AvidFicReader

the kayak slices the water calmly and then you're being lifted out by big arms and carefully positioned legs, thick and sturdy.

you think he asks if you're alright, and you think you laugh when he does.

—

the familiar sensation of emerging from unconsciousness crawls over you, your body returning to you piecemeal until you've puzzled it out. you fainted when he lifted you out and you noticed you were standing in some industrial dockyard. specifically now, you're in some office stretched out above you from where you seem to be lying on a couch. everything burns and stings.

"alrigh'?" a thick, craggy voice from behind your head. you twist slightly and there's the man that helped you.

"i'm so sorry," you sob again, like the fainting only hit pause on your crying.

silence. "wot for?"

you don't even know. you're waterlogged and sunburned and you're pretty sure you can't lift your arms above your head if you needed to.

"my boyfriend left me out there," you try to explain through shaking breaths. "he had…everything in his kayak. the compass. water. phones. food. i think maybe he thought i still had my phone on me."

"wot the fuck 're you sayin'? your boyfriend wot?" then he finally pushes himself out of the wooden office chair and leans against the desk where you can see him better. folds his huge arms across his huge chest.

"no," and it's a laugh-cry. "he thought it was funny. wanted to see if i could make it back without his help. i tried following him, but he was too fast. then it came to a fork in the river and i didn't know how to get back."

the man's face is dark with something even beyond anger. it doesn't fit the mundanity of the office surrounding you; lists and certificates and handwritten notes tacked up everywhere on the cheap walls.

it feels good to see it reflected in someone else's face. "i didn't know where i was, or where to paddle. i just needed to find anything human. it's been…hours." and then your anger breaks open easy like yolk trapped under a thin skein to reveal the sadness underneath because all you really are are sad. a man you've been dating, let come inside you more than once, met your friends and your grandparents, left you out in the middle of a giant body of water with no means of survival.

you could've died and you can already hear his voice in your head: babe i thought you had your phone! how was i supposed to know you've put it in my bag? you should've said something. babe please you're really making something out of nothing. you're always saying how much you want to toughen up and get into the outdoors stuff with me. i came back to find you but you'd disappeared; you should've just stayed put and i would've found you. you made it into such a big deal. jesus.

sometimes, the worst part of seeing your partner as they really are is not what they say or do, but what you can very clearly hear them saying or picture them doing.

"you're in a shipyard, love. don' know where you started but i'm bettin' you've come a long ways."

you shrug. "we parked on the side of a two-lane highway. portaged in. i'm not from here, i have no idea."

"judgin' by the look of you, it's been a few hours at least." he pushes himself off the desk and shuffles through something out of sight. comes back with a first aid kit, and after flipping through the contents, what looks like cooling gel packs for burns.

"oh, no, don't waste that on me" is silenced by a rude look.

"can you sit up."

you do awkwardly.

"i'm gonna cut your top off. don't think your arms are gonna be much help." a pair of scissors is brandished and they look insanely small in his big, calloused hands, and he drags it through the fabric of your tank top unless it falls down to your waist, leaving your bikini top underneath. you think if you had your wits about you, you'd try to argue.

"move a bit." he softly uses his hands to shift you, then out of sight, you hear the packet ripped open. then a blissfully cold gel is being spread across the sun-scorched skin; over your shoulders, up your neck and tops of ears, with a gentleness that doesn't match those big hands, down your upper arms, and the top knob of your spine where your tank top had dipped low all day.

a shuddering breath is punched out of you as the gel seems to penetrate the top layer of skin left to cook under the hot august sun with no reprieve from cloud cover.

you're turned back around with his hands on your waist, facing out into this office. it must be one of those offices set up in a trailer. he crouches down in front of you, knee cartilage popping.

"better." he's not asking. declaring it to be true about you. he presses a cold water bottle into your palm, and that's when you both notice where your trail shorts had ridden up, revealing a patch of skin that got burned as well. a stupid rectangle across both thighs.

he rips open another gel pack with his teeth. you watch quietly as he smears it across your flesh, trying not to drag the skin.

"chin up."

more along your breastbone where the tank top didn't shield, up your throat, and you realize how large his hands really span when they're cupped around your trachea. tops of your ears. forehead. it feels so intimate and clinical at the same time.

"that bad, huh," you give out shakily when he's chucked the sixth pack to the side, used up.

he grunts. instructs you to sip the water slow, no matter how dry your mouth feels, how badly you want to tip it down your throat and let it sluice through your bloodstream.

