Chapter Text
The crowded sea of workers flooding out of the factories for the evening parted like a tide before Bucky, his strides purposeful, shoulders squared. The setting sun cast the Smokestack District in a haze of burning amber and ashen grey, the air thick with soot and the sharp tang of metal. Even here, in the industrial veins of Sootstone, men instinctively stepped aside lest they be trampled underfoot.
This Stark friend of his was apparently buried deep within the district, tucked away in whatever workshop or lair he called home. Even if their fathers had once been in business together, Stark seemed to have chosen a different path that didn’t dance as closely with the violence that pulsed beneath the city’s surface. You had no doubt that his work, whatever it was, still dipped into the murky waters of illegality. The Smog Boys and their associates rarely kept company with anyone clean .
You let your mind wander, dissecting the possibilities, if only to drown out the roar in your thoughts. For once, Bucky Barnes and his uninvited quests were a welcome distraction.
But no matter how much you tried to shove it aside, Becca’s revelation clung to you like a thorn buried deep beneath your skin. Her words would haunt you long into the night. You knew they would. You’d toss and turn, picking them apart, unravelling them until they unravelled you .
Your father—the man who had half-heartedly raised you, the man who had buried himself in drink and violence, the man who had driven your mother into an early grave—was not your father. Not the man you had thought him to be at all.
The realisation felt like a gaping wound in your chest. The years you had wasted on him, the countless excuses, the hesitant forgiveness. It was all for nothing . You had bent yourself backwards trying to make sense of him, trying to make peace with how he had broken you repeatedly. And yet, he was just another name to add to an already endless list of cruel men.
And your mother—gods, your mother. You had resented her for the life she had chosen, for trapping you in the Warrens, for binding you to poverty and suffering. You had never understood why she stayed, why she had chosen him , why she hadn’t run far from Blackstone and disappeared into the countryside. But now, it all slotted into place like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t realised was incomplete.
A sickness curled in your gut. You had hated her .
Your lip was raw from how hard you had been chewing it, and you forced yourself to focus on the roll of Bucky’s shoulders as he marched ahead, unphased, a cigarette hanging from his lips. You hated yourself for ever blaming your mother when she had endured atrocities . She had shown remarkable strength in escaping, in carving out a life of her own in the shadows of Sootstone. She had run from that wretched place, hidden in plain sight. Marrying your father…it must have been a last resort. Perhaps the only man who would take in a woman in her condition.
And she had never told you. Neither of them had. Did your father— no, the man you had believed to be your father —even know the truth? He had never spoken of the Church of Light beyond vague, half-drunken warnings, letting the weight of it gather dust in your memories. A ghost of something unspoken.
But you had never forgotten.
There was a plan forming in your mind—a quiet, insidious thing. A plan to destroy the Church of Light, to repay them for the cruelties they had stained your bloodline with. That day with Michael— gods, Michael — it had given you confidence, perhaps even delusion. You had power. Power strong enough to tear them apart, to bring them to their knees. But beyond any misplaced ideas of grandeur, you knew a truth. You couldn’t act alone. Not in such an obvious way. The Church was vast —multiple temples, hundreds of members. A massacre would not go unnoticed, and the coppers wouldn’t hesitate to drag you to the gallows. It had been a miracle you had escaped them as a teenager.
And every power, every body in this realm, had limits.
You’d never had the full opportunity to explore the depths of this cursed power you’d been gifted, this death that clung to your very being. You couldn’t know if you had what it took to destroy them all in one fell swoop without destroying yourself in the process.
Your gaze flickered back to Bucky. His expression was guarded, jaw tight, eyes locked ahead as smoke curled from the cigarette between his lips. Even now, with his muscles still taut from anger, he exuded a dangerous calm. A readiness to act, to strike.
You could use him.
You could use him, use the Smog Boys to rip the Church of Light apart. If it became a gang war, the coppers wouldn’t so much as bat an eye. They’d let the criminals handle their own if Bucky's name was attached.
And you would be protected —so long as you could keep his attention.
The thought twisted something deep inside you. Was it wrong to think this way?
