My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Chris Redfield
Note: I couldn’t resist…
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You want to ask where you’re going, but you know better. Already. One day and everything’s changed. Even you. This man you didn’t know twenty-four hours ago is now the only thing you know. You will do what he says, go where he decides.
Chris rubs you dry with a towel, his own slung low around his hips. The bottom of the fabric splits around his thick thigh as he bends to rub every crevice and curve through the towel. He pushes firm between your thighs until you move your feet apart and he dries your cunt intently.
“Nice and clean… for now.” He winks as he wiggles his fingers through the fluffy cotton then continues down your thighs. You shiver. Not just out of fear, but shame. You don’t even think of fighting him. How quickly you just folded into the shape he wanted you.
He finishes and drapes the towel over your shoulders. He pets the sides of your neck and cheeks with his knuckles. He draws his arms away and leans in to kiss your lips. As he does, he loosens the towel at his waist and lets it fall away.
He stands straight and offers it to you. “My turn.”
You stare him in the face, not daring to look lower than his thick neck. The top of his fuzzy chest teases the edge of your vision. You gulp and take the towel as you step closer. You reach to dab away stray rivulets along his throat as he bends his knees to help.
The cotton slips as you gently swipe away the moisture. He catches your towel and brings it around you. He folds the top above your chest, his palms grazing your tits through the fabric as he drags them down and growls. You focus on drying away the moisture rather than his body.
As you get lower, your hands shake. Even if you’ve seen it all, felt it, you still don’t feel right about it. Your insides clench and you shift on your feet. His stomach is thick, barrel-like, but not soft. The lines are shallow but his torso no less strong.
He turns for you to get his back, lowering himself so you can get his shoulders. You can’t help but notice his bulging muscles all around. You didn’t think men really looked like this.
“You don’t gotta be so gentle. I can handle it.” He grabs your hand and presses it through the towel as you get to his ass, guiding it along the musculature. You squeak. He chuckles. “This is what I know, baby girl. You never had a man to handle you right.”
He turns again and yanks away the towel. He takes your wrist and puts your hand against his rigid dick. He purrs.
“We gotta get dressed before I forget what I had in mind,” he tilts his hips to pump against your limp hand.
“Yes, sir… Chris.” You say.
He exhales and tosses his towel. He cradles your hand and brings it up to kiss your palm. He toys with it as his eyes bore into you. “You’re so delicious but it’s too early for dessert.”
You smile, or try to. He clings to your hand and stands at full height. He’s a mountain in flesh. He turns and drags you from the bathroom. He leads you to the bed and sits you on the end.
He saunters away, naked and shameless, and slides open the closet.
“I don’t got much of an eye for these things. I wear black and black.” He snickers under his breath. “But I was thinking this’d look cute on you.” He faces you and shows you the two piece outfit. A gingham set in lilac and white, a flutter short skirt and off-the shoulder top. “Nice for a picnic.”
He stops in front of you. You’re eye level with his pelvis and… that. He holds out the clothes. You take them reluctantly. You glance up as he watches you. Shoot.
“Um, thank you. They’re cute.” You say.
“Cuter on, I bet.”
You look down at the gingham. What about a bra? Underwear? You’re too afraid to ask. Just like you’ve been scared to do anything but roll over and let him–
Ugh. Why do your insides do that? Why do you get all tight and tingly at the thought.
“Yeah, probably.” You agree.
“And I got ya some stuff in the bathroom. For your hair and all. Not that I think you need anything. You’re a natural beauty. Soft…” He pets your chin and his dick twitches inches from your forehead, nearly touching your nose as you look up at him.
“I don’t want to waste time,” you point your toes to the floor. “So… I’ll get ready.”
He drones and runs his fingertip down your neck. He slowly backs up. “Me too, baby girl. I wanna look good for you.”
🧺
Chris wears a robin’s egg shirt and jeans. You don’t know much about him but it doesn’t feel like him. He’s out of place in the pastel button-up. He holds your hand, in his other, a wicker basket. You don’t know where you are. Somewhere desolate but balmy with the scent of pollen and dew.
He stops you at the peak of a rolling hill. He lets you go and unfolds the blanket nestled on top of the basket. You peer around at the endless green. You could run but to where?
He hums as he opens the basket. He pauses, drawing your attention, and you turn to him.
“It’s pretty around here,” you say, hoping he doesn’t suspect your true thoughts.
“You’re pretty,” he says. He goes back to sifting through the basket. “Sit.” He commands. His voice is even but his tone is enough to make you obey.
You sit on your knees and fold your hands patiently. He unpacks some containers.
“I had some help.” He explains as he uncovers a bowl of berries. “My sister gave me good tips for keeping the berries from getting soggy.” He takes out sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper. “And her recipe for chicken salad. Hope I got it right. Don’t cook much. Field rations come ready to eat cold.”
You nod. Military? That would explain the guns and his posture. The way he orders you around.
He sets out a whole lovely meal with cucumber salad and little angel food cakes for the berries, with a can of whipped cream. He tries to settle on the blanket, too big to be sitting on the ground.
He bends his legs, jeans straining, and clears his throat. He looks at you. Thoughts line his forehead and swim in his eyes. His jaw clenches. The sunlight illuminates the strands of grey hidden in his hay brown hair. He’s older than you. A lot older, you think.
“I can’t get comfortable, why don’t you come here and help me out?” He waves you over.
You stare for a moment before you understand. You lift yourself up on your knees and carefully move around the picnic dishes. Before you can sit beside him, he scoops you into his lap, sitting you sideways, right against his chest.
“Better,” he growls as his hand skims down your thigh, the skirt flipping up dangerously as you squeeze your legs together. He leans in, his lips closer to yours. “Forget the picnic, I could eat you up.”
Your lashes flick and you squirm. A deep tone rumbles up from his chest. He squeezes your thigh, fingertips digging in, then lets you go. He tuts and leans over you. He grabs a fork and scoops up some salad. He brings it in front of your mouth.
“But I gotta take care of you before you take care of me,” he pokes the tines against your lips. “Come on, let’s get something in you before I get in you.”
Warning: possible adultery, neglect, angry men, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: August Walker, side of Andrew Barber
Summary: You find a cold reception at your new job, but it’s not much better than your home life.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You stand at the fridge and stare at the two containers. One for today and one for tomorrow. Or maybe, take it home for dinner. You haven’t really been eating. You’re always alone at night; it’s hard to find an appetite or any motivation.
Footsteps approach and you stiffen. You’ve run into a few agents here or there. They don’t really acknowledge you. Although a security guard asked to verify your badge.
The button on the microwave depresses and the door pops open. The growl in return assures you of the shadow in your peripheral’s identity. You glance over as Agent Walker examines the stuffed oxen.
“Hm.” He huffs and flips it over. “How long does this go for?”
“Oh, uh… ninety seconds. You can add thirty if it doesn’t warm enough.” You guide him, not thinking as you cross and punch in the numbers yourself.
“Great.” He puts the ox on the glass plate and shuts the door. You back up as he taps start. “Thanks.”
“Meeting went okay?” You ask.
His brow arches. He tilts his head and looks at you from the edge of his eye. “You’re on lunch.”
“Uh, yeah, sorry.” You back up. “Speaking of… I had a bit too much so if you’re hungry…” you open the fridge and take out a container. “I made some quinoa and salmon. You don’t even need to warm it up.”
He stares at the tupperware. You feel ready to melt. You’re doing too much. You set it on the counter.
“If you don’t, just… put it back in the fridge.” You shrug and grab the other from the middle shelf of the fridge.
He exhales but doesn’t say anything. That’s probably the best response you can hope for. You leave him and opt to find somewhere to eat outside. You stare at all the luxury electric cars and their handleless doors as you eat without tasting.
Walker, Andy. You feel like you’re hanging by a string with both. Each sliver of progress is met immediately with backslide. You stir the last few bites and scoop them up from the tilted container. You put the lid back on and delay your return with a stroll around the grounds.
“That’s prohibited.” A holler startles you. You stop and spin to face the man jabbing his finger at you. “What are you doing here? How’d a civilian get in here?” He snarls.
“No, I’m not– I work here. I was only going for a walk,” you fumble for your badge as you keep the container under your arm. “See.”
You approach the man as he sneers down his nose. He squints at your photo. “You don’t have the clearance level, ma’am.”
“Redfield,” A timbre rumbles from behind the large man. “Leave her be. She’s with me.”
The man, Redfield, juts out his chin and clucks. He turns slowly. “Walker.”
“Sunny as rainstorm.” Walker retorts as he approaches. “I told her to take her break. This place ever think of working on amenities?”
“Can’t remember the last time I saw you outside your office.” Redfield snorts.
“I’ve been cleared for field work so… we shouldn’t see much of each other. Thankfully.” August gestures you past the other man. “Don’t talk to my PA like that again.”
“Don’t let her wander where she doesn’t belong.”
“And what are you doing? Got nothing better to do than lurk?” Walker scoffs. “Come on, sweetheart.”
He beckons to you again. You obey. You try not to notice that word he used. Not ma’am, not lady, sweetheart? Hell, when’s the last time Andy used that word with you? Well, it’s probably not a good thing. If anything it’s condescending, demeaning. This is a workplace after all.
He turns and walks beside you. The other man grumbles. You chafe and grip the container between your hands.
“Sorry, I didn’t meant to–”
“Don’t worry about it. Chris always finds a reason.” He assures.
“Okay, um… yeah but I don’t wanna break the rules.”
“You didn’t. Worry about my rules.” He insists.
“Uh huh…” you hum uncertainly. Silence festers around you. “Your shoulder feel better?”
“Sure. It doesn’t feel like a nails lodge behind it. Was tryna stretch…” he trails off. “Not your worry.”
“Well… it kinda is. I’m your PA.”
“My shoulder isn’t CIA business.”
“Fair,” you accept.
He’s quiet again. You approach the doors and he swipes his badge first. He opens the door for you. He waits and follows you in. You cross the lobby to the elevators. He taps his badge again.
You step onto the elevator and stand beside him. He seems bigger in here. You teeter on your heels.
“Can you do me another favour?” He asks.
“Sure. That’s my job.” You chime.
“Cancel that meeting with Fowler. I don’t got the energy.”
💔
“Sending a girl to tell me to fuck myself, huh?” Fowler slaps the screen of the coffee machine. “Does he really think I want to deal with him either?”
“Maybe tomorrow–”
“Fuck it. I’ll send an email. He can read, right?” He chuckles.
