' all the work and still lookin' so pretty— that too much, sweetheart?"
"Frank—" You can barely keep yourself upright. In a matter of seconds, he's ruined your composure; his focus on your clit, paired with the feel of being stuffed so full of his cock— it is too much. "Frankie, if you keep doing that, I'm—fuck…"
That must be exactly what he wants to hear, because he doesn't let up. "You gonna come again? Already?" he coos, matching your deteriorating rhythm with his own thrusts.
"'s too much…" you mumble. Humiliation burns in your cheeks, but you don't dare tell him to stop, not when you're this close.
"Aw…" He pouts. "I thought you said you could handle givin'?"
"This— this isn't…fair, Frank."
"'Course it isn't," he grunts, pinching— yes, pinching your clit like it's some kind of toy as you whine on top of him, "I said I wasn't gonna let you make me your bitch. What, you thought I was kiddin'?"
All you can do at that point is close your eyes. Keeping your hands on his chest for balance, nails cutting into his skin, you let him push you over the edge—and it hits hard. An unbearable warmth deep in your core, and the relief of it catching fire.
You don't notice his arms bracing, hands anchored on your waist, until he's flipping you over.
Your back hits the mattress, and before the orgasm can finish wrecking you, Frank is competing with it, dragging it out as he drives himself into you at a pace that'll leave you bruised for days. He's cursing in your ear, breath hot against the skin, but you can barely hear him over the sound of your own vulgar moans and the wet sound of skin hitting skin. Over and over.
Orgasms weave into each other, when you're with him. That's another thing you learned a long time ago.
You grow numb to everything but your own devastating pleasure, lose track of where one climax ends and another begins. Your walls pulse around him like a constant, feverish heartbeat until he dumps his cum deep inside you, and even then your body struggles to let him go, stays clenched around him like it's staking its claim.
When he pulls out, he does so carefully; kisses your forehead, shushes every whimper. He flops down beside you and wastes no time in pulling you close, almost smothering you with his chest, like you'll break if he doesn't physically hold you together. But you don't complain; he's warm. He's Frank.
"You good?" he asks after a moment, once you've both caught your breath.
"Mhm." You nod, nuzzling his chest. Your voice is a little hoarse, hands still a little numb, and you're sure you must look a right wreck—but you've been in worse states after sex, that's for sure. "…I'll make you my bitch one day."
"Ha!" is his only response, smug and sarcastic, riddled with affection. He pats the top of your head the way he would a dog's and murmurs in this stupidly soft, mocking tone, "You gotta work on those weak ass slaps, first."
⋆｡°·☁︎ 18+ mdni, fem!reader
summary: frank always seems to put work before you. after a long, long dry spell, maybe you're not willing to let that slide anymore.
warnings: smut!!, kinda toxic!frank x reader (they yell a lot), asshole!frank, like 60/40 smut y plot, asshole!reader, p in v, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, veeeery very slight noncon? (she kinda tells him to stop), frank is v vocal in bed
word count: 4.9k
a.n: my very first real smut fic! not rly proofread just skimmed over bc i got embarrassed.... idk what to think...hopefully i did big d frankie justice :')
your 7 a.m. work alarm is never exactly a delight, but this morning you woke up to a pleasant surprise. frank’s arm, warm and heavy, across your waist. he stayed the whole night, as far as you know, with no problems.
frank is cute when he’s asleep. finally calm, finally missing that perpetually irritated crease in his strong brow, the one you always try to massage out with your thumb when he’s close enough. his lips are parted and smushed against your sleep-warm shoulder, one arm thrown over you while the other supports his head from where it’s curled under his pillow.
the part of frank that isn’t exactly cute is the rock hard cock pressed against your hip.
you yawn quietly, turning off the alarm, surprised that it didn’t wake your boyfriend. something about you set frank at ease, allowing him to sleep through the night without those fucking nightmares, but the alarm usually woke him.
he must’ve been deep in what wasn’t exactly a nightmare, from how his hips moved in a slow grind against your hip, low grumbles escaping his lips from where they pressed against your skin.
you smile slyly at the opportunity, your hand trailing down his side to brush over the hardness in his boxers. he lets out a more audible moan at that, rolling onto his back, eyes pinched shut. you giggle at his apparent sleepy distress, carefully crawling to straddle his hips. by the time you’re rocking back and forth, kissing up his neck, frank is awake.
his pleased hum rumbles through you from where you’re pressed to his chest, and you smile at the sound of his voice, rough from sleep.
“morning…”
“good morning,” you respond between kisses to his throat.
he hums again, hands sliding to their favorite spot, your ass over your little sleep shorts. “y’know, it’s crazy. i was just havin’ a dream real similar to this-”
“yeah?” you grin, nipping at his earlobe. “hm, crazy…”
“isn’t it? i had this real pretty girl on top’a me, and she was-”
and the moment is spoiled by frank's phone.
bzz bzz. bzz bzz.
it takes every drop of restraint in your body to stop yourself from groaning and banging your fists against the mattress like a tantruming toddler. frank gives you an apologetic kiss on the hairline before rolling you carelessly off of him, picking up the phone and murmuring gruffly into it. all the softness is gone from his posture and expression. by the time he's hung up, you're already on your feet, moving towards the kitchen.
“baby, where y’going?”
you weakly mumble back something about coffee or breakfast.
you hear frank pulling some sweatpants on before trailing after you, footfalls heavy in the apartment. for a man who otherwise moves like a shadow, he seems very comfortable in your home. “what's th’matter?”
you don't respond, embarrassment and irritation simmering under your skin. because it's not just today. it's every morning, every night, for the past five weeks.
frank hasn't fucked you in over a month, and it's starting to kill you.
you don't even understand how that's possible for frank, especially since it seems the man hasn't even noticed. he's suspiciously unbothered enough for you to suspect that he's seeing other women- even if you know he would literally never. not even a groan of frustration from him last tuesday when he was interrupted an inch away from being inside of you. what kind of man doesn't even have a single complaint within a month of abstinence? well, maybe some men can do it, but you didn't expect this from your frank. before this… dry spell, you hadn't gone two days without some kind of intimacy. frank was busy, but never too busy for you- certainly never too busy to bend you over.
it's been killing you for weeks. even alone at home, your own fingers can't get the job done, and it makes you fucking sick. why do you have to depend on him for even this? you never had a problem touching yourself before, even while dating frank. now, after the month of torture, it seems nothing can bring you any pleasure.
and your frustration, it's not really the sort of thing you can admit out loud! at the very least, you know frank will mock you for it. he'll have plenty to say about how needy you are. you're just too embarrassed and too stubborn to admit it. you won't take that from him, no sir.
so you keep it in, stewing in your irritation as you aggressively make his morning coffee. the machine clatters in protest as you slam the pot under the drip, impatient. you hear your name from close behind you. rough. low. that sleepy gruffness to frank’s voice that would usually make you melt if you weren't so goddamn peeved.
“almost done,” you say flatly, watching the coffee drip so slowly and decidedly not almost done.
you hear an irritated sigh, and it makes your anger flare even more. he's going to be irritated with you?
“baby.” it's serious. annoyed. oh, fuck that. frank is close behind you now, but not touching you. you don't turn. “don't gimme this shit.”
you grit your teeth against some unnecessarily sharp response.
“we were havin’ a nice morning, honey,” he grumbled. “don't fuck it up.”
you fuck it up?!
“me fuck it up?!”
you finally turn to glower up at him.
“yes, you,” he responds. the fucking audacity. he crosses his arms over his chest, and you try not to get distracted by the size of them. “you walk outta the room and ignore me. now you're getting all pissy. i don't wanna deal with this shit, i want you to tell me what's wrong so i can fix it.”
you scowl. he stares. you say nothing, just turn back to your coffee pot which is now about halfway full.
“s'it date night or some shit?”
oh, fuck off. you ignore him.
“don't think s'your birthday…”
you're gonna kill him.
“you got an appointment or somethin’?”
holy shit.
“fuck, is it our anniversary?”
you slam your hand onto the counter and whirl around. “make your own fucking coffee!”
he just watches as you stomp back into the bedroom to get ready for work. you don't speak another word to each other for the rest of the morning.
frank texts you throughout the day. double checking you made it to work safely. you give short, barely-there responses to each message. eventually, he offers a: ‘i'm not gonna apologize, i don't know what the fuck i even did’, which you leave on read, along with every other message he sends for the rest of the day.
later that evening, you're exhausted from a day of working and sitting in your own anger, as well as in the embarrassment that had been creeping up on you all day. you'd acted like a bit of a psycho, you know. but frank had been pushing every single sensitive button.
to your surprise, frank is in the apartment. he hadn't texted or anything- but, to be fair, you'd been ignoring his messages the last few hours of the work day. he looks up when you enter, face calm and revealing nothing. of course, he looked effortlessly sexy. tight shirt, loose sweats, hair damp from the shower. you wanted to choke him.
“hi,” you say simply, toeing off your shoes and dropping your work bag.
he exhales though his nose. “you gonna talk to me now?”
fuck, it makes you want to keep ignoring him. but you go and sit on the opposite end of the couch anyway, eyes trained on your hands. you don't respond, but you sit.
“...please,” he starts, obviously trying to keep his voice even. you can tell he's annoyed, too. “just tell me what's botherin’ you. i can't try to fix it if you don't… fuckin’ tell me.”
you can't help the groan that comes out. you stand up, running hands through your hair. “god, frank! is it so fucking crazy for me to want you to just...know? to figure it out?”
frank stares at you for a moment, just… stunned. you don't realize how stupid that sounds until it's out of your mouth and frank is on his feet, too.
“yes! that's crazy!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly, incredulity flooding his usually unexpressive face. “you want me to read your mind? i didn't get a fuckin’ manual for this shit! i come home, an’ half the time you're happy to see me, the other half you're pullin’ this shit! how am supposed to know? how?”
and the yelling is fucking with you. you can't hold it in. your face is burning with shame and anger and you just snap right back in his face.
“maybe if you were ever home, you'd be better at being able to tell.”
“oohh, don't you start with that. i’m home when i can be,” he says darkly, pointing warningly at you. “don't fuckin’ start with that shit, you know i try and you know i'm home when i can be-”
“you haven't been trying very hard this past month-”
“you think i like that?!” he exclaims, eyes wide. “baby, i'm complainin’ to you every damn day about how much i wish i could be at home! but i can't! i go out there every day and do what i do so you don't have to worry about the fuckin' scum i put down! and this is the thanks i get.”
“yeah, thanks, frank.” you snort. “i’m not seeing much to be grateful for right now.”
he goes quiet after that, just looking. he's good at that. looking. it usually works on you, that intense gaze just heavy, suffocating you, crushing you, until you give in and apologize or whatever he wants.
but now, you just look back.
“tell me why you're mad,” he says calmly, eyes cold.
well, fuck it. you admit it.
“fine. i'm mad because you haven't fucked me in a month, frank. every time we get even close, you have some shit to do. every time i try to start something, you end it ‘cause of work, or 'cause you're tired, and it's fucking fine, if you're really tired, or even if you just don't want me, but i can't keep acting like it doesn't drive me crazy, because it does, it drives me crazy, and i feel like i'm going fucking psycho every night you disappear again and i end up sitting alone like a fucking clown.”
with that out in the world, you can't help but feel absolutely mortified. the back of your neck burns. your ears burn. your brain feels like it's burning, all the way down to your cunt which has been burning with need for fucking ages.
and frank, unsurprisingly, makes it worse.
something shifts across his face. not guilt, or even irritation. just surprise that slowly morphs into something soft…a stupid, patronizing smile. just a quirk at his lips, a softening of his eyes.
“oh, poor baby.”
you immediately regret every single word you spoke.
he slinks up to you, his hands finding your hips, thumbs sweeping your hipbones.
“oh, my poor, sweet baby. you're pent up, sweetheart? that what's buggin’ you? why didn't you tell me sooner, huh? coulda’ taken care of that real quick.”
you grit your teeth.
“you're right, girlie. i've not been doin’ my job good enough. i've not been takin’ care of my needy girl, huh.”
heat floods your face and you try to push him off, but he's like a brick wall. he doesn't even budge. “fuck off, frank.”
frank just laughs, and next thing you know, he's dipped down and the world pitches sideways. he has got you over his shoulder, taking you to the bedroom. his shoulder digs into your tummy and you scratch half-heartedly at his back. you're pissed at how pleased he is by all this, and how he laughed at you. you want to rip his hair out of his stupid head, or kick him in the gut where you currently have access.
“put me down,” you complain, squirming.
“nope,” he says, sounding almost cheerful. “aw, if i'd known, baby. all my girl needed was to get fucked to stop bitching? oh, i would've done it weeks ago.”
you scowl. “excuse you? bitching?”
he pats your ass with a broad palm before depositing you gently on the bed, standing tall at the foot. “yeah, baby. now, you gonna let me fix this? or keep fighting me?” you don't really answer, just turn your head away from his little smile, and he laughs, delighted. “who am I kiddin’, of course you'll let me.”
you plant a foot on his chest and push. “i hate you.”
“no…” he grabs your calf and squeezes it before guiding it down to the mattress, effectively opening up your legs. you fight against the grip, but it fails. “...you don't.”
his nimble fingers find the fastenings of your work pants, opening them easily before tugging them down your legs. you’re still glowering at him, arms crossed over your chest. frank effortlessly strips off his shirt, tossing it carelessly off the side of the bed. the room is dark, but you know each line of scarred muscle from memory. you don’t go to touch him, even though you’re aching to. broad palms slide to cup the insides of your thighs, cool against your heated skin. frank pushes against little resistance from you to spread your legs entirely, settling happily on his stomach with his face between your legs.
you’re waiting, just waiting for that stupid phone to ring and ruin your moment. waiting for him to pick work over you, again, like he always does. but, the phone stays blissfully silent.
“look at my poor girl,” he murmurs, face an inch from your pussy, breath tickling you. you really want to keep kicking him, but you can’t help your body’s reaction as you lean into the contact. you’ve missed this. it’s the closest his stupid mouth has gotten to your cunt in weeks. “she missed me, huh?”
“not really,” you still snap, reaching down to pull his hair a bit.
“not talkin’ to you, baby.” he shushes you, one hand lifting to take your wrist. he gives your pussy a light kiss, too light to give you anything at all. "m'talkin' to her..."
you don’t release his grown-out locks, and when he tugs your wrist, he ends up sharply pulling his own hair. satisfaction curls up your spine at how he winces, pulling your hand free and pushing it to the mattress. you lift your legs over his shoulders so your thighs frame his ears. you have a momentary urge to squeeze..and squeeze… but he quickly distracts you from that sick fantasy by diving in.
his tongue is almost unbearably hot as it swipes through your sticky folds, devouring you. it’s only then that you remember you’re not the only one who’s been starving for a month–frank’s been missing out on this, too. and it’s obvious from the desperation as he moans into your cunt, little whines and grunts and delicious noises that send fire licking up your spine. his eyes are shut dreamily like he’s having just as much fun as you are.