Then again… had he not used you, too? Had he not sought you out for your power, for what you could do for him? Yes, he had paid you, but at what cost? There was no permanency in this. You were just another indulgence, another fleeting pleasure. He had told you himself—he didn’t think himself a man capable of love.
Maybe you could have loved him. But him loving you?
It would be foolish to think so. Foolish to believe he could care for you beyond lust, beyond the pull of your body against his.
Your thoughts twisted in on themselves, tangling like a mess of threads in your mind, squeezing, choking, refusing to come undone.
The streets of the Smokestack District grew narrower as you followed Bucky deeper into its labyrinthine alleys, the industrial skyline choking out what little remained of the evening light. Buildings leaned into one another like drunks in an embrace, their brick faces blackened with soot, their windows murky with grime. The air stank of coal smoke, damp rot, and something metallic—oil, or maybe blood.
At the end of a particularly filthy lane, past a crumbling row of tenements, you finally stopped in front of what appeared to be an unassuming butcher’s shop. A weathered wooden sign, its red paint peeling, hung above the entrance: Lucky’s Choppery . The display window was lined with thick cuts of beef and strings of sausages, though the glass was so smeared with grease it barely reflected the gaslights flickering in the street.
You eyed the butcher’s block just inside, where a cleaver had been buried deep into a slab of meat, its blade glinting under the weak glow of an overhead lamp. The floor, lined with well-worn tiles, bore the dark stains of years of blood and brine.
Bucky shoved open the door without hesitation, the bell overhead giving a feeble jingle. A lanky kid behind the counter—maybe eighteen at most—jerked up from where he’d been counting money, his dark eyes widening.
You glanced around, taking in the place. “Your friend Stark… is a butcher?”
Bucky huffed, crunching his cigarette beneath his boot. “It’s a front, doll.”
“Good to know…” You exhaled slowly, shifting your weight as the kid behind the counter fumbled with the till.
Bucky stepped forward, tapping the counter with two fingers. “Parker. Here to see Stark.”
The boy—Parker—flinched, his expression tightening. “Stark—you’re supposed to say Lucky —”
Bucky’s brow creased. “Who the fuck is Lucky ?”
“It’s the codeword —” Parker sucked in a sharp breath, pressing his lips together like he was already regretting this conversation. “Mr. Stark is busy, I’m afraid Mr. Barnes…”
Bucky gave him a flat look. “Kid, I’m sure he is. But do you think he’s gonna be pleased if he finds out you turned me away?”
Parker swallowed hard. His shoulders sagged, and with a sigh, he jerked his head toward the back. “Alright… come on through.”
You followed Parker behind the counter and through a heavy wooden door into the backroom. The temperature dropped immediately. The air was thick with the lingering scent of salt and raw flesh. Rows of bloodless animal carcasses hung from iron hooks, swaying slightly from the draft that slithered through the room. You stepped carefully as Parker led you toward a door set into the far wall. The door's surface was scratched and worn, but the metal handle was polished from years of use.
Parker pushed it open, ushering you both in. You winced as you were blinded by the buzz of lightbulbs hanging overhead, illuminating the space.
A laboratory.
It was a chaotic masterpiece of metal and magic, stitched together in an unholy fusion of science and the occult. Copper pipes ran along the walls like veins, some hissing with steam, others crackling faintly with unnatural energy. The exposed brick was scrawled over with chalked equations, half-translated runes wedged between calculations that looked like they belonged to some deranged engineer’s fever dream.
Workbenches sagged under the weight of strange devices—bronzed contraptions with whirring gears, delicate instruments of glass and silver, and something that looked suspiciously like a heart pulsing inside a vat of thick, viscous liquid. Along the far wall, a large metal figure loomed, wires and arcane sigils wrapping around it in a spidery embrace. A dull red glow pulsed from within.
And at the centre of it all, hunched over a mess of gears and copper wiring, was the man himself.
Stark.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His dark hair was a mess of careless waves, tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times while deep in thought. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his sharp jaw. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, exposing forearms slathered with grease and soot. His vest, once fine, was smudged with oil and singed at the edges, and his half-buttoned shirt carried the distinct stains of burnt metal and something vaguely alchemical.