“Sir.”
“Jesus. I feel bad for you. Guy’s a prick. Specially since that thing in Vienna.” He hits start on the machine.
You look at his hand and something else catches your attention. The container you offered Walker is empty, washed out, and set neatly against the wall, labelled with your name on a post-it. Well, at least someone enjoyed lunch.
“Right. I’ll have him check his mailbox.”
“Sure, honey. I know he’ll get right on it.” He pushes his jacket back as he grips his hips. He glances over at you. “Didn’t peg you as his type.”
You frown. “The director hired me–”
He laughs again. “Go. I don’t like my coffee with stress.”
You do just that. Most of the agents have that bluntness. That lack of patience. If it’s not urgent, it doesn’t matter.
You knock before you enter Walker’s office. He sits back sharply from holding his forehead. You don’t acknowledge it.
“Done. Meeting off.” You confirm as you near your chair and pull out your phone. There it is. An email already. Oh, it’s not from Nick.
You sit and squint at the screen. It’s not easy to read the layout on the small phone.
‘Confidential. Mission Brief.’
You have to put in your employee number just to view it. You review the information, much of it in lingo you don’t really understand. You sit up and find Walker looking at you.
“You’re going to Paris?” You say.
He taps his fingers on his armrest.
“You need a tablet. Or laptop.” He says.
You nod. “Thank you, sir. It would be helpful, but… Paris.”
“I’ll show you how to do the expense report. You can book the travel.” He stands up and checks his watch.
“Uh, okay, yes, sir.”
“Make sure you get two tickets. Business.” He insists as he marches to the door.
“Two?” You wonder as you watch him strut to the door.
“Can’t do much here when I’m there.” He grabs the handle and twists it.
He leaves and you watch the door close behind him. Huh. You wonder what Andy will think of that. Will he care? Or even notice?
Warning: power imbalance, size kink, dark content, and all around sexiness.
Summary: you work in the background until you’re dragged front and centre. (actor!Napoleon Solo, short reader)
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
“He’s so cool.” Cody says. “You see his last movie?”
“So awesome.” Harris chuckles. “IMAX, bro. It’s a whole other experience.”
“Did you see him with that actress?”
“Which one?” Harris snorts.
“That blonde one… you know…”
“Really narrows it down, dude.”
You’ve seen the magazines too. Seen the headlines while scrolling. You’re not one for celebrity gossip. You find it a bit strange to be so involved in anyone else’s private life.
You sink into the wall. It’s not unusual for you to wilt beneath these conversations. Most of the techs are guys and most of them have no shame. When there’s certain actresses on set, they’re almost drooling.
“Guy is living the life.” Harris sighs. “Sports cars, hot girls, rich as fuck.”
You fidget and focus on the sound in your earpiece. Can they not just do their work? You don’t need to hear all this.
“If I was him, I’d have one in the morning and one at bedtime.” Cody slithers.
“Oh and what about Trinity?”
“What about her? She’s hot enough but she’s so damn boring.” Cody drones.
Ugh. You feel bad for this woman you’ve never met. To have someone talk about you like that. Barely a human to them but an outlet for relief or boredom.
“I heard that Sharon Carter if single now.” Cody says.
“Kinda old now…”
“Fuck that, dude. She is sexay. I know girls ten years younger who don’t look like her.”
“You think Rogers fucked up or she’s a dead fish?” Harris snickers.
You grimace. That’s so gross. You don’t get men. At least, all the ones you’ve been around are confounding. Rude or disgusting or just completely uninterested.
📽️
“Ugh, I’m done.” Penelope fans herself. “Someone get me some juice juice.”
Her special blend of ginger, apple cider vinegar, honey, and a dash of vodka is her ‘special cure’ for her hangovers. You’re not sure it helps and it looks and smells rancid. For someone so glamorous, she really isn’t. You try not to judge; you wear the same thing every day, black jeans, black shirt, all to just blend into the background.
You approach her as she stands and grins over at her guest. He rubs his thick fingers together as he sniffs. She winks.
“It was so nice to see you again.” She trills. “You must remember, the after party last year?”
“Mm, remind me which one?” He squints.
She giggles. “Oh, you’re silly. I know you know.” Her smile fades and she rubs her temples as her eyes roll back. “Hurry up and get this shit off me!”
You rush forward and reach for her mic. It catches on the fabric of her blouse and you struggle to untangle it, nearly dropping it into her cleavage. She swats your hand.
“Ugh, don’t you know how to do the one thing you do– ACH!” She exclaims suddenly and veers to the side as her hand is seized and her arm bends awkwardly to the side. She leans into Napoleon’s grip. “Ow! What are you doing?”
“Did no one ever teach you manners? The woman is doing her job and you’re not making it any easier.” He lets her go.
“It’s fine, I got the mic.” You show him.
“No, it’s not. She hit you.” He crosses his arms. “Apologise to her.”
Penelope scoffs and her green-blue eyes flick between you and the action star. “Are you serious? I’m not a child, don’t talk to me like that. She’s just a tech–”
“Her and everyone else keep your trash show on the air.” He retorts evenly. “If you’re going to behave like a child, then you should be treated like one.” He huffs. “Where’s your producer? I’m having second thoughts about the broadcast.”
“What?” She nearly screeches. “You can’t. You signed a contract.”
“With terms and conditions.” He counters without a beat.
“She’s just a tech–”
“And she’s better at what she does than you are at your… whatever you do.” He turns to you and drops his arms. “Will you kindly remove my mic? I need to go have a conversation with my agent.”
He bends his knees and leans in slightly so you can reach his mic. You can see his throat constrict as you unhook it from his collar. As you slide the power switch back he gently touches your upper arm.
“Thank you. It’s much appreciated.” He squeezes just a little and lets go, standing straight. You’re barely at a height with the top of his stomach.
He adjusts his tie and smooths his jacket. Penelope tugs on his sleeve. “You can’t be serious? All this because of this… thing.” She whines.
“Do not touch me.” He turns and gently girds her away with his forearm. “Do it again, and I will file a complaint.”
“Sir…” you utter quietly.
It’s nice of him to speak up. Most of the other guests are too focused on getting out of there or pretend they don’t notice her behaviour. Everyone on the crew is terrified of the host. And when he’s gone, she’ll only be worse. It would’ve been easier if he’d said nothing so she’d go back to not knowing you exist.
“A complaint? You grabbed me.” She pouts.
“After you hit an employee.”
“I didn’t–”
“We’re done. Don’t air the interview.” He shakes his head and turns, pausing as his eye catches yours. “Are you alright?”
“I told you, fine.” You mumble and look down at the mics. “I should… go put these away.”
Despite everything Cody and Harris were going on about and all the gossip sites, he’s not as bad as you would think. He’s considerate at least. Then again, you really are just a tech like Penelope says.
You turn and scurry off. You feel the tension of people watching, of the shock of the witnesses, of Penelope’s brewing wrath. You need to get away before she really explodes.
We're at the "JK Rowling is personally funding litigation to try and destroy AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL" stage of rabid UK terf brain.
Screenshot via Alejandra Caraballo @esqueer.net on bluesky
Tldr Amnesty International, global human rights organisation, published a report called 'A growing threat: the anti-rights movement in the UK'. In it is detailed, amongst others, a whole bunch of transphobic groups and organisations, including Beira's Place, JK Rowling's trans exclusionary sexual violence support service. JK Rowling threw a shit fit and got Amnesty to take the report down by threatening libel. This was obviously not enough, because you can't appease a fascist, so now she's going to bankroll a bunch of lawsuits anyway through the JK Rowling Women's Fund.*
You can read an archived version of the report here, please save it and share it.
*Not so friendly reminder there is no way to engage in the wizard books without enabling this shit.
Warnings: this fic contains biting, gruffness, and dark vibes. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Frank Castle + “Stop playing with me.” (Medieval AU)
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Anticipation blooms to exaltation. The day has come. The tournament that lady and lord alike have been whispering and waiting for all season. It is your first ever, just as it is your first year at court.
The ladies wear their best brocade and silks. Your own dress is a delicate faded teal with simple ivory embroidery. Your mother is not fond of the courtly styles and their risque trims exposing the top of soft shoulders. She sewed you a round collar with a length of lace woven through for effect.
As the competitors ride out, the courtly audience calls to them and throws flowers. Marcella and Audrey cry out to the valiant William Russo in his dark black armour trimmed in silver and he catches their woven wreaths of roses and lilies on his jousting staff. The princes, twins, preen in the cheers as they’re rained with petals and ribbons, and a few kerchiefs, as the king, Wilson I, sits proudly on his balcony in the stands and smirks.
You look down at your handful of daisies and daffodils. You don’t know which knight to rain down your favour. You don’t know many of them. Not many see you for the boldness of the other ladies.
Nervously, you stop yourself from twisting the stems to nothing. You notice one knight, stiff and staunch in his saddle. He wears beaten iron armour without decoration. The other competitors sport golden roses or etched doves and lions in their chestplates. He stares ahead from beneath his open helm, his staff pointed at the sky as his horse remains as still as he is.
You think you recognise him though you can’t place a name. You look up and down the row of fawning ladies. You heave up your armful and watch them scatter over the plain knight in his grey armour.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. Oh…
Bridget cackles and chuckles a headless stem your way. “Silly girl, why bother with him?”
You look at her, confusion furrowed above your eyes.
“She’s always been an odd one,” Lora teases. “Her and her nun’s habit!”
You pout. “I was only…” You shake your head and shrug. “They’re my flowers, I will do with them as I will.”
“Weeds.” Lora rebukes. “Don’t you know who that knight is?”
“If you would call him a knight!” Bridget scolds.
You stare and scrunch up your nose. “But he… is in the tournament. He must be–”
“A mercenary. So he was. Won his title in a battle. Just a soldier who found fortune.” Lora sniffs.
“But… don’t most knights win their honour?”
“Most knights are already titled before they do so.” Bridget sneers. “As it were, title or not, that man has no interest. Lord Castle is as stony as the fortress he’s named for.”
“I swear, he’d break a lady’s fingers as quickly as a lord’s.” Lora tuts. “Those kind, they can’t do more than wear the title. It can’t hide what they really are.”
Your mouth slants. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with being quiet or unsociable. You’d prefer it yourself if the other ladies weren’t so incessant. You peek over at the iron knight. Castle, they call him. He grips his staff tight and stays rigid, unbothered by the sudden blast of horns announcing the tournament’s start.