“mm, s’fuckin’ good, baby, taste so fuckin’ good.”
you let out a high whine, hands diving back into his hair, but now you’re there to hold on, not pull.
his lips wrap firm and unyielding around your clit and he sucks hard. you yelp at the intensity of it, yanking on his hair. he releases you with a gasp, eyes flying open.
“that’s it, honey, pull. hard. make me feel it.”
you don’t think. you listen. you pull hard enough to lift his head, getting a good look at him. his eyes are dark and hungry, rimmed with red. his mouth and chin are shiny and soaked with your wetness, and he licks his hips with an obscene hum. it must be obvious that you’re admiring him, because you look just long enough for his mouth to start stretching into a smug smile. that irritates you enough to smash his face back where it belongs. pain shoots through you when his nose bumps directly against your clit, but you don’t care. you need to shut him up before he tries to say some more stupid shit.
and surprisingly, he doesn’t have anything to say to that. he just gets back to work, tongue swirling around as his fingers inch closer and closer to your entrance. he starts with one, and the stretch feels like nothing compared to what you’ve been craving. it curls and wiggles around, getting reacquainted with your soft insides. the second finger comes soon after, parting and curling and stretching. one of your hands releases his hair so you can bite your knuckles. you muffle a groan in your fist and it makes frank chuckle against your cunt, the vibration light and pleasant. the third finger is finally enough, and you let out a little whine at the stretch. he turns his head to drop a surprisingly tender kiss to your plushy thigh.
“m’sorry,” he mumbles, and it’s not as patronizing as you expect. “gotta get my baby ready.” you almost soften when he goes and ruins it again. “she missed me,” he coos, lifting his head as his fingers drag slowly in and out of you. “pretty pussy missed me. still remembers the shape of my fingers, huh? she’s huggin’ me, baby, i think she missed me more than you do.”
asshole. you slap him across the cheek, and his face doesn’t even turn, he just laughs brightly. you let out another quiet sound when he pulls his fingers free, before biting down on your cheek so you don’t give him the satisfaction. he crudely wipes his fingers off on your thigh, and you smack your foot against his shoulder in retaliation.
“you know,” he murmurs softly, an idea sparking. “before i fuck you, i think you might need to get reacquainted with me. c’mere baby, i want your mouth.”
it crosses your mind to refuse, you don’t feel like he deserves it, but you decide to be merciful. you and frank switch spots, moving effortlessly around each other, always perfectly in tune, even when actively fighting each other. although, every minute it seems more like a one-sided fight. frank looks like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.
“this is a peace offering,” you grumble.
“thank you, mother teresa.”
you dig your nails into his thighs and he yelps.
“careful, castle, i'll bite it off.”
“you’d miss it too much.”
“i’ve managed for a month and half.”
“i dunno if i’d call what you did managin-”
you shut him up by taking his cock halfway down your throat, gripping the base in your hand. he groans, hands hovering around your shoulders, but not quite touching. surprisingly, frank isn’t the number one fan of getting his dick sucked. well, maybe that’s the wrong choice of words. it feels fucking heavenly, especially when you do it, but it comes with a certain lack of control he doesn’t love. fucking you is one thing, he knows he can stop if he needs to. with your mouth on him, you’re controlling the pace. he can’t really stop if he thinks he might be hurting you, and that’s one thing he can’t handle, even if you’re letting him. so, when he had you like this, he never touched. he barely even moved, unless you told him where to go. he surprised even himself with the request, but you seemed more than happy, from how you were drooling all over him.
you want him to feel it. you let your teeth scrape him to see how he gasps. you’re pissed, even as every second touching him burns the anger out of your veins.
“s’good, honey,” he breathes out. “s’real good…”
you roll your eyes, pulling back for a moment to see his hands floating on either side of your head. “frank, you can touch me.”
he huffs, hands slowly lowering to hold onto your neck, thumbs sweeping over the sensitive skin. you can't help a short laugh at the stiffness of his movements, and dip down to keep sucking him. you miss how the sound makes him light up. his pretty girl’s laugh. he loves it.
you suck softly on the head of his cock, tongue circling the sensitive area before trailing down the most prominent vein on the side. frank huffs out a breath, struggling to contain himself.
he never lasts long when you have him in your mouth, which is reason number two why frank castle didn’t love head. His hands migrate to your hair, holding it in a makeshift ponytail in his grip as you moved up and down, up and down, spurred on by the occasional chopped up sentence from frank.
“fuck. oh, fuck. tha’s somethin’, oh, baby, yeah. yeah, yeah, yeah… don’t- yeah, there you go. you can take it, i know you can take it… oh, fuck, sweetheart.”
you know he's close when his thighs start tensing on either side of you, ridiculous quad muscles jumping. that’s right when your little ponytail gets a tug that pulls you off of him, accompanied by a breathless frank trying to regain some control.
“okay, okay, okay. stop, baby, stop. c’mere, come up here…”
you crawl up his body, tongue cruelly trailing a hot path from his dick all the way to his mouth. he’s staring, hot and heavy, into your eyes when you make it to his face. when you finally kiss him for the first time that night, it isn’t soft. it’s harsh and punishing still, teeth clacking, tongues shoving at each other. you dig your nails into his chest. his hand tightens on the back of your neck, hard enough to leave fingerprint-shaped bruises if he keeps it up. it’s not like the kisses you usually share with frank…all warm and wet and seemingly endless. this is hot. sharp.
“are you gonna fuck me, or do i have to do it myself?” you pant into his mouth, hips rolling impatiently against his hard cock. frank groans at the hot slide of your pussy against him.
he's got you flipped onto your back before you can even try anything, your thighs pressed against your chest, ankles dangling over his shoulders. he's got you folded in half, and the stretch in your hamstrings is fucking delicious.
"ready?"
"frank," you spit. "just get to it."
"oh, of course you're ready," he drawls. "i've been depriving you for so long, after all..."
he pushes some hair out of your eyes and you almost bite his finger off.
what you'd really like to do is slap him again, but you don't, because he starts pushing in. and fuck, maybe you weren't ready. he's huge- always has been, but after a month of nothing, it feels like the first time again. he's splitting you in two.
you refuse to make a single sound the entire time. shallow thrusts...getting a half-inch further with each one..
when he's fully seated, groaning hotly into your neck. he finally speaks again.
"you alright?"
better than alright. you've been starving for this for a month. you can almost feel him in your throat again, that's how fucking deep he gets. each little twitch of his cock inside of you sends a jolt up your spine...but you contain it.
“hm? is it in?” you grit through your teeth, through the stretch. “huh. feels smaller than i remember-”
frank just laughs, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back home, sending sparks through your vision. so hard, you slide up the bed, his palm catching the top of your head just before it slams into the wood headboard.
“still…feel…small?” he pants as he finds a punishing rhythm, arms flexing as he braces himself above you. hard. ruthless. the sound of how fucking wet you got is obscene, soaking his dick and even his thighs and lower abs.
you don’t answer his question, focusing instead on how blindingly good it feels, on how he’s fucking you so hard the bed is shaking and your vision is blurring. you focus on everything but frank. the slipping threads of your earlier anger, the hurt when he'd shouted at you, the guilt when you'd shouted back. but you can't hold onto it for long.
frank fucks you like an animal. he fucks you like he's apologizing. he fucks you like he wants it to feel like if he'd fucked you every day of that miserable month.
eventually, his control begins to slip. he's hitting that perfect spot inside of you, tilting your hips up, fingers digging into your skin. he drops you suddenly, ass bouncing against the mattress, and his hands move to brace on either side of your head. you pick up the work for him, planting your feet to tilt up your own hips and greedily meet each thrust on your own. you're moaning, chest heaving, toes curling into the mattress.
you meet his eyes.
“you can say it,” he gasps, looking vaguely guilty even through the haze of pleasure. his eyes are shiny, with need or tears you can’t tell. “tell me you hate me, baby, i can take it.”
you want to. you want to stay mad, and tell him what he wants to hear, and hit him and cry. but it isn’t true. annoyingly enough, he has fucked the anger out of you, and you look at him, and all you see is your frank. frank, who could never even dream of hurting you, who does everything to keep you safe, who obviously didn’t choose to be away from you for so long.
“don’t hate you,” you cry out.
“don’t?” he chokes, confused.
“don’t, don’t hate you, frankie, i love you, baby, i love you so much.”
“oh, fuck, i love you too,” he grunts, fucking you even harder now. “love you so fucking much. shit, baby, my baby girl. gonna come, baby, m’close, gonna show y’how much i love you-”
his thumb finds your clit and he rubs, too hard, too good, it all just feels so fucking big, and you think you’re crying, and then he’s begging for you to come with him, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him beg before, and its building so fast, so good-
“please, please, my baby, i need it, i want to feel it, come for me, baby, m’gonna lose it. i need it so bad, baby, please-”
all of a sudden, frank’s babbling stops, and he goes so quiet that you think he might’ve finished even as his hips keep up the pace. you hear him huffing out a sharp breath with each thrust…only on closer listening, you realize its not a breath, but repeated, rhythmic grunts of your name, over, and over, and over.
and that’s enough. it feels like getting struck by lightning, or a tidal wave, or dying, or being enlightened, or everything at once in one perfect moment. pussy gripping him so tight he can barely even thrust, frank juts his hips helplessly as he comes hard and deep inside of you. it’s warm, and spreads through your whole body, feeling like nothing you’ve ever had before. frank collapses, his body crushing yours, arms holding you close. his forehead rests against yours, mouth agape, staring deeply into your eyes. all you can see is frank. all that there is, is frank.
you’re still pressed skin-to-skin, face-to-face, breathing each other’s air, when his phone goes off. that stupid, rhythmic buzzing against the wood of the nightstand. bzz bzz. bzz bzz. your stomach turns with irritation and sadness at the thought of this moment ending, and your fingers curl subconsciously around frank’s shoulders as if that will make him stay.
frank’s arms uncurl from their tight grip. his hand fumbles for his phone on the nightstand as he lets out a few wordless, frustrated grunts. you sigh, going to push yourself up with shaky arms…
…and frank throws the phone into the dresser. it bounces off the wood and clatters against the ground, still buzzing.
you can’t help the little giggle that escapes you, pressing your face into his neck. “that’s not going to stop it from ringing, you know.”
“i was trying to break it,” he grumbles.
“i’m glad you didn’t,” you mumble, rolling your eyes at his attitude. “we aren’t made of money, mr. castle.”
bzz bzz. bzz bzz.
the phone stops for a blissful moment of quiet. you sit in silence, his body still a comforting weight crushing you into the mattress.
"sorry i freaked," you eventually say.
"y'didn't."
"i did."
"well, sorry i yelled," he responds. "and sorry i laughed at you. never wanna make y'feel like you can't tell me whats wrong...that's how we end up in these situations."
you peck his lips, smiling. "i dunno. it was good by the end...maybe we should fight more often."
"i dunno, baby," he winces. "don't think my heart can take that."
so cute.
bzz bzz. bzz bzz.
"frank..."
he sighs, arms sneaking back around you, mouth seeking yours out again. he's getting hard again, you can feel it inside of you. his lips slot perfectly against yours, lingering and warm. this is a kiss you’re familiar with from frank…one you can’t help but smile into when he whispers:
“mm. let it ring.”
...
i got possessed when writing this i think, baby's first real smut xoxoxoxo thanks for reading
He’s never ever heard of that word associated with him in his life.
Probably.
Did he get you pregnant on purpose? Not this time. The man was eager to fuck, 7 months out of divorce, he’d been fooling around with you for a month or so. You were more than ten years younger than him, hot and ready on a silver platter, nice, had that sweet look in your eyes that John couldnt get enough of— not a chance he’d ignore your advances.
Everything was fine and dandy till you stopped taking his calls. Then his texts. You aren’t answering the door to your flat. Not posting on social media anymore. He doesn’t investigate.
Well, not for the first couple of months.
See the man doesn’t take too well with being left in the dirt, doesn’t not do relationships either.
Not after you so shyly asked if he could stay a little longer after your first one night stand. Not after he basked in your afterglow. Ever so tempting, got mystified in every inch of you, from you’re pretty face, every messy curl on your head, your breasts, to your stomach, your thighs your heat between them— that voice that was purring his ear about how thankful you were that he stayed because you’d never in your life been screwed like that.
“M sorry, that was too much.”
“No,” his hand caresses your face, “that was just enough. Ta dove.”
He intended on finding a spot into your life.
So when he finally sees you passing the street, curls high and out of your face, round stomach peaking out of the off shoulder cropped sweater you’re wearing, breast starting to get larger and swollen, a certain glow about you in the flowing beige skirt you wore— he knew for a fact the baby growing inside your womb was his and you would be his for the rest of your lives.
You didn’t know it yet, didn’t know it until he popped up at your new place with your favorite cake from your favorite bakery in hand. Cupped your face and murmured, ‘Was worried about you dovie.’ And your stupid heart fluttered.
Baby Daddy!Price is a good soon to be father, he joins you at the appointment and the baby classes, so adamant about you eating healthy but also helping you eat what you and the baby want. Rubs your feet and your shoulders, may or may not have given your cunt half of his manhood when you were desperate to cum, buys everything the baby may need and even curses out some family members because you wanted the baby shower to be small and intimate, not some big bash where everyone but you is drinking.
But the man doesn’t persuade you to move, you are, in fact, moving. Got you a bigger house so you could even have your own room (you weren’t redy to get back together yet), claims it’s all for the baby. The baby needs the family to be together. The baby needs to see his parents on good terms, the baby needs to be close to his grandparents, the baby likes his voice and his touch so John needs to keep his hands on you in some shape or form.
Lies.
But he’s tame for you. The old man adores you, loves the joy and experience you’re giving him that no one else on the planet has given him. And he’s sharing this experience with you. It can’t get any more perfect than that, can it?
It’s when you’re on the phone with your friends John may or may not block after he hears them trying to get you back into the dating feild.
Why would you need to date anyone else but Price? Who else would marry you when you’re already dependent on him, John may or may not have lead to a few men getting in an accident before your planned dates. No deaths, nothing serious (thankfully).
But it has you worried, completely oblivious to the fact that John’s physically blocking any potential prospects from coming your way, maybe you’re not pretty enough anymore. Maybe they don’t actually find you interesting.
Pure Blasphemy leaving your mouth. Sexiest thing on the planet, and he reminds you. Fucks you right against the mirror so you can see him splitting you open, how beautiful you look all disheveled. John holds your legs wide and your back to him. Can see the exact way heis cock is filling you to the brim, Sledgehammering into your slippery walls that’s gushing either way your mixed fluids, his pre weeping into your needy cunt, threatening to get you pregnant.
“Would look even prettier with a rock on y’ finger birdie, mm- have you all stuffed full ‘f me with a rock on your hand. ‘S what you need.”
And your pussy’s trembling, gasping for air into your lungs because you can imagine the sensation. John used to cum in you all the time when he found out you were on the pill, how warm it felt inside you, makes your mind swirl and put the balls of your feet right in the dovey of his back as he could be deeper, till it was dripping out of you’re hole and your body was limp, and he’d dip his tongue in to plug it up. Smear his tongue all against your sensitive clit and suck your cum up. But you got pregnant, came to your senses that even with the pill, you could end up in the same situation—
“You can’t-“ you’re keening, head rolling back on his hairy shoulder, grabbing at his calloused hands to put you down but he only fucks more of himself inside you, faster— harder— “Oh fuck John- nngh!” He’s doing it on purpose, widened mushroom tip knocking right against your cervix.