Perched on his nose was a pair of brass-framed goggles, their lenses thick and dusted with soot, the left one cracked down the middle. A tiny, flickering spark of blue danced across the metal frame as if whatever enchantment he’d woven into them was barely holding together. He had the look of a man who was equal parts genius and disaster, the kind of bastard who could build something to change the world but would probably set his own lab on fire in the process.
And, of course, he didn’t even look up as the door swung open.
“Who's this? A present for me?” His voice was rough. He finally glanced up, gaze narrowing as he studied you. “I see magic about her—”
“She ain’t for one of your experiments, Tony,” Bucky interrupted, stepping between you and the mad scientist. “She’s with me.”
“Huh.” Stark exhaled, leaning back against his worktable with an air of disappointment. “Shame. And touchy , too… I take it this is your infamous spirit-raiser ?”
“What?” you muttered, stiffening.
“He experiments with magic and technology,” Bucky explained dryly. “Thinks he can… power metal with magic.”
“That’s possible?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Stark’s expression turned downright wolfish. “ Oh, it’s possible . Just needs the right conduit .” He stepped forward, his fingers twitching like he was already picturing carving something out of you to power one of his creations. “I mean… if I could just experiment with a drop of your magic, it doesn’t hurt, I promise… just a prick, bit of bleeding, long-term possibilities can include sudden death buuut— ”
Your expression melted into something of horror.
“ Oi , that’s not why we’re ‘ere, Tony,” Bucky cut in sharply. “I’m hostin’ a party. You’re invited.”
With a flick of his wrist, he produced a pristine envelope from inside his suit jacket, the deep red wax seal still unbroken. The contrast was almost comical—elegant, refined, and utterly out of place. You doubted Bucky had penned the invitations himself; the script was too precise and delicate. No, he’d likely had some poor girl painstakingly scrawl each one by hand while he barked orders from the corner of a smoky room.
Bucky’s expression remained flat, but his tone had an unmistakable edge when he added, “Preferably, you’ll keep your hands off my bird while you’re at it.”
You had to fight the urge to snap your head toward him in shock. His bird? Had one week tangled in your sheets left that much of a mark on him? The man hadn’t even taken you on a proper date—unless you counted brutalising a handful of Iron Rats as a romantic outing.
Stark paused, his keen gaze flicking between the two of you like he was dissecting a particularly interesting experiment. The glint in his eye was pure mischief. “ Your bird, aye? Didn’t realise things were so… serious.”
Bucky scowled, jaw tightening. “Shut ya fuckin’ gob and take the invitation.” He flicked the pristine envelope onto Stark’s cluttered workbench, where it landed atop a mess of copper wiring, scattered blueprints, and a wrench smeared with something that definitely wasn’t just grease.
Stark picked it up, popping open the seal with ease. “Alright, alright.” His expression shifted slightly as he skimmed the contents. “This ain’t got anything to do with that Smokin’ Jacks business?”
Bucky smirked. “Somethin’ like that.”
Even with the vague way they spoke, you had heard rumours.
The Smokin’ Jacks were a gang of gamblers—slick bastards who ran their operations like clockwork, their fortunes made not through brute force but by sleight of hand. They had gambling dens throughout Blackstone, and their debts were written in blood.
The Smog Boys and the Smokin’ Jacks had long held a hesitant truce—so long as the Jacks didn’t turn their tricks on the poor bastards in the Warrens, there was no need for bloodshed. Their scams and schemes were reserved for the rich and reckless of the Flower District, the men who never knew the weight of a real loss.
But lately, there had been whispers. The Jacks weren’t keeping their word. Their debt collectors had started crossing into Smog Boy territory, leaning on the desperate and the weak, pressing them for coin they didn’t have.
Bucky didn’t take kindly to broken deals.
Stark folded the invitation with an almost exaggerated neatness, tucking it into the inner pocket of his grease-streaked waistcoat. His eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing, the kind of look that suggested he saw a game unfolding that only he knew the rules to.
“Guess I’ll be there, then.”
Bucky gave a short nod as if he had expected no less. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his cigarette case with a flick of his wrist. But before he could light one, you stepped forward, words spilling from your lips before you could stop them.