You suppose he’s faced worse than a shower of petals. You won’t worry for the misstep. He likely won’t either.
⚔️
The tournament unfolds in a series of contests. You’ve never seen anything like it. You gasp as the knights battle in a test of dagger throwing, archery, and most clamourously, the joust. Shattered lances and dented armour bring your heart to your throat, especially as you watch a younger earl-to-be carried off unmoving. How dreadful.
Sir Russo, a duke, wins at the feat of aiming daggers at a target; the king’s son is victor in the arrow, and in the joust, to a rather silent crowd, Sir, Castle claims triumph though he hardly seems to notice that himself. Where petals and scarves rained down on the others, he is met with a murmur and whispers, riding off without acknowledgement of any of it.
On the final day, a challenge of sword and spear against a dummy stuffed with straw. The king’s son once more is crowned for his skill. His father proudly cheers and congratulates his son with a mantle of ermine.
The next, ring-tilting. Another event on horseback though much less brutal than the joust. The challenge, to aim the launch through a series of golden rings, each progressively smaller than the last. Riders come forth to make their best attempt to hook all seven.
Russo counts five, the prince the same, and another earl meets that number; each presents their rings to their chosen maiden in the crowd. Bridget accepts Duke Russo’s lot and a leer from beneath his visor, the prince gives his to his betrothed, sat in the balcony with his father, and the lesser earl gifts his new wife as she rubs her growing stomach.
The final contender, Castle, takes his mark. The crowd is silent again. You notice how Lora makes a gesture to Bridget and they grin. The grey knight tilts his head as he lowers his staff. He rides, sure and steady. One, two, three, four, five… six! Six rings, the sixth in order missed but the last hooked.
He raises the tip of his lance and rides around. He ignores the audience and dumps the rings on the ground. He hands off the staff to his attendants as they approach and rides back to the stalls to dismount.
“Even he knows no maiden would have him,” Bridget snickers. Lora joins in. You frown.
You lean over the wall of the stands and watch the knight as he removes his helmet. You can see him just past the banners hung around the horses’ stabling. For a moment, you feel as if he’s looking back at you but he promptly stalks off, tugging at his shanks of black hair.
You stand back as Bridget spins her ring. “Do you think Lord Russo will dance with me at the feast?”
“You might get a canter after his other ladies.” Lora retorts.
“Careful, Bri,” Lady Maureen intercedes. “You will not like to be one of his conquests. Women are not so valiant as battlefields.”
“You are detestable!” Bridget retorts. “I have virtue!”
“No one would guess it at a glance.”
You tune out their banter. There is still one contest to be had. The last; the decider of the champion. The foot combat. The will come on the final day of four that have stretched out this event.
⚔️
The last day, the last contest. Bridget fans herself in the stolid sunlight as Lora droops in her sleeves. Your fast is slick and sticky with sweat. You can only imagine what the contenders must feel.
There are several rounds. A melee to begin, to pluck out those who will go face to face. A second round with spears to choose who might test their skill with sword.
The prince is to face Lord Russo the final round; Poindexter to compete with Lord Castle. The first match is a narrow defeat for the prince. He gracefully holds up his opponent's hand to the crowd, bowing out before the finale. The latter is long and contemptuous; neither sports a shield and meet each other with a furor that makes you gasp. Castle prevails but not without blood under his visor.
In the last, Russo and Castle meet. Their battle is lively despite the day’s dimming. They push back and forth, ducking under blows only to take others. Where Russo is swift, Castle is strong. A falcon against the bull. It is the bull that finds triumph.
Castle’s hand is raised as he favours his other shoulder. He tears his gauntlet away from the arbiter and stomps away from the stunned crowd. Only the king voices his delight at the surprise, his subjects reluctantly following.
You join in with a bit more glee as the knight in grey nears, rubbing his helm. You feel bad for his dejection though it seems to affect him little. His head turns slightly as he passes. You wince and pause in place. He continues on.
“Ugh, how dreary!” Bridget clucks. “What an upstart dog he is!”
“But he won.” You counter.
“He should not have. He was underhanded.” Lora argues.
“How so?” You wonder.
“How little you do know.” Bridget snorts. “So young, so droll. So… you.”
You frown. She’s right. You don’t understand this court and all its rules. They hardly make any sense.
⚔️
The feast is a great relief from the sunny stands. The castle walls are cool, the jugs are flowing with honeywine and ale, and trays glisten with roasted vegetables and venison. The warmth is not so intense as that of the naked sky. It thrums and clouds, but does not sear.
There is an eagerness, an anticipation that unfurls around you. Skirts flood onto the boards as partners claim each other. You remain at the table and pick at a plate of sugared apples.
More cryptic than the ladies and their manners and unsaid rules, are the lords and their stoic veneers. Their eyes don’t fall on you. They do not say the same sweet things they do to Bridget or Lora.
There is a lull in the dancing as the king stands and clanks on his cup with a knife. All go silent and watch him as he gestures for attention. You wipe your fingers on the table cloth.
“I must take this occasion to give praise to all those combatants that fought so gloriously these past days. Most notably my own son who showed himself to be a mighty warrior!” King Wilson proclaims.
There is an uproar of cheers as the Prince steps out from among the crowd of dancers and bows.
“And I cannot be shamed at the victor. Sir Castle is the only I would see prevail over my own blood.” The king’s voice sharpens. “A seasoned soldier and honourable earl.”
Castle remains seated. You’d not noticed him before that. He nods but nothing more. His eyes stare straight ahead as if no one else exists.
“So let us be merry and drink and dance!” The king exclaims with a shake of his large fists. “Go forth and rejoice!”
The music plucks up again. The king stands and offers his hand to his wife, a tall and skinny woman who contrasts his rounder figure. You tap your fingers on the trestle’s edge and your eyes skim the large hall.
They fall on Castle. Is he looking at you? You can’t help but stare back. It is the first you’ve seen him clearly. Black hair, black beard, dark eyes, and thick bent nose. His attire is black and unadorned.
You slowly lift your hand and tilt your palm at him in recognition. He looks down and his hands turn to fists on the table. He grabs his goblet and drains it before he stands and marches out. Oh…
You sigh and look back to the dancers. They look happy. They are swept up in the excess. You are bored of it.
As the candles burn lower and the dancers slow, you rise to retire. No one would know whether you were there until the dawn. As they never care for your presence or not.
You enter the corridor and bask in the coolness. There are lanterns lit along the walls, though shadows crawl over the corners and edges. You near the first turn and cry out as suddenly you’re seized. Or try to.
A callused palm smothers your fright. A dark figure shrouds you in his silhouette. You bat your lashes up at the outline of Sir Castle.
“Stop playing with me.” He snarls.
You quiver as he keeps you pinned to the wall, one hand over your mouth and chin, the other on your waist. You squirm and shiver. He leans in and burrows his nose in your hair, brushing along the trim of your cap.
“Why are you looking at me?” He growls.
You whine into his roughened hand and touch his wrist. He squeezes your jaw tighter.
“What do you want with me, lamb?”
He exhales over you as he drags his nose down your temple and cheek.
You brush your hand up his sleeve and tug on the black wool. He inhales, his breath gritting like that of a hungry wolf. He bends and nuzzles into your neck, then nips with his teeth.
“Do you know what beasts do with lambs like you?” He rasps.
You quake and writhe, unable to escape his grasp. You latch onto the seam along his shoulder and try to turn your head. His hand slips down and his wide fingertips graze the other side of your throat.
He presses his thumb behind your ear as his fingers wrap around your nape. He bites down harder and sucks until your flesh throbs. You whimper and dig your nails into his overcoat.
“Please, I’m sorry, Sir.” You grovel. “I was only–”
He hushes you as his other hand creeps around to the small of your back and he crushes you into the stone. He bites again, harder than before. Your eyes prick with tears. You push on his chest and wriggle.
He lifts his head slowly, his breath tickling you until it plumes in your ear. “You don’t look a wolf in the eye unless you wanna get bit, little lamb.”
He shudders and trails his hand up your side. His other slaps on the stone and he pushes away from you. He leers at you as he breathes slowly, heavily. He tilts his head until his neck cracks.
“I’ll be watching,” he whispers and turns on his heel.
You shake against the stone as he struts off. You sink down until you’re on the cold floor and feel the moisture along your throat and the indents of his teeth. The promise he left in your flesh is raw and pulsing.
Characters/Pairings: soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x curvy Millennial female!reader
Word Count: 7.5k
Summary: You make a discovery you never anticipated during the rehearsal dinner - a dinner Andy disappears from with no explanation.
Content/Warnings: forced engagement; use of pet name (sweetheart); smut (brief mutual masturbation, unprotected vaginal intercourse); mafia themes
Author Note: I've been working on this chapter for a long time and thinking about it for even longer. I think there will be moments you love and hate, but it's certainly full of elements that are moving us into the next phase of their story.
Previous Part | Full Collection
There are eighty-six people in attendance at the rooftop restaurant, and you are only sure you know the names of maybe a third. The rest are here because of Andy—to witness or test alliances, play in the ongoing power games, weigh old debts or new risks. It’s the rehearsal dinner for one of Boston Mafia’s elite, so the guest list was meticulously refined for Andy’s part. Yours as well, but not with the same intent or stakes to be considered.
Andy doesn’t own Contessa—the restaurant atop The Newbury Hotel—but he does own the hotel, so it was seamless for your team to arrange this part of the wedding nuptials there. While you and Andy aren’t having a full society affair wedding with all the bells and whistles and three or four days of events and traditions, you do have few significant event pieces woven into the wedding weekend, this being one of them. No one had asked you what to include, but you were part of the overall conversations, and if there had been anything you truly wanted to refuse, you think you might have been able to say so. But your team knows you well enough to create elements you appreciate.
And, annoyingly, so does Andy.
The room is a riot of velvet and silk and black wool, the exact social armor you expect at a pre-wedding gathering of this sort. And yet you can tell this doesn’t scream mafia to the people who don’t know the predators they’re intermingling with. It’s all too reminiscent of how you dismissed the barely-hushed rumors of Andy Barber’s potential connections before he revealed he was one of the kings of organized crime in the city. And for the sake of your parents, your friends, your family, you’re relieved and hope they remain ignorant.
Tonight will be a monumental tell for the future and whether or not you can pass, or rather, who you have to be while passing. You scan the clusters of guests and realize you should have always been able to spot true mafia at ten paces, even when they’re disguised as board members and development officers and venture capitalists. There’s a particular gravity, neither ostentatious nor shy. Men in Brioni suits who know how to vanish into the background, women with hair so immaculate it could have been sculpted from silk.