You can feel him smirking the way his beard prickles against your skin, sucking a love bite onto you, the bastard, “I can’t what honey?”
“You can’t cum inside- you can’t!” You’re shaking your head but your cunt is gripping him tighter with every rough thrust. His breeder balls are slapping against your cunt with every sloppy roll of his hips, lucky he pulls out just as your walls start to spasm. His cum dripping to the floor as he holds you so close. He lets you down to your feet and hold you close, humping against as you both come down from your highs, his hands squeezing your tits.
He lowly groans, flushed forehead pressing against your messy curls, “Fuck, but you’d look so good pregnant again dove.”
You got lucky.
Lucky you didn’t get pregnant but there was a scare. Almost as if your body had been achin for it, for this man and only man to knock you up right after fucking you silly.
“‘S a shame.” He exhaled his cigar when you give him the news.
You’re more than relieved, and John understands that. You’re still young. You’d atleast want some of your life to yourself before having anymore kids. You make your way over to him, falling into his arms on the lawn chair. You wrap your arms around him first for once, because at the very least you know he’s safe. This is home. You mumble into his neck, “Maybe when the baby turns four or five we could—“
“—Whatever you want sweetheart, God it’s whatever you want.” He hums, pressing his lips against your temple. Hand running up and down your back as he presses you into him.
You’d definitely be married by the end of the year.
Summary: Your new coworker causes problems between you and Frank. You can’t figure out why—you’re nothing special. But when drinks at the bar prove you wrong… the night ends in blood.
masterlist | tag list open. Comment or DM a 💀 to be added, 18+ only, age must be in bio.
Warnings: slow burn conflict to violent explosion, threats, detailed violence, blood, jealous!Frank, protective!Frank, negative self-image/imposter syndrome/negative self-talk & self-worth, manipulation (not Frank), sexual innuendoes, implied fingering, attempted drugging (not Frank), fuck ton of cussing, power plays, mentioned death of an animal (trust me, you’ll see, it’s not sad).
W/C: JESUS CHRIST 10k
Requested by anon: here
A/N: I kept Frank as still being semi-active as The Punisher. My personal opinion: Frank would not do the job if married. He loves you too much to put you in unnecessary danger. HOWEVER… it’s hot as fuck so that’s my reasoning. Pics from Pinterest, not mine.Reader is always 18+. Minors do not interact. Tag list is open for 18+. Asks open for Frank.
Frank can smell bullshit the way a shark smells blood: one drop, a quarter mile away.
Shit’s not close enough to see yet, but it fuckin’ stinks.
A cool breeze whistles through the crack in the window as the rain patters down, crisp ozone and wet tarmac in Frank’s nose. Night settles in; so consuming it’s comfortable. Maybe it’s the anticipation of waiting for you. His girl, gettin’ off her shift to get in his car, get you back home safe, drive you through that coffee joint for a chai latte and a coffee just to drag it out longer. Windshield’s speckled, raindrops streaking, but he’s still got a clear enough view. Woulda been out there waitin’ for you, but last time he did, you said you loved the rain and the run to the truck. So… he stays put. Gives you whatever simple pleasure he can.
The seat creaks under Frank as he adjusts, elbow on the console, chin in his hand, eyes fastened to the door you’ll be comin’ out of. Totally casual. Boot totally not taptaptaptaptapping in the footwell. Van off, artillery in the back; the unsavory pieces Frank isn’t scared to show you anymore.
Started stinkin’ six weeks ago. Not your bullshit. Jason’s bullshit. Your new clean-cut, savvy-tongued, personal ass-kissing coworker. Started small. Innocent enough. Frank knows better.
A text on your phone during dinner guy’s first week. Frank raised a brow in question, fork left hovering in front of his mouth. “Sweetheart, that guy botherin’ you?”
You raised a brow at your screen, then your expression neutralized. You blink across the table at Frank. “Him? Oh, god, no. He’s been a breath of fresh air.”
…Breath of fresh air. You hear that shit? Christ.
“New guy at work just has questions. Normal stuff.”
“Questions can’t wait until work hours?” Frank’d asked, voice smooth through the lurch of instinct in his chest.
“Eh, he’s… trying,” you reason, “to get up to speed. You know how it goes being new.”
No. No, he doesn’t.
Then the phone calls. He ain’t even subtle.
You walked in the apartment humming acknowledgment, phone sandwiched between your shoulder and cheek while someone else gabbed. When you did answer, it was respectful. Tasteful, nothin’ out of the ordinary. That amicable professionalism Frank dotes on, hearin’ you talk all smart, talk your shop. You’d chime in, small cues you were home. Polite excuses to get off the call. Didn’t work.
Frank cornered you against the countertop, hands planted on either side so his barrage of affection was inescapable. Soundless, you laughed, squirming in the cage of him as Frank nipped your neck, kissed your jaw, muttered nothings about gettin’ you a bath ready, askin’ if you taste as good as you smell, pressin’ about your day… so when you didn’t reciprocate… when you—still laughin’, still smilin’—turned away to give attention to the damn phone call… Frank knew exactly who stole your attention, knowin’ damn well you’re home. And it pissed him the fuck off. Not pissed at you. Christ, no. Never you, his sweet angel. Pissed the fuck off at the guy callin’ a married woman—Frank’s girl—after hours, keepin’ you on the phone ‘about work’ until night came around and Frank suggested, in good nature, you needed sleep.
Frank didn’t sleep much that night. When he did? He dreamt about reachin’ through the receiver to crush Jason’s windpipe.
The double-doors unlatching retrieves Frank from his thoughts. Automatic, he sits straight, heart stuttering the second he sees you walking out into the night rain. Wind catches your hair, tugs your jacket, but when you look up through the needles of rain? See him there, the van? Jesus, he’s gone. Delight lifts you up. Puts a skip in your step, literally. You beam. Smile. Wave like you ain’t seen him in weeks even though he kissed you goodbye that same morning.
Frank rolls the window the rest of the way down. Leans out the side, elbow hooked out, squinting against the weather. Gives a whistle, looow’n slow, goddamn obnoxious as the commoners settle and the city comes to life with rats.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Frank calls across the lot. “Need a ride, huh?”
You laugh, keeled a bit, shoes staggering a step. God, that sound fucks with a man’s common sense. “Yeah!” You call back, playing into it. “I need a ride. You got a seat?”
“Yeah, princess, I got a seat alright. Wanna learn how t’drive this bad boy, huh?”
“Frank,” you shout back, weak from laughter, “it’s an automatic transmission.”
“Sweetheart, you’re supposed t’play along, not use that beautiful brain ‘a yours.”
You dash the rest of the way with a wild grin.
Frank reaches over and pushes your door open so you can barrel in.
You do.
The van rocks as you catapult yourself into Frank, lips crashing into his. Your mouth’s cold on his, sweet from whatever you were drinkin’, soft from the chapstick you can’t survive without.
Frank knows he won’t make it into Heaven, but god damn you taste like it.
Breathlessly sweet, you pull back first, an arm hooked around Frank’s neck as best you can in the confined space. You nudge your nose against his, cold to warm, heart tripping as the best part of your day nears. “Chai latte time?”
“Hell yeah, baby,” Frank rumbles, his hand splayed over the entirety of your lower back. “Chai latte time.”
“Yes!” And after another quick, planted kiss of appreciation that conjures a groan in his throat, you plop back into your seat.
But as Frank shifts the van into drive, foot on the brake, he feels your excitement diminish. Craning his head over, he sees you—his girl—a wry smile, a hand on your stomach like you’re full.
“Well…” you start, “maybe a… decaf for me.”
Frank gawks. “You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “They workin’ you too much in there, huh?”
You breathe a dismissive laugh, guiding his hand down. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Promise.” You tip your head against the seat, smile all soft. “I had a chai already. I don’t think I need anymore caffeine before bed.”
You. Already had a chai. From somewhere in the vicinity. Frank blinks. You hate the chai’s in the vicinity. Frank specifically drives you twenty minutes outside of town to get the chai you like. Every damn night, Monday through Friday, rain or shine. Before he can get the question out, you answer.
“Jason and I got called out for a meeting on the other side of town. He must’ve remembered I mentioned you and I go there every night after work, that it’s our thing. It was on the way back,” you explain. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Frank. sees. double. Knee-jerk reaction, Frank double-stomps the brake, his stun moving the truck. Guy drives a married woman to the place she shares with her husband, buyin’ the same fuckin’ drink he gets her every night? Guy buys the married girl the drink before her husband can—that’s the bullshit. It fuckin’ reeks.
You shift, sensing the fizzling tension radiating from Frank. “…What?” you ask, quiet, like anything too loud’s illicit.
Low, a promise to make it known: “He know you’re married?”
Brows knotted, then lifting up, you waggle your hand at him, ring catching in the distant streetlamp light. “You made it pretty hard to miss, Frank.” You pause, eyes narrowing as you study him; the impossible person you’ve managed to learn, love, and keep. “…Why?”
“He ain’t actin’ like you’re married.”
“What?” You sit forward, knees angled towards him. “That’s ridiculous. He’s just a nice guy, trying to make friends. He does these things for everyone.”
“Work ain’t f’friends.” Frank immediately hates saying it, regrets the low-drip of spite that’s got you tensin’ your shoulders, face twisting in pure confusion.
“Frank…” your tone to reason.
Here’s the problem: ya don’t see it.
Rain pelts the windshield. Heavy, angry spit from the sky.
He shakes his head, almost… solemn. “Don’t get it, sweetheart, do ya?”
“Get what?” With a red-mottled face, panic bouncing in your veins. “I’m so confused here, Frankie. I don’t- I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be getting.”
Frank leans an arm on the center console. Waves you in close with his other hand.
Like the two of you are magnetized, you follow, leaning your chin in his palm, your eyes searching between the both of his for answers. For clarity.
“Baby…” Frank drops his voice the way he does when he needs understanding without proof. It’s a big ask. Frank knows. Frank knows you trust him, too. And you know—trust—Frank won’t lead you in the wrong direction.
The rough pad of his thumb slides slow strokes over your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours. “Guy ain’t doin’ this shit for the right reasons,” Frank says. “Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause he’s nice, or-or tryna make friends. Nah. Guy knows exactly what he’s doin’. He’s tryna weasel his way t’ya. Playin’ nice, playin’ dirty, yeah? Guys ain’t nice t’pretty ladies f’the hell of it. He ain’t a good guy.”
Your lashes falter as you process, mouth circled in disbelief. Wind howls through the seams of the truck, nullifying the silence. “You’re… deducing that from what…? A tea?”
“Everything. The texts. Calls. Keepin’ you late at work. Buyin’ you shit like that, yeah?”
“No—” your head glitches a shake, hesitant at first. “No. That’s not it at all, Frank, oh my god. That’s- that’s ridiculous.”
Thunder roars like distant bombs. Lightning draws a jagged white fissure through the sky.
Frank grimaces, pressing his mouth into line. “Ain’t ridiculous. It’s right, sweetheart. You need t’stay away from that guy, you hear me? Away, before he does somethin’ I really don’t like. You need me t’talk to him, huh? Give a gentle nudge?”
“Approach Jason and threaten him over work and tea?” You shake your head, exasperated by being in the middle of such absurdity. Ferocity of your truth—the false belief you’re never enough—in your eyes, you pin Frank’s stare. “You have nothing to worry about. I have nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah?” His brows lift in a goad. “Why’s that, huh?”
“Because I’m not spec—”
Your phone cries and vibrates on the dash like a wasp.
You startle, eyes snapping to the phone.
Franks clocks it with a vile glare.
The air constricts; a noose around both your necks.
The name?
Jason.
You hesitate, heart in your throat, stomach an empty pit.
Jaw pulsing, expression empty—the preamble to violence against another man—Frank stares out the windshield with darting eyes. For five long seconds, you don’t see Frank. You see The Punisher. You see what man’s capable of, if pushed too far; if what’s his is threatened.
Eyes on Frank, you slink your arm out to silence the call.
Softer, barely a whisper, you say, “Neither of us has anything to worry about, okay? I’m not special—”
“Bullshit.”
The phone clicks to black.
“It’s not bullshit, it’s true. You don’t have to blow smoke up my ass like I’m not the most average person you’ve met,” you bubble an incredulous, pained laugh.
“Bull-shit.” Frank argues, twisting to drill his truth—the truth—into you, head-on. “Don’t you ever say that shit ‘bout yourself, sweetheart, you’re the—”
A second time. Your phone buzzes a frenzy, incessant and disruptive, deafening in the space between you and Frank. Goosebumps race up your arms, like an augury to what’s to come. Not now, but later.
“I- I need to answer that,” you say, voice thin.
Reluctant, at a loss, Frank throws a nod at it.
You swipe to answer, phone to your ear with a tight, “Hello?”
Frantic nonsense on the other end. Nothin’ Frank can hear. He can, though, feel your anxiety spike. An innate sense tailored to you, Frank slowly turns his head in your direction. Watches you pale, fear zigzagging your eyes.
There’s no fight in him when you’re lookin’ like this. Impatient for answers but quiet, Frank leans over the console. One big hand kneads over your thigh, keepin’ you here, with him. Whatever it is—you ain’t alone. Not with Frank around.
“Oh my god,” your gasp wanes to a halt, eyes round with shock. “Oh-oh my god. Okay! Okay, yes. Yes, l’ll be right there! Just- just give me a few. Okay? Yep. Yes. Bye.”
Click.
The phone slides from your ear. You don’t even realize it’s dropping until Frank grabs it. Sets it in your lap. Kneads a little firmer into you.
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” Dumb question, but he needs to pull you back into focus.
“Um— uh-ha… no.”
Frank braces, steady inhale through his nose. “Talk t’me.”
“We, uh- Me and- yeah. We have a presentation tomorrow. Like— big presentation, Frank. Like, could be a promotion and a raise big.”
“Yeah, alright. I remember, baby. What about it?” Kneading, kneading, kneading. Here for you. All of you. Always you.
Your hands steeple at your mouth to keep the bile gone. “It’s gone. Our system crashed during backup. Frank— it’s all gone.”
“Fuck, sweetheart—”
You bolt to action, scrambling for your things. “I’ve- I’ve gotta go back in. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry, Frank, but I have to. This is one of our highest priority clients I cannot fuck this up. This- this cannot be happening.”
You fly outta the car after smearing a distracted kiss to Frank’s cheek. You don’t hear him ask you to wait. Or call your name. Rain and thunder drown him out; an army of one muted by mother nature and some motherfucker named Jason.
You sprint for the door, swinging it open and a flood of sallow office light spills out, haloing you.
Through the rain, the heaviness in your gut, the scorching of your throat, you yell out: “I love you!”
And the door slams shut behind you, separating you from Frank once again.
Quiet’s got a way of gettin’ in the skin when business’s left unfinished.
Left things unfinished with you.
Frank’s got a few rules. One of the first: fix the fuckin’ problem.