“You just wrapped up that business with the Iron Rats, and now you’re goin’ after the Smokin’ Jacks? Can you be any more reckless—”
Bucky turned his head toward you, exhaling slowly through his nose, cigarette forgotten. “Don’t make me remind you whose fault that Iron Rats business was.”
Your jaw clenched. “You’re the one who escalated it—”
“Yeah, well, you sure were into it, weren’t you?” His voice dropped, low and taunting, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Sure fucked me afterwards like you did—”
Heat shot up your spine, equal parts fury and disbelief, and before you even realised what you were doing, your hand was fisted in the sleeve of his coat, yanking him toward you. He barely moved, only grinning down at you with that infuriating glint in his eye, like he was daring you to do something about it.
Behind you, Stark let out a low whistle, then a chuckle, clearly enjoying the show. “Well, well. You two are a real pair, aren’t ya?” He leaned back against his workbench, arms crossed, amusement dancing across his features.
Bucky rolled his eyes and wrenched his arm free, though not before squeezing your wrist briefly—just enough to remind you who was stronger. “We’re leavin’,” he muttered, turning toward the door.
“Try not to start a war before the party, Barnes,” Stark called after him. “But if you do —” he grinned, “—make sure I get front-row seats.”
You cast one last glance at the chaos of the lab, the scattered notes, and the eerie hum of machinery before following Bucky out. You didn’t need Stark to tell you that. A war was already brewing.
—
Your front door creaked as you pushed it open, the familiar scent of candle wax and herbs greeting you as you stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, the only real light coming from the amber glow of the streetlamps outside, their hazy beams spilling through the lace curtains. You shrugged off your coat, glancing over your shoulder as Bucky followed you in.
Only, he didn’t move the way he usually did.
Gone was the effortless swagger, the quiet, calculated control he carried himself with. Instead, he lingered near the door as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or turn and leave. The sight unsettled you more than you cared to admit.
“You stayin’ the night?” You asked, tone casual despite the tension between you. “Or are you gonna go over to keep an eye on Becca?”
Bucky exhaled, rubbing at his jaw before answering. “No. I’ll have Nat watch over Becca. Think I’m the last person she wants to see right about now.”
There was something distant in his voice. You had noticed a shift in him during your quiet walk back from Stark’s lab. You turned, leaning against the edge of the table as you studied him. His shoulders were taut beneath his coat as if he were bracing for something.
“Are you angry with her?” you asked carefully. “For what she said to me?”
His lips pressed into a firm line. He took a moment before answering. “Can’t say I’m not a bit upset, doll.”
You sighed. “I wouldn’t take it out on her. She was just tryin’ to protect you.”
His head tilted slightly, expression unreadable. “I can make my own choices.”
“Bucky… I just—” You began but you cut yourself off as the gangster finally spoke.
“I’m…” He hesitated.
You blinked. That alone was enough to unnerve you.
You had never seen Bucky hesitate, not like this. He always had something to say—sharp, sure, commanding. But now, something unfamiliar wove itself into his voice. Vulnerability.
“ …Grateful. ”
The word came quietly like he almost couldn’t bring himself to say it, and when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the slight furrow of his brow, the way his hands flexed as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
“For what you did for Becca today,” he finished.
You swallowed hard.
“Well,” you sigh, “I couldn’t have just left her there—”
“I’m serious.”
His voice was firm now, but there was a softness beneath it. He shifted his weight slightly, jaw working as he forced himself to continue. “I know she is cruel, but she is my blood. My responsibility.”
You let his words sink in, picking them apart in your head.
“I don’t think she’s cruel,” you murmured. “I think she’s a woman who’s built her walls so high to protect herself. Now she can’t tell a friend from a threat.”
Bucky huffed a quiet breath, barely a sound at all.
“I can tell you why she’s like that,” he said. “And I’m afraid I’m on that list.”
Your brows pulled together. “I wouldn’t blame yourself—”
“Sometimes I worry, doll.”
Something in his voice… a weight settled in your ribcage. It was lower now, rougher like the words were being dragged from some part of him he never let anyone see. His fingers twitched at his side, clenching once before flexing open again. His jaw went tight, and when he finally spoke again, the words came slowly, carefully.
“I worry that I am becoming my father.”
Silence stretched between you. You didn’t think. You just reached out, fingers brushing over his hand, grounding him, offering something—anything—before he could retreat behind the walls you could already see rising.