Andy’s hand has been heavy at the small of your back most of the evening, and it’s somehow almost comforting, an anchor. Occasionally you feel his thumb graze the bare inch of spine between velvet and skin, a touch so subtle it’s only for you.
You look across the room and spot your parents lingering near a tray of passed champagne, your mother straightening the lapels of your father’s jacket with the hopeless affection of people who have been married long enough to know that preening is just another form of devotion. Your mother’s dress is a shade of navy so dark it reads black, and your father looks as if he was born inside a suit, so naturally does this one fit him.
Suddenly Thea is in front of you, plucking a glass of champagne off a passing tray and handing it over, flanked by your other two other bridesmaids. Thea gives you a once-over, and says, “You look like a goddess, a terrifyingly pretty one.” You mutter a thank you, and Thea rolls her eyes. “Please pretend you believe it, just a little bit. You’re a gorgeous bride-to-be whether you want to be or not.”
She’s the only one who knows about your hesitations, and even then you’ve only indulged a fraction.
She winks at Andy, linking her arm through yours. “I’m stealing your fiancé.”
He smirks. “At least you're conceding she’s mine.”
“You wish,” Thea replies, and with a toss of her hair of her shoulder, she leads you away.
The entire evening is a kind of lucid dream. Greetings, handshakes, hugs, careful double-cheek kisses dispensed by those in attendance as you circulate the room. In reality there was no rehearsal for tomorrow’s ceremony, tonight it is merely a small gathering staged for … well, from what you gather, for the sake of it. For those closest to you, it’s to keep up the illusion that this is a wedding you want. For Andy’s world, it seems to be a necessary ritual to confirm the ranks of his order—his trusted soldiers and a handful of his choice allies.
You don’t register that your uncle Rob isn’t there until suddenly he is, and by then, the room has already begun the low-pressure phase transition from cocktails to dinner. The movement is organic—someone dims the lights, the waiters begin the subtle herding, and you are being gently, almost imperceptibly, shepherded toward the long, low banquet table at the far end of the room.
You are halfway to your seat, with Thea close behind and Andy once again at your side, when the double glass doors at the restaurant’s entrance hiss open and Rob strides in, in a full three-piece suit and with the off-kilter swagger of someone who seems to have truly rushed directly from the airport. He gives you a nod and a warm smile, though even at this distance you note it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You wave him over, ignoring the subtle tightening of Andy’s hand on your hip. Rob moves quickly across the room to you, and immediately drops a palm on your shoulder, squeezing—warmth, family, genuine affection. “Am I horrifically late or just fashionably disruptive?” he asks, and before you answer, he’s already deflecting. “You look tired but good. He treating you right?”
Your uncle’s gaze bores into yours for a half-second, searching for something reassuring. You nod and give him a smile. He softens, but only infinitesimally.
“Uncle Rob, this is—”
“Andy Barber,” he supplies, and his gaze flicks to your fiancé, settling there a half-beat too long, cataloging him. You don’t know what’s transpired between them, but you sense something clearly has as there’s a palpable undercurrent, like two strong magnets meeting, neither yielding.
Uncle Rob gives Andy a stiff nod, but Andy merely meets the moment with an open hand. You sense the silent exchange—neutral ground, white flag for tonight, or maybe just a kind of mutual agreement not to detonate inside a room full of witnesses.
It feels strange, but it’s only another line on the list of things that aren’t normal for this entire affair. The exchange goes unnoticed by nearly everyone else since all in attendance are finding their seats, and Uncle Rob falls in among them and takes his assigned seat by your parents.
The food is dazzling, course after course in small, perfect compositions. You try to taste things, to remember flavors, but you are more conscious of the shifting dynamics around you. You are aware of Andy’s hand ever present—on your knee, tracing patterns on your arm, once just lightly gripping your wrist as if keeping you tethered to the table, to himself. You wonder if it’s meant to keep you under control, but the gesture genuinely feels more like reassurance than possession tonight.
Flanked by Andy on your left and Thea on your right, both seem engaged in a subtle contest to out-maneuver each other in their attempts to manage you. Sometimes it’s by steering the conversation, sometimes by way of silently passing you the better part of a shared dish, with Thea by gambling how much she can make you laugh given the current company and whether the moment is suitable for choking on your wine. You’re not sure if you resent this orchestration or if it’s a balm. Maybe both.
At intervals, you glance over at Uncle Rob. The smile he flashes the room is the same as ever, but his eyes seem to rove the room, always taking stock, never fully at rest. He watches Andy most of all, the way a hunter watches a rival predator—admiring and calculating, never blinking outright. At one point, your eyes meet and Rob lifts his glass in a toast, not quite a salute, but you feel the force of the message: he’s here, for you, and he’s not leaving until he’s sure you’re safe. He’s always been more protective of you than anyone else in the family, but this seems more intense, even for him.
Halfway through the meal, Andy excuses himself to confer with two men in dark suits who materialize at the edge of the room, and you find yourself, for the first time all evening, feeling alone at the lack of him. Thea leans in. “You doing okay?” she whispers, but with a smile on her face so it reads as idle gossip.
“It feels like someone else’s wedding,” you mutter back. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
She gives you a look that is both knowing and impossibly gentle. “If you want to run, just say the word. I have five hundred dollars in cash and a getaway Prius, and that’s enough to get us at least to New Hampshire before anyone notices.”
You snort-laugh, a little louder than you meant to, and feel lightheaded for an instant. There is some relief in naming it, even as a joke, even though you don’t question she’s serious about the Prius and the cash.
There is a moment, a half-second, a single synaptic twitch, in which you consider the offer or vanishing into an Uber for Logan Airport. But the urge passes. You already jetted away once and came back.
And that coming back was your choice.
It doesn’t make sense to escape again now.
The rest of dinner passes in a spiral of rich food and laughter that from most people seems to be unforced. Andy returns, all courteous apologies, and places his warm palm on your back again as if plugging back into a vital organ. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, his voice pitched only for you. “I’ll need to disappear for a bit after dessert. Business.” He says it lightly, but the tension is a wire behind each syllable. You nod, and at the same moment he gives your leg a squeeze under the table, as if to say: Don’t worry, I’ll be back. For you. Always that emphasis.
When the meal ends, the room doesn’t thin so much as it condenses. People abandon their seats in favor of looser, more volatile clusterings near the bar or moving out onto the balcony. You sense the shape of the next hours—a kind of shadow afterparty, drinks and ritual toasts and the swerve toward dysfunction that all close social gatherings eventually take. Andy fields a last volley of congratulations, then gives you a look that says thirty seconds, and moves toward a private door near the kitchen, shadowed by his men. You watch him go, feeling again the negative space at your side.
It’s at this point that your uncle finds you again.
“You sure about this?” he murmurs, like you’re trading nuclear secrets instead of making polite familial small talk at your rehearsal dinner. “Not too late to call it off.”
You set your jaw, then, because the answer is yes. Or as close to yes as you’ll ever have. If there’s a question curled up in the base of your spine, it’s quieter now—not gone, but quelled by Rob’s questioning.
You find yourself saying, “I’ve made my decision.”
Uncle Rob’s expression is unreadable, then softens just enough to let a sliver of affection through. “Your folks are damn proud. Just so you know. You do know that, right?”
You give half a shrug and a nod.
“And you know that you can always come to me, for anything.”
“Even ashes and body disposal?” you ask, letting a smirk break through the anxiety. He huffs a laugh, but you can see he’s not disarmed by it, not really.
“Especially that,” he says. But then, gentler, yet more serious, he says, “You ever want out, you just say so. Don’t matter what anyone else wants, least of all him. You come to me. You hear?”
You nod, only then realizing, “You know who he is.”
He nods and knocks his glass lightly against yours. “I’m only a phone call away. Fuck the protocols.”
You don’t know exactly what his ties to Andy’s underworld are, or how long he and Andy may have known each other, but some unexplained parts of Uncle Rob’s past make a whole lot more sense if he’s involved with the mafia. You imagine the more you trace back, the more certain absences and behaviors could ultimately be explained.
You don’t allow yourself to ask the next rush questions assembling in your mind. Instead, you clink glasses with Rob again, and when Thea reappears at your side, he makes an excuse and fades back into the crowd. You watch him go, feeling heavier and lighter at once.
“You want air?” Thea asks, as if the answer could ever be no.
Out on the balcony, you stand at the stone parapet for a while, each of your with a glass in hand, the city shining beneath you. Over the railing, half the Back Bay looks like a jewelry case, all neat squares and gold filigree light.
Thea tips her chin out into the dark. “So what’s it like standing up here, knowing you’re about to be a married woman?”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a nervous tickle in your chest. “About the same as it is being an unmarried one, only with more witnesses.”
You expect her to laugh, but instead she fixes you with a sly, assessing stare. “He scares me a little, you know,” she says, so matter-of-fact it undercuts any drama. “Not for anything he’s said or done. More in the way those security guys all treat him like he’s royalty. Which, I guess, he basically is, right? Mafia royalty?”
You hesitate, glass at your lips. Did you ever say it to her? You don’t think you did, because you went to Stockholm on the heels of signing the pre-nup which included the NDA elements… You race back through every conversation, every running-on-fumes phone call, and there’s nothing you can recall that would have spelled it out. But your silence lingers half a second too long.
Thea’s face splits in a grin that’s bright and wolfish at the edges. “I KNEW it,” she crows, as if you’ve just confirmed a conspiracy theory about the moon landing. “Oh my god. I knew it. I KNEW IT! Don’t even try to deny it.”
You gawk. “What are—how did—”
You try to look innocent, but Thea is already cackling, delighted with herself, her elbows resting on the parapet like a triumphant detective. “Please,” she says, waving her hand at the party inside, “He’s waaaaaaaaay too rich, I’ve read way too many mafia romance novels, and you had a security detail when you visited me in Stockholm using his private jet. I was 99% sure, and your hesitation there hesitation gave me the last percent.”
You consider protesting, but technically you’ve broken nothing in the contract, and the fact that your best friend knows—that anyone knows—feels like an instant balm.
You clamp a hand on Thea’s wrist. “Promise me you won’t say a word. Seriously. Not to a soul. I mean it. Not a joke, not even a whisper or a meme reference.” There’s an urgency in your voice, and Thea, reading the shift instantly, sobers.