‘Cause you never know when it’ll be your last chance to.
Frank’s eyes track the empty parking lot.
Finds a sedan there. One with plates Frank’s memorized.
Jason’s.
Bastard never left.
And now he’s got you for the night.
Frank snags his phone from his pocket. Thumbs a number without looking. Three rings—an answer.
“Yello?” David answers in a chuckled hum. “Fraaaaank. Long time no talk, big guy. What’s up? How’s it goin’?”
“Need a favor,” Frank grits.
Micro scoffs, “Hello to you too… The family’s great, thanks for asking. Kids’re doing good in school, Sarah has totally forgot about that kiss…”
“Jesus Christ, Micro. Need you to check a file f’me.”
“Dude, it’s dinner time… Sarah made this Mediterranean sala—”
“Salad. Great. Won’t get cold while you check this fuckin’ file f’me.”
“Okay, so I’m sensing I don’t really have a choice here, did I nail that vibe?”
“Right on, genius.”
With a sigh, grumbled huffs, a muffled excuse to Sarah, Frank hears Micro retreating. Laptop opens. Fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Okay, alright, here weeee go…” Micro says, computer light throwing blue over his face. “Company name?”
Frank gives it.
“File type?”
“Fuck, I dunno? PowerPoint?”
“Sheesh, ancient, okay. Who uses PowerPoint these days?”
“It’s- it’s a goddamn presentation, David. Deleted in the last half hour. Can you find it or not?”
“Frank. I’m offended you even asked.” A hand over his chest to stop the hurt.
“Christ.”
Clack clack clack.
“Okay… okay… breaking the firewall… okay… system override, easy… Like, concerningly easy, Jesus…”
Frank bounces a leg. Drums a hand on the wheel.
“Aaaaaand… here… I think… Found it!”
Stock-still, back straight, Frank stares at the building, the door you vanished behind. “How was the file deleted?”
“Uhhh… Manually. Frank, what is this? Promise me this isn’t another government database I’m cracking because y’know, I’m home now—”
“Goddamnit, Micro, the username. What the hell is it?”
“Jason underscore Caldwell. You, uh… you know the guy? Another one of your… targets?”
“Worse,” Frank’s nostrils flare. “Guy’s fuckin’ with my wife.”
☠︎
That night…
It’s late. Regrettably late, and that always seems to be when the thoughts trickle in. Slow at first, and you don’t realize you’re drowning until you can’t breathe.
Tucked away in the privacy of the bathroom, you lean into the mirror. You bat the facet on so the sink disguises your dissection, muffles Frank tossing and turning in bed. Hips bent against the counter, your forehead an inch from the glass so you can magnify and inspect every conceivable flaw.
Your fingertips shake as they ghost under your eye. Thread-thin lines on the delicate skin only you can see. And then across your cheek, your head angling with the motion, over the dots of pores everyone’s made of, but you never see theirs. Only yours. Your hair could be better. Your nose could be different. You manipulate your skin with your fingers, experimenting to see how you’d look if your eyes were just… like this. Or if your nose was like that… Or if your eyebrows sat here, instead of there. Just… making yourself into a puppet instead of a person.
You don’t… you don’t understand…
Who could love this? Who would want this? Why does Frank? Let alone, for someone else to be interested enough to prod at your marriage when there’s plenty of other available women out there. There’s always smarter, prettier, better.
Frank’s words recite in your head from earlier.
“Guys ain’t nice t’pretty ladies f’the hell of it.”
“He ain’t a good guy.”
“You need t’stay away from that guy, you hear me? Away.”
You scoff at his certainty, the mere idea flushing your face because it hurts to consider. It fucking hurts to look at yourself and see an imposter instead of this divine concept of you Frank has.
Turning away from the mirror, your eyes squeeze to shut out the thoughts, you smack the lights off. Safety in darkness; comfort in the blindness. Once you have the shower running, you bat off the sink. Constant noise, anything but the grating static of inadequacy. You shrug out of your cardigan. It falls to the ground in a heap; shed skin, but it doesn’t slough off the fraud.
Everything you’ve built… it’s just luck, right? Your job. Your education. Your friendships…Your marriage. And all luck runs out eventually. What happens when they see you?
The real you.
What do you do when… it all comes crashing down? When they see you’re just… you?
A soft knock at the door startles you. Your gasp lodges in your throat against raw flesh.
“Sweetheart?” Frank asks, voice low and husky from sleep he hasn’t had.
“Just—” you clear the snag in your voice. “Just a second.”
You wipe the backs of your hands under your nose, shake the rotting guilt from your face, and pick the mask back up to maintain nonchalance.
A second is what Frank gives.
With a creak, the door opens.
Heavy shuffled steps follow, then pause in the doorway when he clocks the total darkness here, and in the bedroom behind him. Still, you can see his towering silhouette, something carved from mythology and given sentience.
Bare, broad shoulders, the sharp slant of his trapezius.
“You, uh…” Frank huffs a chuckle, no humor in it. “You good? Seein’ alright in the dark?”
In your tank and slacks, in the dark where it’s safe, you lean back against the counter, hands grasping the ledge. “I’m… okay.”
It convinces neither of you.
“Need some sleep, yeah? Got your clothes in the dryer.”
Your arms cinch around yourself, holding together the shaking pieces, wondering if this is the night they all break. He’s… so sweet. Frank. Always. Thoughtful in ways you’ve never been loved before. Considerate to the extent that the only fear you live in is when he’ll realize you aren’t worth all this.
You log every single example of how Frank loves you, nausea souring your stomach because it’s overwhelming and beautiful and unconditional.
he drives you to and from work, every damn day
every damn day, your chai tea Except… except today…
you never go to the grocery store alone
you never lift a finger unless you ask to do it yourself, or ask to learn the task with him
holds you while you cry, even cups a tissue under your nose and tells you to “blow” after
has never made you feel unsafe
loves you unconditionally, indefinitely
warms your clothes in the dryer
there’s always an electrolyte water in your lunchbox, something you forget, but Frank never does
You don’t even realize you haven’t said anything until Frank’s hand is on your waist, guiding you into him, asylum from your mind. Out of touch with your body, you shuffle in automatic steps.
“What’s goin’ on in that head’a yours, huh? C’mere.” Before he can settle you against his chest, you halt.
“Why?” You finally spurt out, disgust spoiling the one question you haven’t been able to answer after all the years.
Against the dark, his head cranes, his fingertips curling your tank-top where you’re just out of reach. “Why, what?”
Steam compresses the air, humidity stifling—nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe. Everything you hold back sears your throat, veins in your head swelling with pending implosion. “Why… me?”
Needing the light to see the repulsion in your voice, Frank flicks on the overhead bulb.
You recoil as though the light scorches.
There, in the light, he sees you. All of you. The prey animal darting of your bloodshot eyes. Deep lines of worry trekking through your face. The goddamn sincerity from which your question came, bowing your shoulders in, shrinking your spine.
Frank narrows his eyes on you, certainty cemented in every bone in his face. “‘Cause there’s only you.” Gritty fact coming out between his teeth, tendons in his neck standing. “Only you. Always you. You and me, sweetheart? We got somethin’ no one else does. We got this, yeah?” Gesturing his finger between you two. “This. Us. You and me.”
Biting back tears, your skin crawling with your desperation to leave it, you squeak out, “I hate when we fight. Earlier,” you swallow around the lump in your throat. “I hated that.”
He softens, eyes opening to mirror your vulnerability, looking a helluva lot like the foot of distance between you hurts him. “Hell,” he rasps, “wouldn’t call that a fight. Just me. Lookin’ out f’you. Same shit. Always gonna look out f’you, even if you don’t like hearin’ it.”
“I don’t like hearing it because it’s not true. Plain and simple. I don’t get why you think Jason’s after me.” You bubble an unconvinced laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth to stop it. “I don’t even understand why you’re with me. You could do so much better, Frank.”
A loaded silence perforates the air, bleeding out something ugly, something broken from Frank. Tension ratchets up his shoulders, and self-control shoves them down. A dry, empty swallow tugs his adam’s apple.
The anticipation is anger.
The reality is worse.
It’s heartbreak.
The water’s gone cold. Steam dries up, leaving an empty chill in its wake. Just the patter of the water, amplifying the chasmic space separating you from him.
“…The hell did you just say?” Frank croaks out, his brows jutting up. “Better? Than you? There ain’t no better. There ain’t anyone else. There’s nothin’—I’m nothin’—without you, goddamn it. You?” One shake goes through the finger he points at you. “You fuckin’ saved me, sweetheart.”
It’s heartbreak.
It’s grief.
It’s thanks.
Your eyes crawl from the tip of his finger, up the corded veins in his forearm, and flick a fleeting glance to his eyes. God, does it ruin you. The anguish in his stare, so pure you wonder if what you said is form a torture for Frank.
Goosebumps cover your arms, and you drag your cold, clammy palms over the skin to intimate comfort, but there’s no sensation. It only feels like you’re rubbing filth onto yourself, grabbed straight out of the oxygen you used for those words.
“That’s not true,” you try to argue, but the words hold no faith. Small. You feel small. And like the rotten parts of you are being seen. And seeing those parts… that means leaving, doesn’t it? It’ll mean Frank’s had enough. He’ll realize what you are, what you’ve always been.
“Yeah?” Frank grates his hand over his mouth like he needs to get rid of the urge to vomit, his eyes jittering with loss. “It’s my damn truth.”
And just like you expect— Frank leaves.
You stuff your fist in your mouth to keep a sob from punching out, and swing for the shower handle to cut the fucking noise out.
And with the shower severed, there is… nothing. Grotesque proof you’ve always been right. You’re nothing special. And someday? Frank will leave. Frank is leaving.
Before the silence makes a home in yours, a new noise takes its place. One that startles you, something wooden clattering together rooms away. Almost sounds like… the kitchen table…?
Answering your question, proving you wrong, Frank reappears. Shirtless, grumbling curses, knocking one of the kitchen chairs through the doorway of the bathroom.
“Frank! What’re you doing!?”
Dropping the chair down in front of the mirror is his response. Knuckles tented white over the back of the chair, Frank stands angled partially towards you. He jerks his head, summoning you. Shallow breath contracts the muscles in his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. Everything about him screams bridled rage, but he says nothing.
“Sit,” he says, voice cracked low.
Your eyes slide from Frank… to the chair… back to Frank… “You want me to—?”
“Sit. Yeah.”
“Wh—?”
With the curt wave of his hand, Frank ends the follow up question.
Okay. No more questions. No more excuses. On the balls of your feet, you move in soundlessly until you perch in the chair, drawing your legs up to cross on the seat with you. You don’t look at the mirror. You can’t. Clearing your throat, your chin on your shoulder to be near Frank without looking, your whisper comes strained, tight. “What am I doing in our kitchen chair in the bathroom at two in the morning, Frank?”
“Somethin’ I shoulda done a long time ago.”
Frank towers from behind, heat pouring off his body and into your back. His hands cover your shoulders, his focus on the mirror, your reluctant reflection in it. Beautiful, he thinks, my perfect girl. If only you could see it. He moves a hand to cup your chin. Moves it ‘til you’re head’s straight, ‘til you’ve got no other choice but the face the person in the mirror.
Your bottom lip wobbles. Your eyes strain sideways with your refusal to see.
“Look,” Frank whispers, bending just enough to keep his voice a private rumble, just for you. “Look at yourself f’me, angel… C’mon.”
It’s harder than you think. Looking yourself in the eye. Accepting the imperfections, who you are, who you are not. Because he asked, because your jaw quivers under his affection… you look. You see. You see yourself. Exhausted, disheveled from the day, half-dressed, fully embarrassed. His thumb skims your cheek, then skates down the curve of your neck to plant back on your shoulder.
“There she is…” Frank’s rough cheer, a twitch at his mouth like he might smile. Frank doesn’t smile much, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Eyes, after all, are the window to the soul.
“There’s my girl.”
A quick, unfiltered laugh barks out of you. This is ridiculous. You press the back of your hand to your mouth, shielding the dark flush over your face. Nerves bounce your leg. “I’m here,” you shake your head. “Now what?”
“Now, sweetheart, we’re gonna get those thoughts outta your head and keep ‘em gone.” An unsettling solemnity takes his face, his instruction inarguable. “You’re gonna sit here, with me, ‘til you say fifteen nice things ‘bout yourself, yeah? You and me both. No bullshittin’ me. No half-assed answers, you got me?”
“Frank, I—”
“Uh-uh. Ain’t playin’, sweetheart. We’ll sit here all damn night if we got to.”
Panic catches your breath, but you stay. You flick your eyes to his, looking for any chance to escape, but the lift of his brows says he’s read your mind and it’s not an option.
“Ain’t playin’,” he reiterates, setting his shoulders back to lead. “Alright. ‘M first.” Frank draws in a slow, composing breath through his nose, head cocking. “You gotta lotta faith in people. Trust ‘em ‘cause you’re always seein’ the good.”
Your eyes narrow, face warm. “…You usually say that’s poor survival instinct.”
“Don’t mean it ain’t special,” he shrugs a shoulder. “You won’t let the world break ya. That’s special.”
Lips rolled in, a new perspective warm in your stomach, you look down at the interlace of your fingers as you toy with your thumbs. You nod; a thanks without words.
“Your turn,” Frank squeezes your shoulder.
“I…”
“In the mirror, sweetheart. Eyes on you.”
You try again. Staring back at yourself, you expand with a steeling inhale. “I… like… my neck length…?”
“…Your neck length.”
“Yup. Your turn?”
“Nice try, sweetheart. Try again.”
Your shoulders deflate, but Frank’s right there to give a little shake of encouragement. “Okay. I like……… how I show up for the people I love.”
Frank perks, slightly, approving of the sincerity. “Atta girl…” He lifts a hand from your shoulder, big fingers instead weaving through the ends of your hair. He quiets again, expression smoothing with the gravity of confession. “You’re a saint, yeah, I think you are. Got such a big heart you need’a find room in it f’yourself.”
The honesty—the real truth—puts you in pensive thought. Teeth grazing your bottom lip, you nod. You understand. You see it, too. Arms linking around your knees, you smoosh Frank’s hand against your cheek and shoulder to keep him.
“Only one you,” Frank says as he leans down, planting his lips against the top of your head, breathing you in so his world keeps turning. “That’s what makes you so goddamn special. Makes an ass like me so goddamn lucky.”
Throat constricting, tears full but balanced in your eyes, you push out the words, “I love you, Frank,” and the man you love smiles.
“Love you more, sweet girl. Ain’t off the hook yet, though. Fourteen more, c’mon.”
And as you conjure up fourteen more things you can say you like about yourself, your posture straightens. Laughter returns, shared between the two of you. Tears well in your eyes but don’t fall. The first one was the hardest. The rest you find with Frank’s help while he threads his fingers through your hair, or drags the back of his knuckles over your cheek, or brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.
You’re talkin’. Laughin’. Finally cuttin’ yourself some slack. Seein’ you like this—soft, unguarded—reminds Frank what he first fell in love with when he met you.
Your heart.
Your goddamn heart. Got so much you’re full of it.
Frank understands what needs to be done. He’ll do it. Without a doubt.