But it was too late.
His body went rigid, tension snapping through him like a wire pulled too tight. His hand twitched under yours as if instinct told him to grip, to hold on, but then…He pulled away. The moment his expression hardened, you knew. Whatever softness had been there was gone in an instant, buried beneath cold calculation and the armour he had worn for so long. “I should go,” he muttered, voice clipped.
“Bucky—”
But he was already turning, already stepping away.
The door swung open, and before you could say another word, he was gone, the night swallowing him whole.
You stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he had been, his presence lingering like a ghost you couldn’t quite banish.
—
Three days later, you made the—likely foolish—decision to deliver a care package to Becca. You knew you’d probably receive a tongue-lashing for it, but a small, wicked part of you wanted to be the better person. You had sourced some gin from the Flower Districts, strong, quality stuff that the upper-class women drank. A classier alternative to the harsh whiskey that the Smog Boys brewed and likely already lined Becca’s shelves.
The alley was dark and damp, the scent of piss and rotting wood lingering in the narrow space. Your breath curled in the cold air as you hesitated in front of her door, fingers tightening around the woven basket in your hands.
Maybe your presence wasn’t the best idea, given what she was recovering from. Perhaps it was best to leave the package and disappear into the night unseen. The message would be there, but you’d be spared the inevitable onslaught of curses she would toss your way. You imagined whore would be right at the top.
With a quiet huff, you bent to place the basket on the doorstep. Inside, nestled together, was the bottle of gin, a fresh loaf of bread, butter, and some cold-cut meats you had hunted down at the Sunday market. You knew Bucky and Nat were caring for her, but you wanted to be sure.
The door creaked open just as you straightened up.
Bucky.
He stepped out, locking up behind him, keys dangling from his fingers with an idle sort of ease. He was dressed in his usual suit—dark, well-fitted, with the coat buttoned up against the cold. The brass glint of his pocket watch chain caught the dim light as he turned to you.
For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. But it passed too quickly to catch.
“You just can’t help yourself, huh?” His voice was low, edged with something you couldn’t quite place.
Your mouth opened before your mind could catch up, fumbling for an excuse. I was just making sure she’s alright. I was worried. I care. But instead, you settled for, “Sorry, I was just… ah. Care package. For Becca. Thought she’d need it.”
Maybe it wasn’t best to admit to your convoluted, backward scheme of making the woman feel bad through kindness.
His gaze dropped to the basket at your feet, scanning its contents with a slow, deliberate look before exhaling through his nose. Without a word, he bent and picked it up, turning it slightly in his hands.
“She’s out with that Brackett kid,” he muttered, shifting the basket to his other hand.
You hesitated. “That’s… good?”
Bucky arched a brow as he pulled out the bottle of gin, tilting it slightly to read the label.
“Still gonna kill him,” he said flatly, setting the bottle back down.
You bit back a smirk. “Of course you are.”
He didn’t smile, but something about his posture loosened—just a fraction. The last time you had seen him, he had stormed out of your flat. You couldn’t tell if he was still feeling stand-offish, or if the sharpness in his tone was just habit. The keys clinked softly as he turned them over in his palm, watching you with that same brooding expression.
He placed the basket on the hallway table, pulling shut the door and locking it with practised ease.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he murmured, voice measured, almost lazy. But there was something deliberate in it, like he was waiting to see how you’d respond.
You hesitated, shifting on your heels. “Didn’t think you’d want to.”
Something flickered in his gaze, just for a second, before he looked away.
“Yeah, well,” he said, slipping the keys into his pocket. “You keep showing up, don’t you?”
You exhaled a short laugh, though your pulse was a little unsteady. “Guess I do.”
Bucky made a noise in his throat, something between amusement and resignation. Then, with a tilt of his head toward the street, he stepped past you.
“Walk with me,” he said, not looking back.
It wasn’t a question. And, despite yourself, you followed.
The night air bit at your skin as you fell into step beside him. The streets of the Warrens were quieter in this part of town, though the distant hum of nightlife still clung to the air—rowdy laughter spilling from taverns, the occasional shout of a drunk stumbling home.