The brightness in her eyes dims by an iota, the seriousness of your tone cutting through the fizz of her delight. She nods, solemnly, and you know that as cavalier as she can sometimes be, she doesn’t question the gravity of your insistence. “I won’t,” she vows, putting her hand over yours.
In the shared silence, you feel her searching your face for something she doesn’t want to say. You let the air prickle between you, each steadying the other just by being present, until Thea finally asks, “Does he make you happy?”
You don’t answer, not at first. You stare into the bright helix of city lights and let the question slide down your spine and settle into your gut. You want to say yes, or even no, anything definitive, but instead you just tell her, “He makes me feel alive,” and hope she hears the ambiguity for what it is.
She nods, lips pressed together. “I’m still not sure why you’re doing this, but I will admit that even though I still have questions, one of those questions is not how much that man cares for you.”
Thea fixes you with a look so curious and gentle it makes you want to squirm out of your skin. “It doesn’t look like any love story I’d picture for you,” she says. “It’s not the type people write poems about or that you see on Pinterest boards. I don’t even know that it’s love, but it’s definitely fierce, and runs deep.”
“Thea,” your voice is a little choked.
“He looks at you like you’re the last thing on earth he thinks is worth burning for.” She shrugs and takes another sip of her champagne. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s true.”
You’re grateful, even if you can’t manage the words to say so outright. Thea is one of the few souls you trust without hesitation in this world. You study her face in the city-dark, finding closeness there that reminds you, with a pang, of who you were before all this.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you say. You mean it harder than it sounds.
Thea bumps shoulders with you. “I’d literally stand in front of a bullet for you.” She glances toward a distant rooftop bar, probably scouting for snipers. “Metaphorically, but also probably literally.”
You stay there together a little longer, the gentle thrum of summer and the humid glow from the party behind you, breathing easier for the reminder that not all loves are fairy tales, that some are knife-edges, and open secrets, and best friendships.
Shep slides out the glass door with the hush of someone practiced in not disturbing an armed perimeter. He doesn’t interrupt, just drifts into the range of your awareness and waits. When you finally realize on a conscious level that he’s there, turning your head and giving him a small, tight-lipped smile, he says, “Time to make our exit, if you’re ready.”
There’s a quiet emphasis on the word “our,” and you realize how long you must’ve been out here.
“Where’s Andy?” You look over his shoulder, expecting to see him somewhere in the glow and tangle of the party, looming, waiting for you expectantly, but he’s not there. You’re surprised at how keenly you feel his absence. Then you ask Shep, “He’s not coming back tonight, is he?”
Shep shakes his head, a single, precise movement. “He wanted me to see you home. Mark’s already downstairs.” He hesitates, then softens with a half-smile, reading some of your reluctance to leave. “You can have ten more minutes if you want them.”
You take the ten.
It’s enough time for Thea to finish her glass and for you to make the rounds of the party, saying goodnight to your circles of friends and family who were invited to be part of tonight.
Your mother is waiting for you near the coat check, her dark eyes shining, twin tears perilously close to the edge. She pulls you in for a fierce, almost painful hug, her perfume sealing around you like a memory from childhood. “You’re my treasure,” she says into your ear so hard you forget to breathe for a second. She pulls away, fixing your hair with a trembling hand. “Just tell me he’s as good as he looks. That’s all I ask.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and you bob your head, not trusting yourself to say anything more.
Outside, the night air is a slab of heat. Shep guides you to the waiting Range Rover with a balanced mix of deference and I’m still your bodyguard. Mark already has the curbside door open, and you buckle yourself in, feeling the exhaustion of the night releasing through your limbs. You lean your head back against the headrest and close your eyes. As complicated as your feelings are around Andy, his absence gnaws at you in a way you didn’t expect. Especially tonight.
When you walk into the mansion, the silence is as sharp as a slap. You expected it, or something like it, and yet standing in the cavernous hush of the marble entry, clutching your tiny evening bag, you’re overtaken by an urge to slam the door hard enough to wake the dead. You don’t, though. You click it shut, toe off your heels and hook them on your fingers, and walk barefoot through the dark to your rooms upstairs.
Andy’s absence is complete and total—no jacket left half-flung on the banister, no ghost of movement or glass of half-drunk bourbon left somewhere. You resist the urge to immediately check your phone, because you want to feel the ache fully, let it sharpen until it outcompetes the dull, unanswerable questions that have circled every day since you said yes, but especially tonight.
You go to the bathroom and take a long, methodical shower. You take your time as you finish getting ready for bed, drifting through the mechanical rituals of skincare and pajamas and teeth-brushing, but you take no comfort in the delicate, orchid-scented candle you light, or the feel of the silk on your skin.
You check your phone, eventually. There’s a text from him, timestamped an hour ago.
ANDY: I’ll be late, don’t wait up.
You want to scream. You want to hurl the phone at the wall or at least send an angry string of messages to force some reaction from him, but you don’t. You sit at the end of the bed with your phone in your palm, glaring at the glow as if it can blink first. Don’t wait up, as if this is remotely normal. You know he’s got business, but he’s never missed an evening with you, never let you go to sleep without him there, touching you, fucking you, just being with you. And now he’s gone the night before your wedding?
You thumb your phone off, toss it face-down onto the bed, and stand for a moment in the hush. You are lit by moonlight coming by moonlight coming in a narrow spill through the vast window, alone with the hum and pop of baseboard heat, a ghost in your own life. You want to be sated by this, to have the sudden expanse and absence feel like relief, but instead it gathers pressure inside your chest. Under the thin silk of your robe, your skin feels hypersensitive, almost electrical, and the wet ends of your hair drip cold water down your spine.
You don’t want to admit how badly you want him here—how quickly your anger at his text has curdled into a more woeful, sticky missing. It chafes to need him.
You try to zone out streaming something on TV, but nothing cuts through to capture enough of your attention in the absence. You’re so used to the energy of Andy’s presence—the kinetic hum of him near you, whether he’s angry or amused or simply radiating power from the next room—that the void he leaves behind is almost audible.
Eventually you are able to at least focus on reading, legs tucked up under you on the settee.
You must have fallen asleep, because the next sensation is not the passage of time but abrupt displacement.
You’re in mid-dream when you sense the shift, the weightless suck of gravity before the realization: someone is lifting you. You twist, half-awake, to find Andy’s arms locked under your knees and back, carrying you with the unthinking efficiency of someone who has probably hauled bodies at some point. You mutter something into his shirt, a syllable heavy with sleep and protest, and he just keeps moving, your head lolling against his chest, too groggy to fight him off at first.
Then you thrash, not gently. You elbow at his chest, catch his ribs with a knee, and hiss, “Put me down.” You mean it. You’re not just startled—you’re still feeling that lingering anger—and Andy, to his credit, sets you down with more care than you expected. You sway and nearly lose your balance, but he catches your wrist, keeping you upright.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice absurdly gentle, and that somehow pricks worse for all its reasonableness.
You rip your hand away. “Don’t do that. Don’t just—pick me up.”
He studies you, searching your face with an unreadable patience. “You were sleeping,” he says.
You steady yourself and glare up at him, refusing to let your fatigue soften the edge of your voice. “You missed the whole rest of the night, Andy. Where were you?”
Although his expression remains the same, the tension around his eyes tightens. “You know I’m not going to tell you that.”
You scoff. “How do I know that?”
Maybe it’s the sleep, maybe it’s the hunger you’ve been stifling, but it lands with a new kind of sharpness, how Andy answers a question only by hollowing out the possibility you’ll ever ask again. But you refuse to fold into that silence tonight.
“I want you to tell me,” you say.
Andy closes the gap between you with a slow step, his gaze not leaving your face. “Tomorrow’s our wedding,” he says, low and thick in his throat, a softness that isn’t practice so much as exhaustion. His hand goes to your shoulder, thumb pressing the knot between bone and tendon, and you flinch at the intimacy of it, at how easily he can make you want to forgive him. You step back, and he lets you, his arms falling to his sides in a slow, theatrical surrender.
“Don’t do that,” you say again, voice thin this time. You hate the tremor more than you hated his absence.
He tilts his head, studying you in the low light. “You’re angry.”
He smiles, weary but pleased. “You’re angry because you missed me.” He says it not as an accusation, but a simple, delighted observation, like he’s just solved a riddle in your presence. “You care.”
You make a sound, a cross between a snort and a huff, and turn your head before he can get a better look at your face. “I’m angry because you’ve insisted on all of this—me, the wedding, pulling me into your life—and then you desert me the night before we’re supposed to get married? Leave me during the rehearsal dinner? And all I get is a ‘don’t wait up’ text?”
You hate that your voice rises, hate the heat behind your eyes. Andy comes closer, and you want to slap him and also want him to hold you. You flex your jaw, force your gaze to stay away.
He listens. He lets you say it all, and when it’s out of your mouth, tumbling and ugly, he says, “I know. But there are things I can’t and won’t tell you. I can’t ever expose you to certain things. I won’t allow them near you.” His voice is all iron and velvet. “I’m protecting you, even if it doesn’t look or feel like it.”
He lets the pause hang, then takes a slight step closer—close enough that you nearly shiver at the radius of his heat.
There are things I won’t shield you from, either. You told me to never lie, so I won’t pretend I’m made another way. But I will always come back.” He says it softly, neither a threat nor a comfort.
After a lengthy moment of silence, you tell him, “I don’t want another night like this. I don’t want to ever be stranded in the dark.”
He considers it. Not with a smirk or a challenge, but real intent, a resolution hardening. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I’m not good enough,” he says, and it is the flattest, most relentless admission. “But I am what you’re marrying.”
You should laugh. You almost do, at the incredulity, the audacity, the unfairness of his answer, of this entire situation, but then he reaches out, just a single knuckle under your chin, and you’re suddenly taking in a shaky breath.
You hold his eyes for a full count, your body picking up the stutter of your pulse, anger and want running convergent through your system. You want to turn away, to break the connection, but you can’t.
“Then show me. Make it better,” you say, and your voice is a command, not a plea.
You let him guide your face up. His thumb travels a gentle path down your jaw. He leans in, pressing his words, and his mouth, against your skin. “You want more than this? I will never give you less.” The last of it is a murmur, not a vow, but it lives in the hollow between you, nudging the edge of promise.