He’ll put the fear of god into the motherfucker that preys on your doubts, your heart, under the guise of kindness. Usin’ his wife’s goddamn sweetness to manipulate her. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s got all the time in the world.
Time’s fuckin’ up.
☠︎
3 days later…
Shark to blood, Frank stalks the maze of halls to your office. Black on black, ballcap cinched down, he cuts through the normality of business casual and overhead lights like plague.
In reality?
He’s the fuckin’ omen.
Fist vising a fresh bouquet of flowers, the cellophane crinkles. A stalk snaps. Boots thunder down the corridors he memorized first structurally, by blueprint, then physically, during his first visit years ago. Your colleagues flatten against walls, find convenient exits, avert their eyes—anything to be small in the presence of The Punisher. They don’t know it’s him… but they feel it, the conquest for blood, the irrefutability of his violent nature.
Frank did his homework weeks ago. Soon as the bastard got hired, Frank had a full background check, credit scores, past addresses, and medical history. Poor bastard’s got scoliosis—no wonder he employs sick tactics on a sweet girl like you. Guy’s got no damn spine. Frank’ll reshape it, alright.
The hall empties out by the time Frank approaches your office. He slows, head craning to see you through the open door as you work. Sunlight from the new picture windows soaks you ‘til you glow gold. You mutter to yourself, movin’ here, movin’ there, unpacking trinkets from a box to arrange just how you like it in your new office.
Promotion paid off. You earned every bit of it. ‘Specially when your breath of fresh air wiped your fuckin’ work. Frank’s not told you that. Won’t let you carry that hurt when he can handle it.
Without a sound, Frank leans a shoulder against the doorway. Flowers hang at his side. Temporarily? He forgets the real reason he came. It’s you. ‘Course it’s you. But it ain’t this. Flowers.
He came for Jason.
Frank’s the kinda guy who mistakes warm and fuzzy for heartburn. He gets alotta heartburn around you.
Turns into a full blown coronary as he watches you dip both hands into the box, takin’ somethin’ in those gentle fingers like it’s priceless. You lift it out, and Christ, he’s done for.
Front and center on your desk, you nestle a framed photo between your monitors. The picture?
You and him. Years ago. Halloween. Hours after Frank got back, beaten only a quarter of the way dead this time. You sat between his legs on the front steps of your apartment, handin’ out candy to kids. Frank gave you relentless hell for your costume, a damn scarecrow.
When a kid asked Frank, “What’re you dressed as, mister?”
And Frank said, “An asshole,” without blinking, he’ll never forget the way you laughed.
You, stupidly adorable makeshift scarecrow costume. Paint on your nose, cheeks. Cheeks puffed in the biggest smile known to man.
Him, busted mouth crooking what it could of a smile he forgot how to make. Reminds himself of the goal he’s not yet shared: get away from the life. Retire. No more busted lips in pictures. No more bruises to come home and concern you with. No more holidays spent dressin’ his wounds.
Masking the aspirating blast of love tightening his voice, recalibrating to the mission instead of reminiscing, Frank speaks. “Workin’ hard, sweetheart? Or hardly workin’?”
Hearing Frank’s voice—familiar rumbly gravel—sparks through every nerve in your system to liven you. You spin on a heel, face breaking into a wide smile, big smile. You’re dashing to him before you realize, drawn naturally.
“Frank? Oh my god, hi,” your arms already winding around him waist, pressing your face against his chest to feel the steady thud, thud, thud of his heart. Your safe place. Your home. “What— I wasn’t expecting you,” with a breathy laugh. “What’re you doing here?”
“Congratulatin’ my girl, yeah?” He binds his arms around you. Gives a loving nudge of his stubbled chin on your forehead to ease you back, get access, and find your mouth with his.
Lifted on your tiptoes, your weight braced by Frank’s forearm banded across your lower back, you tip your head to get a better taste. Lips slotted deeper—easy to blame your excitement on the surprise—you hum a sound Frank laps off your mouth.
You want seconds. You consider seconds, delight teetering to greedy, so you compromise with two pecks and pull back to look him in the eye. Hands on his biceps for support, head tilted back so your lashes fan your eyebrow, you beam up at him.
“Damn,” Frank blinks, halfway disoriented. “I get that every time I bring flowers?”
“Stop by more often and you’ll find out.”
“Yeah? Gonna let me in, give me a tour?”
“Maybe more than a tour, if you’re lucky.”
“Luck’s drawn to me like flies on shit.”
You snort. “…Right.”
Separating a fraction, Frank offers the flowers to you in the space between his chest. Your eyes fall to them, face softening. Gentle with appreciation, over the bundle of white lilies, you press another kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” you murmur against him. “These are beautiful. For being a hard ass, you’re kinda romantic, Frank.“
“Romantic, huh?” Frank watches the shape of your body as you go to tend to the flowers. “Can’t let you get used t’that.”
“Too late.” You flash a small smile in his direction, acknowledging what you both know: Frank’s not romantic in the big ways, but he loves you so much weaker men would’ve gone stupid.
While you cut the stems over the wastebasket, Frank performs a simple recon of the room. Finds evidence of his target. A blazer thrown over the back of a chair. A half-drank coffee. Sloppy handwriting over an abandoned notepad.
“Your friend here?” Frank asks, anything but innocent.
Snip. Snip. You glance at him with a raised brow. “Stephanie?”
“Nah.” Frank points at the notebook. “Him.”
Sn…ip… Skepticism setting in, your nose scrunches. “…Jason?”
“Yeah. Him. He around?”
“Does it matter?”
“Figured I should meet the guy spendin’ forty hours a week up my wife’s ass.”
You shoot a glare, lacking any real depth. “…He’s gone for the day.”
“And left his shit in here like this?” Frank wants to say he’s an inconsiderate slob. Frank refrains from pointin’ out the guy’s makin’ himself at home in your space.
“It’s three things,” you quirk a brow. “Not a big deal.”
“He gonna be back tomorrow?”
“We have a meeting at nine a.m. sharp, so I’m gonna hope so.”
“Good,” Frank concludes, satisfied. That works, too.
Stalks trimmed, you arrange the lilies in a vase, fingers hanging on the glass rim when you’re finished. “Forget about him,” you shake your head. “You’re here, visiting me, it’s just the two of us, and you definitely made my day. I couldn’t be happier right now, Frank.”
“Yeah?” Something rare and short-lived flashes in his eyes; the look where he’s still trying to believe this—you—are his. “Guess I did my job.” With the heel of his boot, he knocks the door shut. Prowls the rest of the way to you, his hands at home on your hips to draw you right up against him.
Your arms snake around his neck, melting into the solidity of Frank. By the bill, you ease his hat off, seeing him in the full, natural light of the windows behind you. Hat in your hands, his head bent, you reach up and kiss the crook of his nose. And again, on the bridge. And again, on the tip. And falling lower, to his mouth.
There’s no tentative introduction. Not when your arms buckle around him and jerk him closer. Not when his mouth opens, inseparable from you, to taste the seam of your lips. You hiccup something dangerously close to a moan, stifled by the palm that cups your jaw, the big fingers that press into either side of your cheeks to lightly mush your lips.
“‘Bout to start somethin’ we won’t be able to walk away from,” Frank goads on your mouth, voice reduced to hot husk and need.
Upper lip twitching, your teeth clink against his. “Can’t get my outfit dirty. I’ve got a presentation in twenty.”
“All’s I need’s ten.”
“…To finish?”
“You.” Boot hooked around the chair leg, Frank yanks it over. Drops down into it, knees spread wide. Looking up at you, his stare inevitable and dark, Frank pats his thigh. “Sit. Wanna show you how good the city can look from up here.”
You forget everything—especially the presentation in twenty—while you overlook the city in your new office, on your husband’s lap, his hand between your legs and the other over your mouth, his boots hooking your ankles open.
You forget about the flowers on display in your desk. Frank communicates through the flowers he buys. You should’ve known. Should’ve read into it more. But you didn’t.
A harbinger in the form of velvet petals and the color of purity, specifically picked by Frank: the lilies.
The funeral flower.
☠︎
That night…
Wasn’t anything unusual when you texted Frank that afternoon with a change of plans:
Going out for drinks after work! Stephanie’s driving me there. Pick me up after? Come a little early to help stage my escape and we can go somewhere else to have a few together. Xoxoxo
Frank replied:
I’ll be there, sweetheart. Count on it.
So he was.
Bar stinks. Smells like fuckin’ shit. Not actual shit. Bullshit—worst kind. Full moon’s got people squirrelly. Has Frank on edge.
Tucked on the other side of the room, corner high top, Frank monitors you from afar. Won’t interrupt your time out. Doesn’t like people much, anyway. Sipping his beer, bottle small in his grasp, Frank clocks the faces he knows from your work, watches every interaction. Even if he hasn’t met ‘em, he’s done his homework. Has faces to names, street addresses, registered vehicles. Five coworkers with you, and a sixth, unattended drink beside you.
Who could that be?
The rock in Frank’s gut says he knows. Says it’s divine intervention, givin’ him an opportunity. A gift. Wonders if Red’d see it that way, too.
Fuck, sweetheart, you glow under the shitty neon lights and grimy haze of smoke. Too damn pretty for a place like this. Kinda place where if you go out back? You’ll get gutted while a handful of bikers smoke and it’s your own fault for havin’ the balls.
Feeling Frank’s stare, you look through the crowd, finding him at his usual post. You lift your glass. Frank lifts his. A salutation from a distance, a promise for more time together later in a cheers, a sip, and a smile.
You go back to your friends.
Frank resumes guard, ensuring your safety, so you can focus on enjoying yourself.
Turning back to the bar, the animated chatter of tipsy talking, inebriated laughter, you feel… good. Happy. Elbows on the sticky counter, the vodka soda in both hands, you smile. Content now, knowing later promises the best kind of fun, but it’s just you, Frank, and the entire night.
You don’t have long to indulge in the thoughts. Jason sidles back up beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours in the congested room. He smells like aftershave, smells good, honestly, not in a hungry way, just respectable. He smells like he tried.
“Everything go okay at your doctor’s appointment?” you ask, nudging at the reason he left the office early today.
“Doctor’s appointment?” Jason fires back before he realizes. “Oh, right. Yeah, definitely. Doctor’s appointment went good, went well… Just… routine.”
You hum, nod along, but as you look at his profile—conversational attention—you notice the clean clipper passes through his hair. And then at his jaw, the skin faintly red, leftover friction of a razor blade. So he… went to the doctor… got a haircut… shaved… and then you notice his clothes… Dark dress jeans, a fitted quarter-zip. Jason’s not a bad looking guy, but he’s definitely not your type either. Too clean, too concerned with gaining, obtaining instead of sharing or supporting. Talks a little too much about crap he can convince you knows a lot about, even if he knows nothing. Helps him at work, and he knows it.
“I hope I’m not prying here, surely you won’t mind me asking…” Jason says, not asking permission, taking it anyway. He faces you completely, elbow on the bar. He looks down, thumbing the rim of his old fashioned, pensive as an act. “Is your husband… good to you?”
Almost swallowing your straw, you spit it out in a stuttered cough, brows over your head. “What?”
“You seem really… tense all the time. You said yourself, he’s intense.”
You bubble a genuine, incredulous laugh. “My husband’s not the problem. He’s intense, sure, but that’s not a downfall.”
“It is if you’re distracted and uneasy.”
“I’m— what?” you belt out, face screwed. It’s the first you’re hearing about being distracted, uneasy, or tense. “I’m at work. We have deadlines, high stakes, high pressure. Home isn’t the problem.”
Jason draws a clicking breath between his teeth, as if he knew you’d say that, and you’re still wrong. Kind, compassionate, even, he looks at you with enough sympathy to drown you.
“I think for you, work’s a break. I’m just looking out for you, definitely not trying to be the bad guy here, you know I’d never do that,” Jason raises his hands to claim innocence. “What I’m trying to say is… you deserve someone… nice.”
“Like you?” you prompt, heart thrumming with Frank’s accusation from days ago.
Jason shrugs, biting back a smirk since you said it. “Something for you to think about. I mean, look at all the time we spend together. Calls, staying later than we have to in the office… I know you, I see you in those quiet moments.”
Bewildered by the audacity, brain turning the words over multiple times as you put together a rebuttal. “You call me, Jason. You- you have questions, need help on a sheet… I answer and stay because I’m supposed to. It’s called being a good coworker, not attraction.”
“But you answer. Every time. And you never tell me you have to go. You stay on the line, stay in the office… with me. What’s that say about you? Your marriage?” Jason gauges your reaction. Pushes harder. “What’s the say about us?”
Jaw hanging, your mind races to the last long call you had with Jason. That night Frank cornered you at the counter, kissing and biting your neck, your jaw, trying to coax your attention to home, to him. You told Jason you were home. You vocalized polite deflections that hinted the conversation needed to end. But… this is where being polite got you, stuck with the ideas of yourself you continuously reject, watching them come to fruition. You resist the urge to yell for Frank. You know, desperately, Frank can make the problems go away, remove you from this equation, but Frank can’t fight all of your battles for you.
“You,” you say, cocking a hip out, your jaw jutted. “You need to learn your place. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go to the bathroom, and when I come back? This never happened, and it will never happen again. Are we clear?”
Giving him no time to respond—the only answer is yes—you storm off. Shoulder through the crowd, and close yourself in the bathroom to cool down.
Frank watched the whole thing. Waited for you to give the signal. The: Frank, I need you over here signal. You never did. You wanted to handle it on your own. Alright. Frank respects that. Admires it. But seein’ you walk off like that? Shit. No stayin’ out of it now.
No stayin’ out of it when…
At the bar, Jason rummages in his pocket, hands trembling with urgency. Pulls out a baggie, small, coke-sized. No coke in it. Just five peach, oblong tablets.
Violent inspiration for Frank.
Jason digs a finger in the baggie. Scoops out two pills. Drops a third on the floor with a hissed curse, fumbling for it.
Sockets yank loose in Frank’s head, vision going red. Tendons cable through his neck, breath ragged and shallow; an animal without a leash. Frank chains himself with a fist around his beer bottle, squeezing tighter.
If that pill goes into your fuckin’ drink…
Tighter.
Frank shoulda taken this sick fuck out in his own home, do it on his turf, repaint the sonnuva bitch’s apartment with his brains.
Tighter. The glass creaks. Whines. The bottle quakes.
Ghosts in his palms, clear as day, Frank jolts as he feels old bones and old corpses break in his fingers. Hundreds—thousands—dismantled by the hands he uses to love you.
The noises start. You know the ones. The guttural reeving of a man-made machine; an element of pure fucking consequence.
Tighter. To demolish.
The bottle explodes. Glass bursts. Beer flies.
Jason drops two tablets into your drink. Through the swarm of people, Frank sees the drugs contaminate, spreading poison without your fuckin’ consent.
Instinct and action converge—then explode.
Before Jason can lower his hand, Frank tears through the masses. Not a man. A weapon. Retribution. Vengeance. Divine wrath.
The fuckin’ judge, jury, and executioner.
Punishment.