Bucky’s flat was deeper in the district, past the noisier streets, tucked above an old tailor’s shop. He didn’t say a word as he led you up the narrow stairwell, the scent of dust and mothballs lingering in the close space. At the top, he flicked the key between his fingers before unlocking the door, pushing it open without much ceremony.
Inside, it was… surprisingly nice. Not lavish like Becca’s, but well-kept—orderly. The furnishings were simple: a sturdy wooden table, a leather armchair that looked well-worn but hardly used, a small bar cart against the wall with only a handful of bottles. Unlike Becca’s place, which was decorated with velvet drapes, gilded mirrors, and delicate trinkets, Bucky’s was bare. Functional. You got the sense that he didn’t spend much time here.
He didn’t look at you as he shrugged off his coat, draping it over the chair. Instead, he reached for the bar cart, grabbing a bottle and two glasses. “Drink?”
“Sure.”
He poured the amber liquid out and slid one of the glasses toward you across the wooden table, his own drink resting loosely in his grip. You hesitated for only a second before taking the offered glass, the cool weight of it grounding you. The scent was rich and smoky, promising a slow, lingering burn.
Silence stretched between you for a long moment, the soft clink of glass against wood filling the space. Finally, you exhaled, rolling the whiskey between your fingers before speaking. “Are we going to talk about it?”
Bucky lifted a brow. “About what?”
“You storming out of my flat the other day?” You sighed, leaning back against the edge of the table. “Look, I didn’t expect a thank you if that’s what’s got you all wound up.”
His gaze flickered to yours, sharp and searching, something unreadable in the depths of his blue eyes. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “I’m not wound up.”
You scoffed. “You’re impossible.”
That pulled a smirk from him—slow, teasing. “Did you want me to stay?” There was a beat of pause before he huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the whiskey in his glass. When he finally looked at you again, amusement curled at the edges of his lips. “Did you miss me?” he drawled.
“ Maybe. ”
Bucky’s smirk deepened, but there was something else beneath it—something you couldn’t quite name. His gaze flickered over your face, searching, considering.
“Careful, doll,” he murmured, tilting his glass toward you in a slow, deliberate toast. “That almost sounds like an invitation.”
He watched you as you lifted the glass to your lips. The first sip hit hard, burning its way down your throat and curling warm in your stomach. You coughed, barely suppressing a wince as the heat spread through your chest. Bucky smirked, tilting his own glass to his lips with far more ease.
“Shit, is this Smog Boys stuff?” You rasped, blinking away the sting.
“Off the market, yeah.” He hummed, stretching back as he pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sank into it with a sigh. “Some of it, we brew strong. Just for us boys.”
Your gaze flickered to his hands, the way his fingers idly traced the rim of his glass. He had settled into his seat with the ease, legs spread wide, confidence dripping from every lazy shift of his body. The sight of him like that, whiskey warming his blood, watching you with quiet interest—it sent a pulse of heat low in your stomach.
You tipped back the rest of your drink, hissing at the burn, then shrugged off your coat. The heavy fabric slipped from your shoulders and crumpled to the floor between his feet. Bucky’s gaze sharpened. You lowered yourself onto the discarded coat, knees pressing into the worn wood through the fabric, your hands smoothing up the inside of his thighs.
His body reacted before his words did. His legs spread a little wider, welcoming you in, his breath hitching just slightly. You nuzzled against the rough fabric of his trousers, blinking up at him through your lashes.
“What’re you…” He trailed off as your nails ghosted over the buckle of his belt.
His hand caught your wrist, and you smirked at him, tilting your head. “I wanna taste you.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, his fingers tightening on your skin for just a moment. Then, with a quiet curse under his breath, he tossed back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass down with a heavy clink.
“Shit, doll,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, lower, as his free hand went to his belt. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
From where you knelt, you could see the way his breath had quickened, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before undoing his belt.
Your pulse thrummed in anticipation, thighs squeezing together beneath your skirts. Bucky exhaled sharply as you leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against the fabric covering his length. His head tipped back, a quiet groan slipping from his lips, one hand smoothing through your hair.
He was always so controlled, always so composed—but now, beneath your touch, you could feel him unravel. And gods, you wanted to watch him fall apart.