"headache?"

somehow the least of your concerns all things considered, but yes. fetches you some pills from the first aid kit, watches you carefully as you swallow them.

"get some rest then. i'll take y'home when i'm done."

the realization that you don't have anything to get you home yourself is devastating and if you had moisture to conjure fresh tears, you'd surely cry again. trying to find a comfortable position is impossible, so you end up just reclining to the side, wedging someone's spare hooded sweatshirt under your head as a pillow.

shockingly, you must doze off sometime after you hear the man leave the trailer. when your eyes open, dry and achy, there's a flickering overhead light on and the sky's darkened outside. you look around and find a clock on the wall. you don't know when he hauled you in, but it must have been at least an hour of sleep.

you readjust and check out the burns on your forearms, and fall back asleep.

the sound of his boots hitting metal steps has you inhaling sharply out of hazy, discomfited sleep. you watch him enter, eyes trained on you over the desk.

"y'alrigh'?"

you nod stiffly.

"let's go." he helps you into the oversized sweatshirt that you used as a pillow. it stinks like cigarettes and body odour, but it helps protect your sunburn from being scraped against. you're grateful for the size of it, that it doesn't force you to move your arms much to be folded into it.

he has to slow and shorten his long-legged stride to match your small, aching ones across the shadowed shipyard, lit only by sharp white fluorescent overheads. he brings you over to a large black truck, gets you situated (with his help) into the passenger side, and then goes back to the yard to lock up.

when he returns, you're trembling slightly inside the big hoodie. dreading what has to come next.

"everything is at my boyfriend's," you nearly whisper, embarrassed and penitent. "my keys and…it's all there."

"right." he gets directions and doesn't bother tapping them into his gps, just steers the truck out of the parking lot and onto some dark highway.

"i'm really so—"

"no." he actually raises a hand off the steering wheel to emphasize the rough word. "you're not apologizin' for 'im."

—

the ride is long and silent, and you must doze back off in front of the blue-lit dashboard and the man, who introduced himself finally as simon, who smokes a cigarette out his window a few times. you feel too guilty to ask if he even lives close to the city, to gauge whether this trip is adding time to his own commute. you can only imagine it does, and it burns you hotter for it.

coming to under frequent lights of the highway carved through the city, minutes from your boyfriend's exit.

you direct him the rest of the way, softly. "this unit, yeah, right here."

"what's his name?" he asks while sidling the truck up behind your boyfriend's car. so he did come home.

"sam," you answer without a thought, and then he's out of the truck and locking it behind him, striding in double time up the steps.

you hide. you hate yourself for it but you shrink in the hoodie, pulling it up over your mouth anxiously as you watch the door open under a shitty porch light. then all you see is the massive shadow of this man, simon, with his arms stretched out and he disappears into the open door. the door slams shut.

minutes and minutes stretch. you keep your hand on the handle but you won't leave the safety of the truck cab.

he reemerges alone. he comes up to your car door and unlocks it with the fob. "this all of it? check."

your phone, purse and wallet, house keys, reusable water bottle, and random things like a pair of your pajama shorts, a couple books, toothbrush, skincare stuff, tampons. it's stuffed into one of you old duffel bags you must've lugged over there at some point.

"i mean…i think this is it?"

"don't guess. you don't wanna come back again."

has he broken up with your boyfriend for you?

so you check the bag again. "yes…yes, it's everything." anything else is a lost cause, you don't need to tell him that the hard liquor was all purchased by you.

he hauls himself back in the truck and you can see under the street lights, the split knuckles on his fists, smeared blood down some hairy fingers.

"thank you," you whisper.

his fingers ripple off the wheel in a "don't mention it" gesture. you tell him where your apartment is, and then fall silent.

—

you invite him up. for logistics mostly, because it hurts too much to lift the duffel bag by yourself. he stands beside you in the elevator, huge and bulky, silent on his own.

you feel his eyes flick around your space as you let yourself into the apartment. he agrees to a cup of coffee, despite the hour.

there's only the one couch. you're distinctly aware that the only other man who's sat here with you has been sam. by contrast, simon is huge, taking up space that makes the couch feel more like a loveseat. he's technically in the corner, but his big ass and legs has him nearly halfway to you.

"is this yours?" you ask, fingers picking at the large wrinkled sweatshirt swamping you. "i can give it back."

"nah," he says firmly, and you notice how absurdly small the coffee mug looks wrapped in his big hand and thick fingers. "looks better on you."

you set your mug on the coffee table nervously. "okay, so i get the sense that you don't want me to thank you, that you're not the type that would accept it even if i tried?"

silence tells you you're right.