Pain reaching him before realization does, Jason screams. Bloodcurdling agony scratches out the music, the clamor, all fuckin’ sound. Brain catching up to the excruciating pain, the cause of it, Jason stares at the snare of his wrist. What’s left of it. Snapped back, hand hanging off the wrist, bone spearing under the skin in fractured protrusions.
If not for the pain, it’s the sound that puts the fear of god in Jason.
It’s Frank.
In the span of two seconds, Frank bounces Jason’s head on the counter with a wet crack of skull, heel of his hand pinning him in place. The glass—your glass—absorbing the drug magnifies Jason’s skittering eyes, his stammering breath painting the countertop.
“Puttin’ shit in a girl’s drink, huh?” Frank spits, smashing Jason’s head until it purples.
Everyone gives Frank a wide berth. Whispers of The Punisher start to circulate, always do on this side of town.
“I didn’t-! I-I-I—” Jason sputters, spittle and fear flying.
“You DID!” Frank roars, slam, slam, slamming Jason’s head for a three count, blood sprinkling the wood. “You think I’m stupid, hm? Talkin’ to me like I’m fuckin’ stupid? You think I look stupid?”
“No- no! No! God, no!” Anything to get off the hook.
“Then don’t fuck with me like I’m fuckin’ stupid. Now,” Frank cages Jason in from behind, a massive hand squeezing between his cheeks to pry open his mouth. “Drink it. You were gonna feed this shit to my wife. You drink it.”
Frank lifts the glass as Jason pounds the counter with his good hand, smearing his face in a desperate bid for escape.
As the narcotized drink teeters the rim of the glass, ready to spill over into Jason’s pleading, incessant mouth, a voice—concerned, still sweet—cuts through the thick of it.
Your voice.
“F-Frank?” Legs jellied from shock, you shuffle forward, the herd parting for you. “What’s going on…?”
Frank looks over his shoulder. Right to you. Jesus, his heart almost gives out. You. His wife. Precious, delicate, so fuckin’ good the scum of the earth tries to eat ya. Frank won’t let that happen. “Hey, sweetheart, no problem. Havin’ a civil conversation with hotshot here about human decency. Caught your breath’a fresh air spikin’ your drink, s’all.”
A green-tinge floods your face. “Oh—? Oh… my god…” The ground beneath you swirls. A hand on your stomach to keep the vomit in, other hand curling into a fist, you grit your question through your teeth. “Why?”
Jason huffs, all panted breath and nowhere to run. “Because,” he hisses, grunting when Frank pinches the back of his neck like scruff. “Because you’re special.”
☠︎
Jason’s thrown into the brick wall of the back alley with a heavy slap of limp meat.
“Tell me what the fuck that was!” Frank yells, words clawed from his throat.
Intimidation tactic, galvanic rage with nothing to do but bleed, Frank slugs his fist into the wall by Jason’s face, letting him cower and piss and beg while he feels the fury sailing an intentional centimeter off mark.
“Fuckin’ tell me. Tell me. Tell me.”
Bam. Bam. Bam.
In harmony with the strike of his fist.
The drizzle of piss on the ground’s the fucker’s first answer.
“It- it wasn’t—” choked on his own terror, Jason tries to crawl up the wall. “It wasn’t bad! I swear! It- it wasn’t roofies or anything, just- just something to help her relax. It was just Xan—”
And with a shark to blood… there comes the frenzy.
“You don’t decide what my wife fuckin’ needs! She’s a strong woman—“ wham, an uppercut straight into Jason’s solar plexus. “She’s fuckin’ strong. Goddamn right she’s special.”
Blood gurgling from his mouth, Jason groans, tries to double-over.
Tries.
“Stand the fuck up. Ain’t finished with you,” Frank clocks him back, velocity of his punch leaving Jason damn-near crucified on the wall. “Take it like a fuckin’ man since that’s what you wanna be. Controllin’ women like that. Fuck.”
Weak men are what’s wrong with the world.
“She’s the only good thing I fuckin’ got. You fuckin’ hear me? Huh?”
No reply. Just the sputtering cries of a grown man in crisis. Music to Frank’s ears.
“I said—” Frank latches onto both of Jason’s ears. Rips. Blood gushes out as the seams start to separate. “YOU FUCKIN’ HEAR ME?”
The shrieking says he’s heard. And felt.
Leaves ‘em connected even if he shouldn’t.
Frank thinks about you. His girl. Your grin over that chai latte. Your laugh in his ear late at night while you narrate a documentary on fuckin’ whales. Halloween night those years ago, same picture on your desk now. Slow dancin’ in the kitchen to your terrible music, half asleep, tucked into him like he’s safety instead of a biblical reckoning.
And this motherfucker was gonna do only god knows what to you.
Frank snaps back when Jason hacks up blood.
“You stay away from her,” Frank’s fists ball in Jason’s collar, nose to nose, teeth bared as verbalized venom poisons the air. “Look me in the eye and tell me you fuckin’ hear me. Say it. Fuckin’ say it. Say: I hear you, Frank. I get you, Frank. Say: sorry I’m a stupid cunt, Frank. Say: I deserve everythin’ comin’ my way.”
Jason recites every word, verbatim, through chattering teeth. Calls himself a stupid cunt. Says he hears Frank, gets Frank, deserves this.
“Are- are you gonna kill me?” Sprawled pliant on the wall, shirt catching the rough brick, reduced to a stuck hog instead of a man.
“Yeah,” Frank says simply. “Yeah. ‘M gonna need to do that.”
And Frank unloads.
☠︎
1 Week Later…
Sun’s hot on Frank’s back, even at seven in the morning. Sweat funnels down his back, soaking his tee. Been up before the sun digging the shit for a proper burial. Size twelve shoebox duct taped shut and off to the side.
Grunting, Frank stakes the shovel back in the ground, adding to the mounds of fresh dirt on either side of his boots. Hole in the ground sized for a dismembered man in a garbage bag.
Shovel leaned against his side, Frank wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. Sweat smears dirt. Looks up at the sky. Blue as can be. Bright as hell. Looks a lot like forgiveness. Or deception. Frank can’t tell these days.
Readjusting the handle in his blistered palms, spade ready to pierce the dirt, the back door creaks open. Gets his attention.
Frank straightens in sections of his vertebrae, squinting against the halo of sunlight around… you.
You walk out, barefoot in the grass, sleep-soft in your pajamas yet. And you bring coffee. An angel. His angel.
Frank lets go of a breath he didn’t know he held. “I’ll be up soon, yeah?” he calls. Doesn’t stop you. “Dirty work out here you don’t need t’see, sweetheart.”
You ignore the advice, shuffling your way right to him on an invisible track. When you reach him, you pass a mug of coffee.
Dirt-lined fingers clasp it by the rim, taking a generous sip through the billow of steam. “Mm,” he hums, angling from the pit in the ground and towards you instead, eyes sliding down the satin set blessing your curves. “What’re you doin’ out here, huh?”
“Bringing you coffee. Enjoying the sun,” you sip from your own cup, eyes locked on him.
“Ain’t complainin’.”
“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you murmur, curling into Frank’s side.
The hole in front of you two. But it doesn’t bother you. Maybe it should, but… it doesn’t. Not how you thought it might.
Frank leans down. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. Drapes an arm over your shoulders lightly, afraid of dirtying you, too. “Yeah,” Frank agrees. “Didn’t have to.” He shrugs. “Wanted to.”
“Kinda looks big enough for a body in a garbage bag,” you tilt your head, lips pursed in thought. “You know, if you chopped him up.”
Frank raises a brow. “Screwy thoughts for a pretty little thing like you so early,” but he stamps two kisses your temple like he approves.
You hum, chin inclining for more affection. “To be fair… Twinkles was a really fat cat. It’s nice of you to do this for Ms. Jenkins.”
“The lady’s, what? A hundred? Ain’t gonna make her dig the damn hole for her own cat.”
You laugh, quiet and soft for the morning. Warms Frank right up.
Pretending your top needs adjusting, Frank smooths the fabric at your shoulder, fingertips dragging down your arm, landing at the small of your back. Light touch. Featherlight. Keeps you clean. “You alright, sweetheart?” Quieter, with the weight of last week.
Your chest inflates with a slow, steady breath. Coffee in one hand, other splaying over Frank’s stomach, you think. Then nod. “Yeah, I’m… okay. A little fucked up over it all, but I’m okay. I’m good.”
“Alright. Good. We good?”
“We’re good. More than good.”
“S’long as we’re good.”
“I got an update, by the way…”
Frank tucks his chin, looking down at you in the closeness. “Yeah?”
“Yeah… got the email this morning. Jason’s been relocated to another building. So he must be out of the hospital.”
“Hm,” Frank hides the satisfaction with indifference. “Good.”
“…to another state.”
“Even better.”
“Hey,” you shift. “I’ve been meaning to say a few things… Like I’m sorry. And thank you.”
“Ah,” Frank shakes his head. “Don’t owe me nothin’.”
“I owe you an apology for not believing you.” You slide in front of him, reaching up to span your hand over his stubbled cheek. “You warned me. You were right. I didn’t listen. I… couldn’t see what you saw. About the situation, about… me.”
Frank leans into your touch, brows knitting before they relax. “Always lookin’ out f’you. Don’t need to apologize for believin’ someone’s good.”
“I need to be more aware.”
“Nah,” Frank turns his head in. Kisses your palm. “You stay sweet. You leave the cynicism t’me. What you need t’do, though, sweetheart?” Frank drops the shovel. Wipes his mouth on his shoulder. “Believe in yourself. Ain’t nothin’ in here that’ll change how people see you,” Frank says, tapping his finger against your sternum. “This’s good. Special. You. Can’t go all your life with doubt. It’ll rein you in. Keep you there. Won’t let you go far.”
You drop your forehead to his chest, his sweat placating the old wounds. “I know…”
“We’ll work on it.”
It’s a promise. A plan.
“Thank you,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. “I never said thank you. Thank you for… looking out for me. Being patient. Doing everything in your power to keep the world from hurting me. Even when I’m the one hurting myself with my doubts. Especially then.”
Frank tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Dips in, his nose nudging yours. “Nothin’s gonna take you from me, yeah? Bubble wrap you if I got to. I got you, baby.”
Hand sliding to his neck, you draw him down. Kiss him. Slow and easy, intimate in the understanding of what this man, your husband, will do for you. The extent he’ll go to.
Drawing back, he nips your bottom lip. Replaces your mouth with a drink. Not the same warmth, but it’ll do. For now.
Arm around his waist, nestled back into his side, you stand with the question that’s burned you most. Until you can’t. “…Why’d you stop?”
Frank turns his head to you. You look up at him. You see each other in the light of a new day. A quiet day. “You wouldn’t want that, yeah? Pretty girl. Everything I do’s f’you.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“We should probably finish burying Twinkles. I think Ms. Jenkins is watching from her window.”
content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.
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Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss
in which rookie!reader helps Ghost find the right skincare to get rid off the stains from the eye paint he uses
cw: fluff, tf141 cameos, platonic/romantic, very silly and fluffy
————
“We’re going Tesco, c’mon.”
The door shuts behind him as he disappears into the bathroom with muffled grumbles echoing around the room. Sure, you did go with him grocery shopping every now and then, but you didn't have anything to buy right now. Plus, you were on the third day of your period and Soap’s training course had you knocked out.
It’s a few moment later when he comes out, surgical mask in place and a black cap covering his head as he stands over your bed. “What are you doing? Come on.”
You’re sprawled like a starfish, eyes barely closed as you stare up at the ceiling. “Body hurts, don't wanna.” You wait for the door to shut again as he leaves without you, but instead you feel two hands on your legs dragging you off of the bed.
“Hey!”
————-
You follow him through the aisles, occasionally stopping to grab a thing or two to add to your own basket. “So why did you suddenly want to go shopping anyway? Didn't we go a few days ago?”
The shelves of chocolates are full for once, probably because everyone is mourning the fact they melt so fast in the summer heat. Oh well, at least you can grab some ice cream instead— if that’s not bare already. You turn to face him where he’s checking something on his phone, walking over to sneak a Haribo bag into his basket.
“Lt you got a bit of—“ His eyes lock onto your frozen finger on his cheek, as if realising what you had just done before instantly recoiling it back to your side. “Think you forgot to remove all your paint.” You manage to stammer out, cheeks burning hot as you look away.
“It won't come off.” He grumbles himself, turning away from you almost like he’s embarrassed himself.
“Oh, so that’s why we’re here.” You have to hold in your giggle, because it was quite comical that he couldn't remove it from his face, and also it explains all his annoyed cursing in the bathroom earlier. “Alright, let’s go to the skincare section then.”
—————
After chomping down the cookie you got from the bakery, you start unpacking the cotton pads and micellar water he bought, as well as the brand new cleanser. Just in case it wasn't enough. He’s standing in the bathroom, since you insisted on helping him, keeping his eyes fixated on the mirror and his arms crossed over his chest.
“Mm okay, so first you’re gonna wash your face.” You swallow down the last bite, and place the bottles down on the counter, the tap running as he follows your instructions. “Okay, now a bit of this micellar water on a cotton pad..” You hold it between your index and thumb, reaching up like you had before to do it yourself before pausing.
“Go on.” He sighs and you grin, swiping it across his face until most of the paint comes off. Unfortunately some bits are still a little stubborn. “Hm, okay, guess this cleanser will have to be done too.” You pump two blobs of the liquid into your hands, rubbing them to create the foamy result before smiling up at him.
He rolls his eyes before reluctantly letting you lather it across his face, ignoring the way your thumbs rub it gently across his cheeks and minding his eyes. He rinses it off after, checking his face in the mirror to find it totally clean like you promised.. maybe a little bit brighter.
“Thanks.” He pats the water away with a towel, ready to just head to bed until you tug him back. “What?”
“In the nicest way possible, your skin is drier than bushes before a wildfire.” You frown, reaching into the small box of products you keep in the corner for your moisturiser.
You reach forward, trying to smear it in his face but he backs up, swatting your hands away. “I don't need that—“
“You do!” He manages to slip past you back into the room and you groan, following after him. “Dont you get annoyed with how dry it is? Come on, just a bit.”
“No.”
“Fine. Have ashy skin for all I care.” You stick your tongue out at him, rubbing the moisturiser into your arms instead before making your way back to the bathroom. Great, your whole body still hurts, you finished your only sweet treat, and it wasn't even Friday today. Plus you’re pretty sure you might’ve just gotten on your Lieutenant’s nerves by being way too friendly there. You splash the water across your face and grab your cleanser, practically the only step of your skincare routine since life is way too busy for the million step ones on social media most days. Even if you do have a bunch of bottles waiting to be used.
You step out of the bathroom soon after, feeling the exhaustion weigh down your bones as you kick your socks off by your bed.
“You’re sulking.” He’s sitting on his bed, phone open though he’s not really paying attention at all, in fact his shoulders seem a little stiff.
“I’m not.” You huff, shaking your sheets before letting them settle on the mattress again.
“You are.” He scoffs, the bed creaking as he slowly stands and approaches you as you clean up your bed. “ Y’mad at me?”