He kisses you behind the ear, slow and intentional, and your whole body contracts around the point of contact. You hate how even this controlled display of contrition draws you in. Were you less tired, were it not the night before your wedding, you may have pushed him away. But he knows exactly how to pull on the string that unravels you, and you can’t leave it at that, so you cup his face and press your mouth against his, not sweet or apologetic but with a frustrated need to bite, to mark. He lets you, opens willingly, tongue flicking yours, and the pressure he uses to guide you toward the bed is insistent. You pull him with you, backwards, the two of you bumping knees, bumping hips, his hands already finding the tie at your robe and making short work of it.
He pulls it from your shoulders, lets it float to the carpet with exaggerated gentleness that’s belied by the urgency of his mouth and hands. You take brief satisfaction in yanking at his shirt buttons, two of them tumbling somewhere onto the bedding, but Andy just shrugs out of the rest and lets it fall to the floor.
He is, as you’ve come to expect, taller and heavier than you in the moments that matter. He pins you beneath him, stretching your arms above your head, taking his time as if you both aren’t aching with a violent need. He kisses you with a patience that does not match the tension in his body, hands working down your ribs, touching and teasing the places he’s learned draw your responses.
You let him press you down, let him grind against you, clothed below the waist but with a bare chest and a punishing grip as he presses one of your thighs up and open for him. Your silk nightgown is tangled above your hips, ruined for decency, and the sheets under you bunch as you wrap your leg around him.
You are not even sure when you stop resisting—the anger, the loneliness—maybe when he murmurs, “I’m here,” into the shell of your ear, or maybe it’s before that, at the familiar drag of his teeth across your shoulder. You want to snarl at him, but you can only gasp and tear one of your hands away so you can grab for his waistband, the zipper, too impatient for finesse.
The button resists for half a second before you hear the pop. Andy’s hips cant, the gesture half involuntary. He is, unlike you, a master at not showing his hunger—unless he wants you to see it, and tonight he must, because the restraint rubs your skin raw in a way that’s almost a dare. You dig your heel into the mattress, lift your pelvis to grind into the urgency that’s thickening between your bodies. He lets you, but barely; his hand catches your thigh, squeezes, and you wonder if there will be marks tomorrow. You hope so.
He pulls back, and you make a desperate, wordless noise—appalled at the empty space, the abrupt loss of him. Andy grins, a glint of teeth in the dark, and then he’s dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed, eyes black and bottomless. “Patience,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “I want you naked for me. Completely.”
You’re tempted to resist him, to force him to earn the reveal, but you want the heat and the gaze and—more than anything—the feeling of him unraveling for you. So you tug the nightgown up and off, shimmying as best you can.
Andy reaches out to assist, dragging your panties off in a single, practiced movement, leaving you splayed open and vulnerable in the spill of moonlight, the air cold and sharp against your skin.
He stands, shucking his pants and boxers with ease. His cock is already hard, and he takes himself in hand, stroking slow, almost lazy, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his forearm tightens, every line of his body at the edge of restraint. He stands there for a moment, head tipped, just watching you with that focus, just this side of feral. It should alarm you. It should, maybe, make you recoil, the ferocity in him, so unlike the men you’ve known before. It’s a look that should have scared you from the beginning—but no one has wanted you the way he wants you, and you’ve grown addicted to how Andy’s hunger works.
You want to wipe that look of composure from his face, and you know exactly how to do it. You arch your back, knees falling apart, and bring your fingers to your cunt—slow, deliberate. Andy’s mouth parts the barest inch, but he doesn’t move to stop you. You circle your clit with two fingers, the slide easy and slick, and moan just loud enough that you know he’ll hear it for days. He watches, lips parted, and the tension in his neck sings.
“Is this what you want?” you ask.
You don’t wait for an answer. You drag a slick, purposeful circle with your fingertip, then roll your hips up again, forcing his attention onto the precise spot you want it. Your other hand moves to your breast, pinching a nipple until the ache flashes through your belly. You moan again, longer, keeping your eyes pinned to his as though you can draw out his release through sheer insistence.
Andy comes closer, his hand sliding up your calf, kneading the inside of your knee with enough pressure to make you gasp and lose the rhythm of your own touch. He takes your wrist in his, slows your movements, and brings your fingers to his mouth. He licks them, savoring your taste, then sucks the tips into the heat of him, eyes trained on yours the whole time. “You want to make me lose control?” he murmurs. “You’re close, sweetheart.”
You shudder, half from his voice and half from the pleasure needling up your legs. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“Flip over,” he says, and you obey. Not because you care to perform for him, but because this is the only language you speak fluently with each other.
You turn, face pillowed in moonlight, the curve of your ass arched and on display. The sheets are cool under your cheek. Andy’s hands find your hips, not rough but absolute, his palms broad and braced. He kneads you for a long moment, a brief, silent exhibition of ownership, before running his thumb down the seam of you, spreading you open with the same clinical certainty he uses to carve out secrets.
He fucks you in one smooth, relentless motion, every inch filling you until your body feels engineered for the shape of him. You groan from the fullness, and he groans being sheathed inside your cunt. He leans forward, curling over you, and presses a kiss into your neck.
He holds you there, pressed hard against the mattress, your knees bracing apart as his cock drives into you with a steadiness that’s almost brutal but never crosses over into pain. You have only ever known men in this position to get greedy, to lose their pacing almost immediately, but Andy’s rhythm is a ruthless metronome, each thrust a little deeper, a little harder, calibrated to keep you right at the edge.
His weight is a gravity you loathe and crave; you let him press you into the bed and hold you there. You’re still angry, still trembling, but everything is blurred with your arousal, your hunger, the lines so tangled you can barely see the difference.
You try to deny him your pleasure out of spite, but it’s a losing proposition—Andy finds the angle he wants, rocks into you so that you choke on a half-sob, and holds there until you scratch at the sheets, half-crazed. The sound you make is ugly and desperate, and the only thing worse is how much you want him to hear it, to be stoked by it, to see what he does to you. He seems to sense this, his voice a gravel scrape against your shoulder blade. “Take it, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you want it.”
His thumb finds your clit, presses in tight, and for a few strokes you somehow resist, but then your hips buck and your vision splotches out, and you do let him hear how much you want him. It’s exquisite. He continues to fuck into you, working your clit, every nerve burning, every muscle tightening in a white, brutal wave. He fucks you through it, groaning, not letting up until a second, sharper quake rips through your body. Then and only then does Andy let himself go—slamming into you, his hand a vise around your hip as he spends himself, jaw pressed to your spine. The shudder of him fully inside you is shocking, almost convulsive, and he bucks in you until the last aftershocks fade and the only sound in the room is two desperate people fighting for air.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays there, draped over your body, letting you catch your breath, his weight an absolute. When he does finally move, he’s slow and careful, laying beside you and rolling you into his arms, not a word spoken. You’re still too fogged by want and exhaustion to move, content to let him hold you close, the press of his cheek against your hair. Neither of you speak for a very long time.
But there are thoughts you still need him to hear.
You find your voice in the hush, not loud or demanding but plain, with the rough edge of sleep and aftershock. “I don’t want more nights like this,” you say, and you can feel the way Andy’s chest stills under your hand. “I didn’t want to be coerced into your bed, I didn’t want to be forced into an engagement, I didn’t want to get married like this. You exploited the attraction, you’ve made me weak for you, but please,” your voice breaks, “please don’t make me the wife who has to wait up alone for you.”
Andy doesn’t speak, not at first, and the silence unsettles you, but you make yourself hold it—make yourself show that it matters. You refuse to shrink or swallow the need. If he’s going to be the kind of man who pulls you into his orbit, he’s damn well going to know he can’t just leave you in the dark. Not without a fight. He’s made slow but small shifts in some areas you’ve pressed with him. Maybe you can have resonance here, too.
He smooths a hand from your shoulder, down your back, each pass gentler than the last. He’s thinking, you know. Not just brushing off what you said, but actually holding it up to the light, inspecting the seams. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and soft, but firm.
“I meant it when I said I’d do my best,” he says. “I don’t want you to be her—the wife who waits at the window. But I also can’t give up what I am.” His hand lingers at your waist, a heavy presence.
You sigh, too thoroughly boneless to summon the right words, so you simply roll over, and it’s too natural how your body melds against him as he curls his arm around you and pulls your back flush against his chest. All you can do now is hope your sentiments will start to seep into him through osmosis.
You let the silence ride a little longer, curled together as if this is some and listen to the slowing cadence of his breath, to the metallic taste of words you didn’t say, and you wonder if this is what love might be—the willingness to be furious and still stay.
And you wonder if this is love—not because it’s gentle or clean or what you imagined, but because it has weight, because it has teeth, because it sits in your chest like a stone you keep reaching for. Because you are angry and ruined and held, and somehow all three of those things are the same thing. Because no one has seen you the way he does. Because no one has made you feel so wanted, even if it’s infused with possession. But even through the moments you know there are things he isn’t telling you, you know he’s never lied to you. Even when he says things you don’t want to hear, he speaks to you openly. Even when his actions are incendiary and disagreeable, they’re still somehow for you now.
He says your name. It’s a quiet thing, a soft push through the dark, but it lands with a rattle in your chest.
“I want to tell you something,” Andy says. “Not because you asked, but because if you’re going to be my wife, you will need to know.”
You swallow, knowing instinctively that to interrupt is to lose the tiny, trembling momentum inside him. He never initiates these confessions. He’s all action, never exposition. You hold your body still, afraid any breath will snap the thread.
“They brought me in tonight to consult on a sit-down. Not a war, but something close. One of the families in Jersey—Lupo’s people—made a move on Levinson’s properties—of one of our allies—along the North River. Not a huge play, but enough to draw blood. No one got shot. But next time, someone will.” Andy’s hand flexes at your hip, tightening like a vise. “If that happens, everything changes. This life, the way we can have it, ends. The only thing that keeps us—keeps you—safe, is the order.” He breathes out, a single tight exhale. “If the peace goes, I can’t guarantee anything. Not for you, not for me. And that’s not something I’m willing to risk.”
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, sheets cooling under your legs, and you realize what he’s giving you is not reassurance, but the truth of his world, knife-sharp and blood-warm. It should terrify you. It does, to a degree, but you’ve had a security detail, you know there are six loaded guns hidden here in the master suite. There is nothing normal about any of this, but the fact of Andy’s world is that it remains obsessively ordered only so long as no one has reason to start a war.
“When I have to go, I have to go, and I’ll never apologize for that,” he adds when you don’t say anything more.