"do you…are you seeing someone?" you shift slightly to look at him, watch his reaction.

"no."

you already know he wouldn't come up just to be nice. he's dragged a woman to shore and broken up with her shitty boyfriend for her and taken her home. he owes nothing to you.

when you lean over, disbelief seems to flicker over his still face before your mouth finds his. you feel the taut sunburnt skin stretch painfully under the hoodie, but his warm lips opening against yours is a hot distraction. you let both soft, warm puffs of air against him as you pull away and go for the skin of his neck.

this is when you remember that you woke up in your bed with sam this morning.

his hands fall at your waist, where the skin was safe from the sun, pulling at your hips with a soft hot sound behind his teeth. you separate, both huffing.

"i think maybe that we should—"

"yeah, course." he says it too quickly.

you raise your eyebrow. "—wait til i'm healed. is what i was gonna say."

he's surprised. hides it fast but you catch it.

you give him your number. type it into his old phone.

"It's soaked,” you protest without looking back at him.

"It lives outside, it’s used to it."

"It's a kitten, Si," you complain.

"Kittens live outside too."

You extend a careful hand under the car and the screaming stops, which you choose to interpret as encouragement. "Hi," you say sweetly to the curled-up-black-mass. "Hello. You are very loud, did you know?"

You stretch out your index finger to gently pet it’s cheek and the kitten bites you — not hard — just a test bite, checking if your finger is food, probably. Then just as quickly, it stalks out from under the car and you learn he’s orange, drenched and too skinny for your liking.

It walks directly past your outstretched hand to sit beneath Simon, right in the space between his bulky boots, its probably ten weeks or so. 

"No," Simon says to the cat.

The cat looks up at him and screams again.

“We can’t leave him in the rain. He’s so skinny, Si. Look at him, let’s at least feed him. We just bought plenty tuna.”

“Yeah, and it’s for me,” he grumbles. 

——

You do everything on your own that first night while Simon remains at a distance with his arms crossed, providing pessimistic commentary.

"Cats are unpredictable," he says while you dry between the kitten's ears.

"Uh-huh."

"Carry fleas. Tha’ one's got fleas, guarantee it."

"He's been rained on for days, the fleas have drowned," you turn the kitten over and start to dry his belly, finding confirmation there that he is, in fact, a boy.

"They scratch furniture," he continues later from the sofa while you crank open a can of tuna in the kitchen. "Piss in shoes, bring in dead things," he lists. "We’re not keepin’ this cat."

"Nobody said we were," you sing-song through the doorway, scratching at the kitten's chin, cooing at him where he’s sat on the countertop. 

"Puttin’ it on the record, s’all.”

The kitten eats some tuna from your hand and drinks some water out of the saucer you place on the floor. After, he ignores the box you lined with blankets completely, and opts to fall asleep in the middle of the living room floor, just in front of Simon’s socked feet. 

——

In the morning you make a list — litter, cat food, flea treatment to ease Simon’s mind — and leave the two of them alone together. 

——

The kitten follows him around immediately and everywhere, at a peppy rolling trot. The kitchen, down the hallway, he shuts the bathroom door just to find a paw under it seconds later, sweeping side to side.

When he comes out the kitten falls in at his heel again.

"You've got the whole flat," Simon tells him.

The kitten looks up at him, wide-eyed, and says nothing, which is somehow worse than the screaming, Simon thinks. 

He starts the kettle on the stove and the kitten jumps — scrabbles, mostly, all back legs — onto the counter and sits down next to him.

"No," Simon says. "Off."

The kitten stares at him.

"Y’not meant to be up here, mate. Counters are for food."

Simon picks him up one-handed and sets him on the floor.

The kitten is back on the counter before the kettle boils. Simon sets him down again.

By the third try, the kitten nearly sticks the landing, wobbles, and headbutts Simon's forearm, and Simon stands there and has a quiet think.

"Well,” he slides the kitten away with his hand. “Not near the hob, then," he decides. "Gotta draw the line somewhere, yeah?"

By the time your home, they're both in the front room — Simon on the sofa, the kitten on the armrest, both facing the telly. 

"Checked. Shelter’s open Monday," he says before you've even got your shoes off. 

You look at the bag of litter in your arms, then at the cat right at Simon's side.

"Right," you say, rolling your eyes. "Monday."

——

To your surprise, Monday comes and goes without a complaint. When you return from work and find the two of them on the couch again, you choose very deliberately not to ask. 