“If you didn't want my help, I don't know why you dragged me all the way to Tesco. Some people don't have the nice privilege of a fancy office and a comfy chair.” You grumble back, even though you most definitely are still a little scared of him; you’ll definitely regret this all at 2am tomorrow. Then again..he’s been acting real mean lately, always teasing and embarrassing you. It’s not fair if you cant quip back once or twice.
“I also work in the special forces, the chair is a small comfort.” He rolls his eyes, though he cant deny he did essentially drag you out just to pick out a few products you easily could’ve just shown him a picture of.
You want to say more, maybe something really sarcastic he can tell, but you clamp your mouth shut and suddenly that feels worse than anything else. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Now you just look like a pitiful mutt on the side of the road or something.” He grabs your hand, stopping you from climbing into bed and essentially forcing you to look up at him. “What d’ya want from me, woman? My lunch money?”
“That’d be a start.” You frown and he groans, pinching his brow between his fingers. He’s exaggerating it too much for once, proper rolling his eyes and all.
“Fine. You can put your stupid skincare stuff on me, but no more sulking. And no one hears about this, alright?”
———————
He’s laying down as per your instruction, mask discarded and dressed in his pajamas; the only thing different is the fluffy headband keeping the hair out his face. You’re sitting next to him with an arrangement of bottles, ones he’s sure haven't seen the light of day in months but you’ve pulled out just for him. Great.
“Is this really how you want to spend your evening?” He says as he watches you pull out a packet, one that looks oddly like a face mask.
“No take backsies now, Simon.” You smile and he groans for the fifth time that hour. “Close your eyes.” He listens though instantly winces at the coldness of the clay mixture you spread across his face, instinctively opening one eye.
“This is freezing you know.” You roll your eyes at his complaints, continuing to spread it across his cheeks, nose and forehead. “Why’re there little bits in it? I thought it was s’posed to be smooth.”
“To exfoliate your skin, idiot. Hell, you need it with how long you keep that mask on.” He frowns at your words, making you grin just a bit wider as you spread the last dollop on his chin. “Okay, gotta let it sit for ten minutes now.”
“Ten? I have to wait for ten whole minutes?” He opens his eyes properly again, staring at you in disbelief and you just chuckle as you reach for your laptop.
“We can watch something in the meantime, or I can get us something to drink?” You offer, tilting your head and he’s about to scoff and insist he can make himself something when he realises how stupid he must look with this on his face. Great.
“Put channel four on, or something. Must be something on.”
You end up watching ten minutes worth of police interceptors, which mostly consists of you both criticizing how stupid the criminals are until your phone buzzes. He watches you hop off the bed towards the bathroom, dampening a tissue before you return to his side once more. “Gonna wipe it all off now.” You hum, watching the hardened clay come off his face as you swipe it across.
“Didn't realise how stiff that made me..” He mutters as he moves his jaw and you snicker, knowing weird how those masks can feel sometimes. “Do feel a bit fresher though.” He sits upright, checking his phone alarm is set at the right time but you shake your head insistently.
“You’re not done yet, Simon. Still got like four more steps to do!”
“For fucks sake..” He sighs, allowing himself to be pushed back down onto the pillows as you spray something onto a round cotton pad.
Surprisingly he keeps quiet this time as you use the toner on his skin, tracing the curves of his face until you’re satisfied. The sound of glass bottles clink by his ear before a cold liquid drops on his cheeks, making his eyelashes flutter though still shut like you instructed him to do. Again, your fingers spread the cool serum across his skin, refreshing each part of his face. You hardly even hesitate on the scars though he expects you to, instead making sure the product is spread evenly.
“Alright.. now we wait for that to sink in and then moisturiser.” You mumble to yourself, packing up everything else into the small bag you usually keep it in. It takes a small effort to get it to fit before you finally huff in relief, heading over to place it back in the bathroom cabinet.
You put two dollops of the cream in your hand before returning to him, the lights dimmed when the hour ticked closer to ten. “Don’t worry, this won't be cold.” For the last time that night, you let your hands glide across his face, mapping every curve and dip and show of bone. His eyelashes barely twitch, so you must be doing something right, even if you do linger a little too long on the smallest amount of pudge on his cheeks.
You smile to yourself as you finally finish, satisfied that you gave him a proper routine, and feeling rather happy despite your shitty day. “Okay, okay, ‘m all done now. I won't bother you anymore.” You say with a feigned huff, although he doesn't respond… not once. “Simon?”
You poke his cheek gently, only for his nose to twitch the slightest amount, head turning towards the touch but nothing more. Somehow, in the midst of your quiet chatter and gentle touches, Simon Riley had fallen asleep in your care.
Even though you’ve woken up countless times in the night to see him asleep, and even found him collapsed in bed after a mission, somehow this was different. He looked really relaxed, the creases in his face gone, and the usual frown in his brow evened out. Almost cute.
You giggle to yourself quietly as you slide off the bed, step carefully as you grab the duvet folded at the end and unravel it to bring him over. Today was a cooler day compared to the heatwave last week, and he did in fact grumble a lot about having to sleep with the blankets off.
Just watching him like this is a little creepy you think, but that doesn't stop you from snapping a picture on your phone like he always does to you. Finally, some damn good payback.
——
The rec room door opens easily with the key you snagged from his coat, your water bottle in hand. It’s not your fault they had freezing cold water in there and your throat was absolutely parched. You unscrew the cap, emptying out any old water before refilling it with the fridge dispenser. You check the water levels inside, seeing that they’re a bit low and deciding to refill it for the next person.
“Heat gettin’ to you too?” You jump immediately, spilling some of the water on yourself and on the floor.
“Shit— Captain- I- i didn't know you’d come by this late-“ You scramble to wipe up the spill, using practically your trouser leg at this point since you had no idea where the mop was— or if they even had one.
He chuckles, pressing his own glass to the dispenser until it fills halfway before gulping it down almost immediately. It’s quite a sight to see the Captain dressed in a plain black t-shirt, the hem of his plaid pajama bottoms peeking out of a pair of trousers he must’ve haphazardly pulled on. Though his room wasn't more than a minute walk from here. “Didn't mean to scare you, I'm pretty sure that’s Simon’s job. Where… is he?”
You blink, but to be fair it was a completely reasonable question since you’d never usually be caught dead in here without him. “Oh, um.. he fell asleep.”
That does surprise Price, making him raise a brow at you immediately. “Really? I didn't think our training today was that intensive— guess he could’ve done more in the gym on his own.”
You swallow a large gulp of your own water, nodding along to his words. “I dunno, he came back earlier and insisted we go to Tesco. I was confused, i mean not gonna lie, i’m bloody tired but he dragged me! So then i realised his eyeblack he uses under his balaclava hadn't come off properly so i figured he needed some better remover ‘n i got him some micellar water n’ stuff.”
His lips quirk up in a smile, one hand brushing his beard down as he tries to hide the very clear amusement on his face. Simon wasn't some dark force, but you had a way of describing him that he couldn’t help but find hilarious. “So that’s it? He just needed to clean it off?”
“Well— no, I said he needed some moisturiser too, and he wouldn't let me put any on him!” You huff at the thought of it, one hand coming up to cover your mouth as a yawn slips through. “Anyway, I managed to convince him to let me do his skincare. Just a face mask and a few serums.. before I knew it he was fast asleep.”
“Well, now I have to see this.”
——————
Simon woke up the next morning way easier than usual, not like he doesn't usually get up almost immediately anyways. But today it was like he had gotten a full eight hours, which was weird since he always somehow felt he underslept. You’re fast asleep in your own bed, since he always wakes up an hour before you anyway, and so he takes the opportunity to take the first shower.
He decides to stop by the rec room for his coffee, tapping the keycard against the door as he enters. He pulls out the drawer beneath the machine, choosing out the usual pod he goes for and clicks it into the machine.
“Morning, Simon.” He hears Kyle chirp as he enters the room, grabbing his porridge from the counter and emptying it into the bowl. The Sergeant is dressed in his pajamas— most of them got to lazy by Friday morning’s anyway.
“Mornin’ Kyle. Sleep well?” He taps the counter as the coffee machine blinks at him, still not done even if it’s finished dispensing.
“Aswell as i can with that mission comin’ up, but i’ll—-“ His words are cut through by a sudden choke of laughter, forcing Simon to turn to where he stands before the fridge. “Oh my days—“
Stuck with a cookie monster magnet is a picture of him sleeping or rather, him snoozing through Price and you posing beside him with cucumbers laid across his eyes. You bastards.
“Simon oh my go—“ Johnny must’ve snuck in at some point, currently standing near the small notice board where there’s another picture stuck. Simon grabs the picture before quickly marching over to where Johnny is, trying to ignore the rising flush on his cheeks. This one consists of him still sleeping, although you’ve surrounded him with plenty of your plushies to the point he must’ve instinctively turned and curled into them. He grabs this one too, huffing at the two sergeants.
“I’m gonna kill ‘er.”
“Oh come on— it’s a bit funny, no?” Kyle reaches for the picture in his hand but he moves away, only making him follow him around the room for it. “Can’t I keep it Simon? I think it’d look great tucked into my cap, maybe I'll look at it lovingly on my longer deployments.”
“Unfortunately that’s the only copy.” Price enters the rec room with his lips pulled into a casual smile like he hadnt just ruined Simon’s entire week. Maybe month— no, year.
“Morning, Captain.” He grumbles, crushing the picture in his fist.
“Your coffee is going cold, Lieutenant. Though your cheeks look like you’ve been drinking it already.”
“Woah, Lt, i didn't know you could go pink!” Johnny makes his way over though he doesnt make it before Simon pulls his mask on properly, sending him a glare before huffing his way out of the door with a quick slam.
“Was that really the only copy, Cap?” Kyle turns, holding his bowl up to his chin as he swallows down a scoop of the oats.
He practically snorts, shaking his head immediately. “Oh, absolutely not, there’s even different angles. I’ll only share a peek for every extra lap you do though.”
----------------------------------------
Rookie masterlist
OK LAST ONE B4 I START WORKING ON OTHER FICS i swear, also rookie defo woke up and yawned like nothing happened meanwhile simon is HUNTING her ass
knight!simon who's assigned as your personal royal guard after years serving in the king's guard. he's notorious throughout the castle for his loyalty, silence, and for his helment, which he is never seen without. everyone seems terrified of him, only making the pit in your stomach worsen when your father announces he'll be assigned to protect you.
he approaches after the ceremony and, to your surprise, drops to one knee before you.
"i will protect you with my life, my lady." heat creeps up your cheeks.
knight!simon who's suddenly everywhere. one step behind you during your daily walks, standing at your side during court, waiting outside the dining room. even at night, he's stationed outside your bedroom door, stoic as a sentinel while the rest of the castle sleeps.
eventually, you grow tired of the silence trailing behind you everywhere.
"is it true you never take off that helmet or is that all just castle gossip?"
to your surprise, he answers almost immediately, his voice rough from hours without speaking.
"aye. it's true, my lady."
you tilt your head, suddenly finding your new guard far more interesting than you'd expected.
knight!simon who follows you to the library day after day, listening while you ramble about whichever novel you've buried yourself in that week. he tells himself he's only listening because it's his duty to remain attentive, but before long he's genuinely invested in your stories, having to straighten back into perfect posture whenever anyone wanders into the library unexpectedly.
knight!simon who notices your loneliness long before anyone else does.
he realizes you linger in the gardens longer than necessary because no one comes looking for you. that you spend entire afternoons in the library because books make better company than the court. that the only person you really get to speak to anymore is him.
knight!simon who slowly grows fond of you over the passing months.
he makes sure you never leave without your coat when winter settles over the kingdom, carries your books from one wing of the castle to the other without you ever asking, keeps an especially close watch of the corridor outside your bedroom whenever he notices the sound of your bath running.
maybe one day he's bold enough to bring you a book he'd heard you mention weeks ago. another day, a flower from the royal gardens somehow finds its way onto your windowsill. sometimes he gets bold enough to speak a little too honestly, but only when the two of you are alone.
"you look lovely today, my lady."
he only says it because he loves the smile it earns him. he's grateful for the helmet hiding the way his eyes threaten to linger on you.
knight!simon who refuses to call you by your name. he may be your guard, your confidant, perhaps even your closest friend, but you're still the princess. one day you'll marry a nobleman. when that happens, he'll stand in polished armor at your wedding, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and swear to protect you while watching another man promise to love you.
knight!simon who bites his tongue until it bleeds every time your father speaks of suitors.
princess!reader who doesn't truly dwell on the nature of your bond with your knight until the day a persistent noble corners you during a banquet, refusing to take the hint. simon is between the two of you before you can even think, one gauntleted hand planted firmly against the noble's chest as he forces him back without a single word.
after that, it's impossible not to see him differently. the broad shoulders beneath his armor. the easy confidence. the relentless devotion. the way he'd sworn to lay down his life for yours without ever asking for anything in return.
princess!reader who never looked at your knight quite the same after that day.
princess!reader who replays that moment over and over each night in your head, remembering the way he forced the noble away with a strength as quiet as it was commanding.
princess!reader whose thoughts wander a little too far one night, the years of aching loneliness shifting into a quiet, burning desire for the man just outside your door.
knight!simon who shifts uncomfortably in his armor one night, the metal suddenly growing far too tight around the groin, as your soft moans and sighs drift through the heavy wooden door, his name barely more than a whisper on your lips.
────────────
a/n: first time trying headcanons instead of a oneshot. do we hate this. did i do it.
also as an aside, i redesigned my acct a little bit, so hopefully it's easier to navigate now. have a good day guys :)
Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.
He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.
"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.
"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.
Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.
His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."
That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.
Until you. Until he met you.
You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.
"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."
Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."
He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.
"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."
Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.
He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.
"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."
simon has an ex wife, he doesn’t talk about her at all, the only one who knows about her is price. the rest of the team don’t even know he has one. it was something, something that left him only with a scratched pair of rings that he wears around his neck, and a photo of a sweet young woman holding a small baby between his books. not that he lets anyone see. not even price.
the new translator who comes to base cam’s head office, with her bright eyes and easy smile, and puts her child in the kindergarten. johnny loves her, when she makes his blue eyes crinkle in laughter. gaz has taken a liking to her and her toddler, since his room is next to hers, always bringing the two of them little treats from the mess. price who puts a large arm around her, always helping her out with being new. his office is right next to hers, and if she wants anything she just “ask.” he’s also giving her daughter, violet, piggyback rides.
ghost comes back from a mission, the past two months in deep cover. and price thumps his shoulder, “c’mon lad, there’s this lovely lass on base i’d like you to meet.”
and when he sees you, his heart crumbles into a thousand tiny shards.
three years ago you’d called it quits with your secondary school sweetheart for his emotional absence.
ghost looks at you, and then at the startling yet familiar brown of his daughter’s eyes.
tf 141 with newbie! reader who's got the hots for them. — 18+
kyle garrick
kyle, arguably, is the worst behaved around you because he doesn't mean to indulge you in the way he does. he's just so charming in a way that's practically unfair; his easy smile, that smooth voice that drops an octave when he speaks to you. kyle leans in when he talks and stands way too close than he needs to be, watching the way you stumble over your words and get all flustered when he gives you his full, undivided attention.
he figures out your crush real fast. watches the way your lips part and your breathing gets shallow when he's giving instructions or orders to you and respond with a breathy; "yes sir..." that comes out so lewd that it almost sounded as if he was fucking you. he'd been somewhat ashamed at the way his cock gave a dull throb at the sound of your voice.
he also notices how you nearly stumble over a root and fall on your face because you were too caught up in staring at him during the mandated morning jog around the base that he's leading.
how you freeze up when he leans over his shoulder during prep, murmuring praise into your ear when you spot a mistake. "so sharp, aren't you? knew you'd catch that, rookie." and he'll smile like some sort of angel when you stumble over your words like an idiot. sometimes he'll tilt his head and say things like; "you stare at everyone like that, or am i special?"
it'll come out so gently, too. said tongue in cheek, in a way that leaves room for plausible deniability while absolutely frying your brain.
he subtly indulges you too. he doesn't touch you where it would be obvious, just bumps you with his shoulder in passing and gives you a wink, brushes his knuckles against yours, fixes a strap that doesn't need readjustment.
and when you get overwhelmed and too hot and bothered his attention, he backs off just enough to seem considerate, then slips back into that mentor role that he'd long abandoned since he started this thing with you. he'll say, "easy, now. just breathe f'me."
as if it does anything but make you more dizzy. one might start to wonder if he's been winding you up on purpose.