Thea joked about reading mafia romance novels, but this is not a genre, this is your life now. When you let the reality land, it isn’t just gravity, but something like inheritance: no matter what you wanted or didn’t, you’re marrying into all of this.
And yet, as you lie there, taken apart and held tightly yet again, you find a calm in yourself you didn’t realize you could access. Maybe it’s the spill of adrenaline draining away, or the simple fact that Andy—your future husband, in a matter of hours—has finally handed you the truest thing he’s ever said. Everything is always at risk.
But if the world really is this dangerous, you’ve no doubt you’re held by the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and since he stopped at nothing to secure you, he will stop at nothing to keep you secure.
Uncle Rob! Thea! Andy! A Levinson name drop?!
There are so many things here that I've been plotting for ages, and so I think it's half the reason it took me so long to finish this chapter. Back in May I had written what I thought was about 3k to make up the first half of the chapter, but something about it just wasn't working, so I pulled it apart, kept a few of the scraps, and went back to the drawin board. I'm pleased where it finally ended up, and even though I know parts of this story are frustrating (coughSOMEOFANDY'SBEHAVIORcough), I do hope you all like the chapter.
And I know this is at the verrrrrry tail end of Monday for the first of what I'm hoping will be I'm Your Man Monday, but we made it! So we'll see if I can make this happen and get you another update next week!
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: Powerful director Nick takes interest in a new project; you. (director!Nick Fowler, plus!reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
“Oh….” your brows rise and your lips round.
You stare at your reflection as you turn in the bathing suit to examine the generous cutouts. It’s a glorified bikini; the top and bottom are attached by a gold ring, forming a sort of criss cross and highlighting the fullness of your sides. You turn to the side. One wrong move and your butt might fall out. And your chest; the deep cut is doing little to comfort you.
“Sweetheart?” Nick calls from outside. “You ready? That water sure does look tempting in this heat.”
“Erm, oh….” you back away from the mirror and swipe up the towel. “Sure. Uh… Ready.”
You wrap yourself up before you open the door. You nearly gasp as you find Nick in nothing more than a pair of swim trunks; cut high up his thighs, hugging them. His torso is tightly lined with muscle and his arms rounded too. You bite your lip as the towel folds around his neck does little to lessen his bareness.
You catch his eyes flick up from your body as you hug the top of the towel. You squirm and sniff.
“It is really hot here, huh?” You chuckle nervously.
“Sure is. I shoulda warned you about the humidity,” he grins. His hair is slightly puffed up from the damp heat. You’re sure you’re a big mess as well.
“It’s all good. Uh… where’s the pool?” You ask. It’s the one thing he kept a surprise during his tour.
“Ah, yep. This way, sweetheart.”
He beckons with one arm, his other hand hovering and moving behind you as he ushers you down the tiled hall. Each square is painted with a different vine or flower. He takes you around to a door with twisted iron bars behind sliding glass. He pulls back the panes then pushes open the heavier doors. The trickle of water plucks in your ears.
The pool is long and rectangular, running nearly the expanse of the courtyard, around which the villa is built. The water is clear and crystalline, rippling prettily in the sunlight. Along one side, there’s a painted table and matching chairs, on the other, cushioned loungers under umbrellas.
“Oh, wowee.” You say without thinking. “This is like… a movie.”
“Not one of mine,” he intones. He spreads his towel over a sun chair.
“Oh, no. I guess.” You sway as you sense him watching you. Is he expecting you to react more? “Thank you. This is so amazing. I never imagined… anything like this.” You slowly near the edge. “When I was a kid, we’d go to the community pool, but when we got older, we’d swim in the river so the parents of the younger kids wouldn’t yell at us. This one time… well, it’s boring.”
“I don’t think so,” he steps up next to you and brushes his knuckles along the bottom of your towel. “Tell me.”
“Well, ha. You know, we didn’t know there were leaches and my friend, Lucianna, she got them all up the back of her leg and she panicked bad.” You giggle. “We all did and were checking each other and we were all too afraid to take them off her but I got a little stick and did my best.” You shrug. “See? Boring.”
“Cute. Quaint.” He says as he pinches your towel. “Gonna get in with me?”
“Hm, well… maybe in a bit. Can I sit and watch for a bit?” You ask.
He hums. “Sure.” He draws away. “Go for it.”
That tone underlines his words again. Disappointment? Agitation? You’re not sure. He could just be tired. It’s been a long day.
You sidle away and sit on the end of one of the loungers. He stays at the edge of the pool. He dips his toes then tips his whole body, arching to dive into the water. He pushes beneath the surface, slither through, and pops up near the middle. He shakes out his hair and runs his hands over the sopping strands.
“Refreshing.” He says. “Sure you don’t wanna hop in?”
“In a bit.” You assure him, wiggling your foot nervously.
You look down at the towel and back at him. His shoulders, his chest, his jawline. How did you end up here with someone like him?
“What’s the matter? Does the bathing suit not fit?” He wades to the edge.
Your lashes flick and you squirm. “No, it does.”
“Well… you gonna show me?” He prompts as he crosses his arms over the tiled trim of the pool.
You hide your discomfort. “It’s just a swimsuit.” You push your shoulders up.
His eyes narrow. “You don’t want me to see?”
“No.” You lie. “It’s just…” You exhale and shake off your nerves. “You know what, it is hot.”
You try to hide your insecurity as you slowly peel the towel apart. You let it fall back behind you and stand. Your chest and tummy jiggle so you feel every little ripple. You don’t hate your body, not at all, but you never really showed it off too much.
You go to the edge and cautiously sit, dipping your feet and calves into the water. Nick lingers nearby, pushing himself back as he spreads his arms out and watches you. You stare at the intertwining lines of light in the water and push off, sinking in to hide your discomfort and the way the swimsuit catches under your tits.
“I like it. It’s a nice colour on you.” He says as he tilts his head.
“Thanks. That’s… nice. I like the colour too.”
He smirks. “What about me? I think the pattern was a bit of a bold choice.”
You glance down quickly through the water. The oranges on vines across the dark blue fabric isn’t tacky, more sophisticated.
“Cute,” you say. “I like oranges.”
“I think they’re mandarins?” He shrugs. “So, we’ll have a swim and I’ll finally follow through on my promise and take you out to dinner.”
“Oh, you don’t have to–”
“Well, the private chef can’t come until tomorrow.” He wades toward you. “And you have to try real Italian pasta while you’re here. Just once.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” you smile and chafe as his gaze sinks once more. Is he looking at you? What is he thinking? How much is that pasta going to cost?
He’s quiet for a minute then leans back and floats on his back. “I like being with you, sweetheart. You don’t ask for nothing. You just are.”
“Mm, oh. I…I like hanging out, too.” You say.
A gritty noise rolls up his throat and he closes his eyes. He arches his body and dips under the water. He cuts through like a shark as he flips onto his stomach and you back away as he swims toward you. He loops his arms around your legs and brings them up around your waist. As he comes above the surface he picks you up.
You exclaim in surprise as your tits bounce and hit his head. How embarrassing! His face is as good as buried in your stomach too. You lean back and put your hands on his shoulders as you try to see him. He looks up at you with a big smile.
“Nick! What are you doing?!” You squeal.
“Having some fun, sweetheart.” He turns you and carries you across the pool. “I don’t get to do that so often.”
He tips you over and brings you under with him as you cry out, your surprise drowned by the plunge. He spins you around and brings you back up, soaked and dripping. You feel a breeze across your chest that makes your nipples hard. You look down at your exposed tits and quickly cover them up.
“Let me go!” You demand. He does just that and you fall away from him. You shake your head and hug your chest. “I’m so sorry! I think… I don’t think this fits after all.” You turn and push your feet through the water.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve seen a lot more than that.”
“I know but… I’m sorry.” You hurry to the steps and climb out. How awkward! You don’t want to ruin this trip for him. You really hope you didn’t.
➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
➴ WC: 6k
➴ WARNINGS: friends to lovers, reader is 18, bucky is 20, college!bucky, romanogers, SMUT (p in v, protected sex for once, fingering, dry humping, car sex, virginity/virginity loss, BCB (big cock bucky), pussyjob if you squint really hard) yearning, j*hn w*lker is a dick, miscommunication, YEARNING, slow burn but not but super slow burn?, excessive use of eye rolls, he's down bad, tooth rotting fluff, open ending.
➴ SUMMARY: Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though he's your brother's best friend and your crush for the past decade.
+fran: I wrote this with greasy hair, after work, before a shower. apparently I reach a flow state when I'm feral. this is my baby and I love this fic so much please for the love of all that is holy, tell me what you think. can be read alone, it will have sequels tho.
⤷ songs/playlist for this: there she goes - the la's, always everywhere - charli xcx, ruin the friendship - taylor swift, back to friends - sombr
more
The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town.
At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true.
The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing.
Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it.
You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly.
"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."
"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.
One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out.
"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."
"You said you'd play too!" you accused.
Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"
Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."
You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."
"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."
Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"
"But they're the best ones!" You whined.
Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"
That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you.
The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.
Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."
Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"
He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."
He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.
"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.
Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."
Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."
Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it.
"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate.
Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."
"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.
TEN YEARS LATER
As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.
It's kind of uncool.
The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house.
Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too.
The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games.
Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.
“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.
“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.
He always is.
Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days.
They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup.
It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.
Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.
And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.
Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.
And you—
You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.
“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”
Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”
You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”
“It is completely true,” Kate insists.
“You’re just saying that.”
“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.
Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject.
He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—
“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”
You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face.
"Perfect!"
Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.
A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"
"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.
Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"
His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"
"Oh my God." You snorted.
Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"
You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."
He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."
Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."
As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.
Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead.
“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”
“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”
“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”
Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”
“That’s not what I said.”
You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.
“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.
Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.
“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”
“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”
“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”
“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.
That’s what does it.
Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”
He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.
“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”
“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”
There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”
“Have fun at prom, John.”
And before he can say anything else, you hang up.
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.
For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them.
Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds.
You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway.
And of course it was Bucky.
"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"
His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate.
"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue.
His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"
Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"
He shook his head. "It's not stupid."
You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."
"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted.
Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John.
"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.
You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."
Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."
"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.
You sniffled. "What?"
"I think he's an idiot."
You snort. "Very eloquent."
"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"
His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss."
Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."
His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"
"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."
Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."
You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."
"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face.
You were confused. "Okay?"
"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."
"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips.
He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."
You smiled widened. "Likely."
"Or a secret, better option three—"
You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"
Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."
You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."
"What?"
"You are not asking me to prom."