Tuesday there's a proper bowl on the floor in the kitchen, stainless steel and weighted, because ‘the saucer kept sliding’.

Wednesday you come home to a litter box with a hood on it, tucked behind the bathroom door.

Thursday it's a scratching post — sisal, with a platform bed on top — and a small mouse toy, already disemboweled in the hallway.

You… did not buy any of it. 

The kitten has started to become a resident. He has routines now: he sits in the counter's approved quadrant while Simon cooks, supervising. He does laps of the flat at three AM like a lunatic and sleeps until ten like the king of this place. 

Two weeks later, he is, visibly, day by day, less kitten and more cat.

You're both on the sofa, your feet in Simon's lap, nose in a book, some film on in the background that you’re not sure Simon is even half-watching because there is an awful lot of shifting going on behind your novel. Then a small rhythmic thump against your ankle. Then another. 

Thump. Thump-thump. ThumpThumpThump. 

You lower the book.

Simon has pulled the string of his hoodie out to dangle over the armrest, swinging it side-to-side, round-and-round, and the cat is up on his back legs boxing at it, every lunge sending an orange ball airborne, ricocheting off your shins.

“Really?” you ask fondly.

“‘e started it,” Simon says, eyes still on the cat.

He flicks the string and the cat leaps, misses, and slides halfway down the armrest with a scrabble; Simon catches him around the middle with one hand and sets him back up top.

The kitten catches the string at last — teeth and claws sunk in, back feet kicking, growling at it like prey. Simon lets him keep it, the corner of his mouth tugging sideways, satisfied; charmed, even.

You watch them over the top of your book — your enormous, cat-hating man, losing a tug-of-war to one.

“Should probably name him,” you try, hiding your grin, pushing your feet under his thighs.

“Been callin’ ‘im Nigel,” he says, not looking over. “Decided that’s what ‘e wants t’be called.”

You sit up so fast you lose your page. You furrow your brows. “Nigel?!” you complain. “We’re not calling him Nigel!”

“S’too late, love,” he grins down at Nigel. “Look at ‘im and tell me tha’ s’not a Nigel.” He nudges his foot under the cat and he climbs up his leg right away, as if the trick has been practiced.

The pair turn and look at you at the same time, heads tilted exactly the same.

You tilt yours back, the corner of your mouth twitching up. 

A road closure has forced him onto a different route. Funny, really, how often it comes down to something so dull. He’d wager seven out of ten times that the circumstances of your meetings are mundane. Hardly ever any fanfare. Today, it is a burst water main. Whole area’s cordoned off. Fate, when it bothers adding color to the details, lacks imagination.

He’s a couple beers deep, smells like it too, entwined with stale fryer oil from the basket of cheap fish and chips he wolfed down outside the site. His shirt and work vest cling to his chest and back, soaked through with sweat. The back of his neck splotchy and burnt pink from another day spent baking in the sun. He lumbers along, flat-eyed and bone-tired, every few steps rolling a shoulder, flexing a wrist, tipping his head to one side in futile attempts to work the knots from his body.

The street Simon’s been shunted onto is livelier than he reckons it usually is. Tree-lined and somehow mostly untouched by the new developments he helps put up. A mix of cozy Craftsmans and bungalows, single-story brick storefronts with hand-lettered signs. Patios are starting to fill for happy hours. A cluster of people funnel down the basement steps of a church for a meeting. Teenagers with nothing better to do try to look older as they loiter in front of a convenience store. Frantic streams of displaced commuters pound the pavement, staring down at their phones as they try to figure out bus reroutes or how to reach the next station.

One by one, though, instinct tickles the back of their necks, and their heads lift. They veer around him when they spot him, granting him the wide berth they might afford to say, a grizzly bear that wanders too close to civilization.

You do not.

Half a street away, you waltz straight across his line of travel with the complete, astonishing obliviousness that seems to follow you from life to life. If there’s one constant beyond the fear that follows you, it’s this: you never notice his arrival until it’s far too late.

You emerge from a shop carrying a sandwich board, swing it open, and step back to check it. A chalk arrow points toward the door that you disappear back into.

And how could it not be a sign? It literally is. The universe’s sense of humor is up there with its timing.

In an instant, the sum of his desire swells and breaks loose. A pendulum dislodged from the crater it’s beaten into a wall, now hurled hard in the other direction. Pulled by a change in his gravity.

All he ever needs is a second, a glimpse, for it all to come rushing back. 