ᥫ᭡.
johnny mactavish
johnny is a lot less subtle than kyle, to say the least. the minute he sees you trot onto base with your kit to move into what's meant to be your new home for the months you'll be training with the 141, he decides you're his. how could you not be? you'd caught his eye immediately, with the way you walk around with your head held high, that combined look of determination and nervousness in your big, shiny eyes, he couldn't help but want to stake claim on you before any of the guys did.
the nicknames start day one. bonnie, pretty eyes, lassie. he flits through them constantly, testing to see which ones make you short circuit the hardest. he practically croons them at you, too.
the first time he uses a name on you is when you're fussing with your combat uniform, trying to untangle the strap of your rifle from one of the buttons, when johnny swoops in to slide his hands over your body nice and slow before untangling you. "careful there. wouldn't want ya t'accidentally shoot yourself in the foot, hm?" you blink up at him dumbly while he grins roguishly, leaning down to ruffle your helmet over your hair. "there we go. much better, isn' that right, bon?"
you nearly passed out then, and he sees that. so he decides, since he likes to have fun and because everyone on base has been so boring lately and you've been so fucking cute and so eager to give him all the attention a man could want, that he'll entertain your cute little infatuation with him.
he keeps this up constantly. adds in handsiness, too. every time he passes you in the hall, if you make the tiniest mistake, if you just exist, he's there, touching a shoulder, nudging an elbow, murmuring one of his endless nicknames in that low, sing-song voice that has your face burning brighter than a sweltering sun. it gets worse, too. he amps the touching and does it in front of others to make his claim on you known, all the way up until one day, when you're on the field and did so well for your first real mission, he rushes up to you and gives you a big, mushy kiss in a very specific spot.
too far from your mouth to be the real thing, but too off from your cheek to make it an innocent gesture. if you turned your head slightly, or quirked your lips up just a tad, your mouths would be brushing. and he knows that. maybe when he tries it again you'll take the bait and kiss him on the mouth yourself so he can't get the blame for initiating things when he finally takes you off to his barracks to fuck you silly.
ᥫ᭡.
john price
price is not a flirter. not towards you, at least. he's seen your kind before. scrappy but willing to learn, a good kind of soil for him to plant his seed in, however that may be...
he's as encouraging to you as possible. he notices how good you respond to him when he does, how you stop in your tracks, face flushed and seemingly too nervous to breathe normally when he tells you; "thats my girl." or "good work there, kid." or "atta girl." he'll say these things to you while resting a huge hand on your shoulder or lower back, hand nice and firm on your body. sometimes, he'll even give you a good old pat on the ass to send you off on your way, despite being quite aware of all the depraved thoughts you have of him.
price has been trying to slip into a guiding, paternal role towards you to establish an entirely platonic bond between the two of you, but its not working at all. you start craving his approval, touch, and constant recognition more than air.
limits are pushed, but not intentionally. he's been teaching you dependency without ever acknowledging it verbally, but he knows. he knows everything. he sees other things about you, too. when you skip meals, when you're too tired to move at the same pace as everyone else, when you've been pushing yourself too hard to prove how good you are for him. and so he intervenes.
there's extra food slid your way, lighter assignments given to you, and regular, private check-ins while he tries to hold himself back from doing despicable things to you in his office when you cry into his chest about your bad day.
you don't make it easy, though. giving him eyes and pouting up at him as he holds your face and swipes your tears away and some drool from the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing a little too rough on your lower lip. he knows you'd feel so much better if he just let you suck on it. or something else.
ᥫ᭡.
simon riley
simon is a hoverer. he's constantly following behind you from a distance, watching you like a sniper would a target. from when one of the lads had mentioned how you've always been staring at him from across rooms and mentioning to your rookie friends how hot he was, he'd been curious to know why you hadn't the balls to say it to his face. he's not a fan of being spoken about in rooms he's not in, even if it's praise. and he doesn't want to be the object of some schoolyard crush anyway.
he'd been following you at first to try and silently goad you to confront him or tell him about your feelings so he could shut them down, but, uncharacteristically for him, he gets very side tracked. you're such a gentle creature, smart, capable, but distractable and too caught up with making friends and having a good time on base. and so he must correct you.
for some reason, correcting you, to him means his huge, marred hands adjusting your posture when you're doing a task, adjusting straps, hoisting the weight of your kit onto your shoulders, and not your back. you'd had it on all wrong.
he's heavy handed, using a firm grip on your forearm to move you out of the way of something, a palm flat against the small of your back to guide you forward. he's turned into a presence that blocks others without comment, and you are eating it up, to say the least. what made him want to pay so much attention to you all of a sudden? had you caught his eye like he'd caught yours? the thought makes you dizzy.
he also brings you gifts without explaining himself. a better knife. gloves. a little badge to put on your combat uniform because he knows you like them. trinkets from somewhere he won't name. he'll always push them into your hand and says; "for you."
then walks off.
simon is also weirdly protective of you. shuts down any of the rookie's who fancy you by glaring at them menacingly when they try to approach you. during missions, he'll position himself so you're always covered. it feels like foreplay to you, honestly.
but if anyone asks why, he'll just shrug. "asset."
he notices how much you enjoy his unwavering attention. sees the flicker in your eyes when he leans down to speak right into your ear, the quick intake of breath when his hands stay on you a little to long, and how you can't seem to speak coherently around him. all of it makes him forget more and more about why he'd wanted to shut you down in the first place.
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You stare at your phone. You stare at the picture. Time seems to slip out of rhythm. One second stretches into an eternity, only for the next to crash into it before you've had a chance to breathe. Your pulse pounds against your temples with such force it almost hurts, each heartbeat louder than the last, drowning out every coherent thought.
Your boyfriend. An unfamiliar woman. Together—wrapped in each other.
The photo isn't even about them. They're just blurred figures tucked into the background of a work acquaintance's social media post, easy enough for anyone else to overlook. But your eyes find them instantly and they refuse to look away.
His arm is curled around her waist. His lips are pressed to hers.
Not just a kiss.
Your kiss.
The one that always made your knees weak. The one he'd steal while dinner burned on the stove, while you laughed halfway through a sentence, while he whispered that he'd missed you even though you'd only been apart for a day.
That's how he touches you, how he holds you, kisses you.
Who even is she? What the hell is he doing? How long has this been happening for? Why would he do this to you? He said he loved you, was it a lie?
Your fingers shake so violently you nearly drop your phone. Somehow you manage to zoom in, crop the picture, and send it to him, followed by the text:
Don't make up excuses. It's over. Fuck you.
The moment the messages are delivered, you block him.
You don't want explanations.
You don't want lies.
You don't want to hear whatever pathetic excuse he's already rehearsing.
But truth is you desperately want an explanation, you want there to be one.
Because the alternative is unbearable.
The image of these two together stays stuck in your head making your chest feel ready to split open, your heart hammering against it so violently it seems determined to escape your ribcage altogether, while questions swarm your mind faster than you can catch them.
Was she a coworker? Was she someone he'd met recently? Was she there before you?Was any of it real?
You want to scream until your throat tears itself raw. You want to cry, sob until your lungs feel too heavy for your own body. Instead, you remain frozen, staring at nothing.
Each breath catches halfway into your lungs, coming out weaker than the last. Your stomach twists so violently that acid creeps into the back of your throat, leaving behind a bitter burn that makes you think you might actually be sick.
You need someone to talk to, you need your best friend.
Maybe if you talk about it out loud it'll stop feeling impossible, she'll point out something you've missed, tell you there's another explanation.
Or maybe hearing the words leave your own mouth will make the truth impossible to deny; The man who swore he loved you, who never ended a phone call without saying he missed you—cheated on you.
Your vision blurs behind gathering tears as you fumble through your contacts. Your thumb refuses to stay steady, pressing the screen three times before it finally registers. You barely notice the ringing.
The phone rings several time before she picks up—
"Y/N?" A man's voice. It's deep, undeniably familiar. You haven't heard it in a while and the confusion makes you dizzy.
"You a'right?"
Your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.
Simon.
No.
No, no, no.
Your eyes widen in horror as you yank the phone away from your ear, staring at the contact like it might somehow rearrange itself.
Simon.
Not your best friend.
Simon.
Your ex of three years.
Three bloody years, and somehow, in the middle of all this, your shaking hands had called him—the man you truly believed you would end up marrying. You called him. As if this situation couldn't get any worse.
You end the call so fast your thumb nearly slips, then fling the phone onto the sofa as if it's burned you.
"Oh my God..."
You drag both hands over your face, pressing your palms against your eyes until stars bloom behind your eyelids.
How could you mess that up?
Of all people...
You'd barely managed to keep yourself from completely falling apart, and now you'd dragged your ex into the middle of it.
Your phone vibrates.
Then again and again.
You don't want to look, because you already know who it is.
What happened?
Are you safe?
Y/N. Answer me.
You squeeze your eyes shut before forcing yourself to unlock the screen.
Everything's fine. Called you by mistake. I'm sorry.
You hit send.
The typing bubble doesn't even have time to disappear before another message arrives.
Don't lie to me. What happened?
Your jaw clenches.
Don't push it, Riley.
The message shifts to Read, it stays on read for several seconds before you allow yourself to let out a slow breath, thinking maybe, finally, he'll leave it alone.
Then your phone starts ringing and Simon's name fills the screen.
You stare at it until it almost stops.
Every sensible part of you tells you not to answer—you haven't spoken since breaking up.
You aren't his problem anymore.
But beneath the hurt, beneath the anger, beneath the humiliation, there's a quieter feeling; familiarity.
The kind that only comes from someone who once knew every version of you. Someone who could tell you were lying before you'd even finished the sentence. Someone who used to be home.
Your thumb moves before your brain catches up.
"What happened?" His voice is low, steady, filled with quiet concern, it feels oddly safe to you.
You never answer his question, drowning in your own feelings and thoughts.
"Someone hurt ya?"
That question alone shatters whatever fragile composure you'd managed to cling to and a soft, broken sob tears itself from your chest before you can swallow it back.
"He—" Your voice cracks so badly the word almost disappears. "He cheated."
You can hear him exhale sharply, "bloody wanker," Simon mutters, venom dripping from every syllable.
Another pause.
Quieter this time.
Almost to himself.
"Knew he couldn't take care of my girl."
The words land before either of you has the chance to catch them.
Your crying dies down, slowly. Not because the hurt has lessened, but because your mind refuses to process what your ears have just heard.
My girl.
After three years. Three years of birthdays spent apart. Three years of pretending the other no longer existed. Three years of carefully avoiding the streets you knew he still frequented, of deleting old photographs only to recover them from the recently deleted folder before finally forcing yourself to erase them for good.
My girl.
Your grip around the phone tightens until your fingers begin to ache, your heartbeat stumbling into an entirely different rhythm than the one grief had forced upon it only moments ago. The pain in your chest is still there, raw and relentless, but now it's tangled with something infinitely more dangerous.
Simon doesn't say anything for a long moment.
You can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, slow and measured, as if he's deliberately forcing himself to stay calm for your sake, while you sit curled against the armrest of your couch with your knees pulled tightly to your chest. The tears you've been trying so desperately to keep under control refuse to listen, sliding quietly down your cheeks one after another until the fabric of your sleeve is damp from repeatedly wiping at them.
"Wanna tell me whot happened?," he says eventually, his voice quieter now, stripped of the anger that had flared only seconds ago.
And so you do. The words come out unevenly at first, interrupted by shaky breaths and the occasional sob that catches painfully in your throat, but once they begin, they refuse to stop. You tell him everything and he doesn't interrupt you once.
Every now and then you hear the faint rustle of fabric, the creak of what sounds like a chair beneath him, but otherwise he lets you empty every ugly, broken thought that's been clawing around inside your chest.
When your voice finally gives out, the silence between you feels different.
Heavier, but not uncomfortable.
"Bastard," he says after a while anger bubbling in his throat. Every cry, every little sob that escapes your lips and echoes through the phone line has him tightening his grip. "You'll get through this." he reassures you a moment later.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"You sound awfully sure."
"'Cause I know ya."
You squeeze your eyes shut.
"You knew me."
"I still do."
The words settle somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you'd spent years convincing yourself no longer existed. You hate how much comfort they bring.
"I keep wondering if I missed something," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "Maybe there were signs. Maybe I wasn't enough. Maybe if I'd..."
"No."
The interruption is immediate.
"But—"
"No."
His tone softens, though it loses none of its certainty.
"If he cheated, that's on him. Not on ya. Nothing gives someone an excuse to betray someone like tha'."
Your throat tightens again.
Because you know he's right, but you don't believe him—you can't.
"I just—" You swallow hard. "I don't understand how someone can tell you they love you and then do something like that."
The line falls quiet again.
When Simon finally speaks, there's something different in his voice—it sounds tired.
"People love what they have until they stop being afraid of losing it."
Your brows knit together.
"Is that what happened with us?" The question slips out before you have a chance to stop it and regrets floods your veins instantly.
The silence that follows is long enough for your heartbeat to become deafening again, for regret to settle like lead in your stomach.
When he finally exhales, it sounds almost like a laugh—the kind people make when smiling would hurt too much.
"No," his answer is firm, certain. As if he has spend enough time thinking about your relationship. "I was just an idiot."
The honesty in his response makes your chest feel heavy with something you can't quite place.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
Your lips part.
"For what?"
"For the way I left."
His voice grows quieter with every word, as though each one costs him something.
"Simon," you exhale, your voice is gentle, apologetic. "It's been three years. You had to make sacrifices for your job."
The softness in your voice, the understanding, it leaves a part of his heart hollowed out and instantly filled with regret for eveything that happened three years ago. "Still, I wanted ya to know."
Your chest aches in a way that's entirely different from before. It's fresh, but also older. The kind of pain you don't notice until someone accidentally presses on the bruise. "It means a lot. Thank you." Your voice nearly breaks and you have to bite down on your lower lip to stifle a sob.