"Why not?"
"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"
"Seems pretty straightforward to me."
You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."
"Correct."
"You haven't slept." Another excuse.
"Also correct."
Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.
It flipped.
"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."
Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."
You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."
Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."
You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."
After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went.
Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate.
Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"
She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."
"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.
She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."
"You've got the face."
Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"
Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."
Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside.
The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.
String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.
Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else.
No.
You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.
When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"
You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."
"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.
You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw.
"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."
"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"
"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."
You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."
"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly.
You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."
"I appreciate that."
A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."
"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."
Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor.
The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again.
"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"
Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."
"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away.
"I'm not your baby."
He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again.
This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."
Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."
Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks.
Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.
Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.
It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again.
You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat.
Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.
Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."
He shrugged. "'M not using it."
"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries.
"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."
Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"
"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."
Bucky nodded. "I had fun."
You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well.
"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."
Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes.
Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.
God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.
Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"
"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of.
"The meteor shower."
Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."
You grinned. "You remember?"
"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."
It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."
Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."
Your brow furrowed. "I did?"
He nodded. "You drew stars around it."
"Oh my God."
Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."
You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."
"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.
Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."
Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long.
For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed.
Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves.
His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.
"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.
His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"
And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.
Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.
For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.
The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.
One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor.
You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants.
Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.
That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"
You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.
Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck.
The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.
He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties.
You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.
"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"
You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.
He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."
His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.
Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.
"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.
He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."
The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.
Condom.
He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—
"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."
His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head.
Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space.
You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.
Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.
As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—
"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."
His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.
"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed.
"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."
You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base.
Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."
"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."
"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."
You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.
He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.
Bolder.
He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"
It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.
"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"
He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."
Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath.
It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom.
For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds.
It was quiet after.
Just… quiet.
The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.
For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.
Which was concerning.
You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"
He glanced over. "Hm?"
"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."
A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."
Your smile faltered slightly.
Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—
"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."
A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"
"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."
His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.
You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."
"Traumatic." He chuckled.
"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued.
He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."
You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."
The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.
Forever.
Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."
Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?
Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?
a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee [i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]
Having two Doms is a brat win if you play it right. You can tell one that the other allowed you to do something, and tell that other the same thing (that the first one allowed you) 😎
Or tell one you didn't have anything sweet today, so he buys you something, then do the same with the other 🤭 Double spoiling!
“No one will protect what they don't care about, and no one will care about what they have never experienced." - David Attenborough
Previous Part
Warnings: Original Work (Science Fiction), Aliens, implied Abduction, Captivity, Dark Themes, Power Imbalance, Dubious Consent (Touching, Voyeurism), Slow Burn, Misplaced Anger/Aggression, Protective Behavior. Minors do not interact (18+).
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Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!
Log Date 53496Willow5
Male subject engaging with female in nonthreatening displays. Aggression no longer detected. Final observations to be recorded before release from containment into habitat.
“I’ve kinda gotten used to it.” You shrug and peer around the corner of the cage to the glass of your enclosure. The curtain finally drawn once again.
Though you can’t read it, a sign stands in front of your window. Most walk over to examine it and stick around for a minute or two before moving on—as you see an alien doing now. You wave and they startle before returning the gesture.
Kurt clicks his teeth, leaning in the corner of his box, arms folded tight over his chest. “They’re staring at you. All the time.”
“Only when it’s open hours,” you say, finger raised in matter-of-fact correction. “And I have my privacy. I can show you once you’re let out of there.”
You bounce over to the window, the pane of his box frosting over again. Kurt grumbles inside. But you’re focused on the creature outside the window.
You’ve missed watching your visitors. Each interaction expanding a world wider than your habitat. Curiosity piqued by tentacles, claws, fangs, wings, ears, tails. Speculation and imagination carrying you away with them. With the lack of their presence, it’s all the more apparent how trapped you really are.
Your legs fold beneath you as you perch on the ledge. A few stragglers wander over. You beam and wave. Your fingers find the glass, pressing to it for those who enjoy comparing their appendages to yours. A towering figure hunches to be the first.
“You could at least stay close enough so I can get a look,” Kurt calls from his box.
You turn over your shoulder and back to the window, pushing off from your position. A few steps bring you right to the boundary.
“You sure you wanna see?” you ask.
“Better than staring at these four walls,” he sighs on an aggrieved breath.
You nod to yourself and step forward. The pane clears and Kurt’s eyes catch your own. He stares intently, brow furrowed. A guarded kind of focus refusing to waver until he’s ready. Moments pass as he locks you in his stormy gaze—and you find it hard to look away. Then, he turns to the audience.
Murmurs rush through the assembled crowd. The first time he’s been viewed by the public. Titters of delight and awe fill the air. More and more bodies press around the glass.
“This is so fucked up,” he mutters to himself, incredulous.
The noise and clamour only grows closer. Rising to almost drown out the hiss of the door. But you catch it straight away, head whipping toward the sound.
Virion enters with another by their side. Without acknowledging you, they gesture to your habitat. Chirps and chitters fall past their lips. Each one a snag, dragging at your breath.
You rock back on your heels. Why are butterflies dancing through your belly? Why do your feet feel as though they are standing on hot coals in their ache to race to them?
Kurt’s head follows your gaze. His shoulders jump as he startles before they square. “Who the fuck are they?” He steps toward you, too close to the wall of the box. He bumps into it with a thunk.
You can’t force yourself to break your gaze. Too ensnared by your keeper. The soft nudge against your mind a caress.
Come here, please?
You start moving before thought can form. They turn to their colleague and continue in their foreign language. A more serious tone rounding out their sounds. The other nods but remains unfazed, energy jolly and eyes alight.
Virion’s hand raises, offered to you. Their lips form around familiar, cooing syllables.
“Hey,” Kurt says, fist knocking on the wall. Jolting you out of your eager advance. He nods his chin toward the two visitors. “Tell me who they are.”
“They take care of us,” you reply, drifting away as if on ocean waves. “They run this place—they’re friendly.” The side of the box hazes over. Your feet carrying you too far.
Kurt clicks his teeth but says nothing more.
“Hi,” you greet, a nervous lilt shaking your tone as your gaze darts between them. Your hands knead together at your stomach. A crack from your knuckles prompting you to continue, “Long time, no see.”
Virion doesn’t immediately respond to you, but turns to the alien beside them. They make a few chittering sounds, gesture at your body, nod their head—an explanation.
Closer, please, if you would not mind.
You follow the silent request. Your hand finds theirs, their fingers wrapping over your own. The smooth, gentle grip enough to quiet the nerves and the butterflies and your brain.
Good.
Their lips tilt in that almost smiling way. They’re pleased with you. And you’re just trying to figure out how to breathe with their thumb running across your skin again.
They produce one of your candies as a treat and offer. Your lips open and close around it. All the while, they carry on their conversation. Exchanges about you, gestures toward you or your space.
Without warning, the other one reaches out a hand to pat your head and, startled, you shrink toward Virion. Their grip pulses, a comfort. Their free hand gesturing and bidding the other to still—and hopefully keep their hands to themself.
Forgive him. He’s excited to meet you.
Your limbs lock. Head fuzzing around the edges. Excited to meet you? Why? Is he-Is he taking you?
Sweat makes your hands clammy. Your lashes flutter. Your breath bursts heavy but quick even as you try to keep calm. Scenarios play through your head, impossible to tame. He’s taking you away. He’s taking you away!?
Virion’s hand releases yours. Instead, both move to cup your cheeks. Thumbs smoothing and soothing. A comment made to the other as their attention focuses on you.
Breathe.
Their eyes search yours, concern shining down on you. You do your best. An ache in your chest from the strain on your lungs.
He will not take you from here. He is an important benefactor and donor. He wished for an up-close visit.
You nod, peeking around your keeper to the other. A catalog in your mind of the differences between them aiding in tempering your panic. Darker hair—the color of stormclouds. Different eyes—sharp and brilliant turquoise. Bulkier build—thickset and more muscled. A more expressive face—he beams and reaches toward you again as he catches your stare.
Your eyes skip to Virion. Why do they keep their expressions controlled, composed, unreadable? There’s a twitch of their cheek, a slow blink.
Should you let the other touch you? Does Virion want that? Would that be good? How are you supposed to know? Can’t they just tell you?
With your teeth worrying over your lower lip, you hesitate but withdraw from the safety of your keeper’s grasp and present yourself.
The other displays no hint of unease. His eager hands target your head and face. Explorations of your features prod at skin, tug at your ears, skim your throat. Cooing sounds and chitters of delight pass his lips. A twinkle in the clear blue green of his eyes. Face scrunched in question. You nod in return and press a perplexed smile, unable understand him—try as you might to recognize familiar phrases.
At the pinch of confusion in your expression, he pauses. A comment thrown toward Virion as he grabs your face, his eyes fluttering closed and head leaning down.
It’s just the same as when Virion created your connection. Their mind attaching to yours. You twitch, but can’t escape the grasp on your cheeks. A noise breaks past your lips. Your mind scrambles.
He seems friendly, you reason. Surely no issue will arise from another voice in your head. Virion did bring him here. Maybe they want this. It may as well happen, right?
The other is inches away from your face, his lips beaming in a smile. His teeth startling white and pointed. You focus on them as he continues his approach, contact imminent.
A palm with two fingers and a thumb covers your forehead, slipping over your skin from behind and pulling you a step back into a firm build. Mere moments before the other’s forehead would have touched.
Your lips purse, looking up at the hand covering your head. It’s a familiar comfort despite its perplexing placement. Confusion creases the other’s face as well. Their eyes open, narrow. He moves away, derision cast toward your keeper.
Your head tilts against Virion’s side. They don’t look at you. Instead, they’re talking in rapid, hurried clips of sound. But their hand, it lingers. A tender, affectionate stroke against you.
Irritation carves into the other’s face. His eyes narrowing on your keeper. And then on their hold of you.
You reach up, feeling the back of Virion’s hand. The smoothness of their skin beneath your fingertips. One of their fingers tangles with yours like a promise. Their grip pulses before their arm drops and they step forward, gesturing at the other and blocking you behind.
The conversation exchanges between them while you stare and listen. Sounds you don’t understand volley from each.
You slink back toward the box where Kurt waits. His shoulder leans against the wall, his eyes snapping to focus on the intense conversation.
“What’s that all about?” he asks without looking away.
Your mind remains empty of explanation as Virion guides the other through the door without a glance back.
“I,” you swallow around your confusion, “I don’t know.”