His hand on your nape. A tight fist around a braid or a ponytail, when you have hair. White knuckles glued on a lead. Your eyes—whatever pretty color they are at the time—big and glassy, looking to him with every emotion laid bare.

He can practically hear it:

No, the tremble of a lip and a dimpling chin.

Yes, the curl of a cut lip, ‘s me, bird. One an’ only.

He stops dead on the pavement, staring at the black hole of the doorway. His whole body thrums with sudden energy. The week’s fatigue sloughs right off. Minutes ago, he’d been thinking about a shower, a wank, and falling asleep in front of the television in his recliner. Now he feels as though he could hike the mountains north of here. You’d come too, of course. 

He’d find the next truck parked on the street, toss you in it. Drive out into the woods, use bolt cutters to open up a logging road, and travel as far as he could down it. Give you a good scare in the cab or truck bed first, work you up to the brink on a couple of fingers before slapping your flank and sending you out running, wet between the legs. The customary headstart and then he’d give chase, just like old times.

The roar of blood in his ears recedes after a few deep breaths, the clenching and unclenching of his fists. When he feels like he can keep himself together, he starts walking again. It’s so abrupt that a woman who’s been carefully edging around him toward her parked car startles and yelps, dropping her keys.

Simon doesn’t so much as glance at her. His vision’s tunneled. As far as he’s concerned, for the next hour and maybe longer, there’s no one else in the universe. Only you.

The shop isn’t much to look at, ‘least that’s what he thinks this is. He didn’t actually read the sign. 

He feels gigantic in it. If he could stretch both arms out to his full wingspan, he’d come a few inches shy of touching both walls. Beneath his feet, old timber floors disappear under a thick woolen rug, probably concealing water stains that match the ones on the ceiling. A freestanding counter sits in front of a doorway partitioned by a beaded curtain that forms a sunset. It smells vaguely herbal and musky, old incense and laundry detergent. Somewhere past the curtain, soft and wordless music plays. 

He’s trying to decide whether or not you’re some kind of masseuse or counselor when the beaded curtain rattles, and you reappear.

You’re wrapped in muted colors, flowy linen draping off all your limbs. All very easy to peel or rip off.

“Hi, sorry, I was just setting up for the evening.” Your voice is pretty. Always is. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” You smile easily, politely—but he sees you swallow when you tilt your chin up to look at him.

“No, you ‘aven’t.” You would’ve fled the country if you had, he thinks. “‘M takin’ the scenic route ‘ome.”

“Oh,” you peek past him, almost hopefully, as though expecting any other customer to materialize behind him before your attention returns. “Are you…interested, then?”

Yes. “In?”

“A reading? A palm reading? …Unless,” Then, and your eyes light up at this, “you’re here for a spiritual reading.”

Simon bites his cheek to stop from laughing when he realizes you’re serious. Serious enough at least to sell it. 

So, this is what you are this time around. A charlatan. A cheat. A little swindler gaming hardworking—probably lonely and desperate—people out of their money by telling them what they want to hear. Looking at their hands and faces, spinning stories out of thin air. This is new. He can’t recall a single time when you pulled a stunt like this.

His amusement bleeds away a bit. He searches your face, eyes narrowing as he tries to make sense of it. What happened to you in the years before this? What sort of life steered you here, into this dingy shop, leading you to smile at strangers and pretend to see the future? Because if anyone should know how impossible that is—it’s you.

Simon huffs and rakes his nails over the buzzed hair on his head. He’s got his work cut out for him. You need help remembering how good you can be.

An equally laughable, unbelievable, and eye-watering two hundred dollars later, he’s wedged into a velvet armchair in a room smaller than the lobby. A two-person table separates you, but only barely. Your knees touch underneath it.

(Reminds him of the time you met at a circus. Him, a lion. You, an equestrienne whose horse he gutted to reach you.)

“You need to relax, Simon,” you gently encourage, rubbing your hands together. They’re slick with hand sanitizer, and the lavender fragrance it is mixed with does nothing to blunt that medicinal note. Cuts into the ambiance of the place, in his opinion. “I know that’s probably easier said than done given your, um, work.” You smile through a wince. 

His scent must be worse in this glorified closet. The heat’s trapped inside, insulated with the convenient soundproofing. He knows he’s ripe. It’s no coincidence when you fiddle with the vase on the table, stuffed with what he thinks is eucalyptus and some pale purple flowers.

“‘m relaxed, bird.” The pet name slips out from years of habit. He catches your flinch and grins, knowing full well that the sight of his smile does nothing to reassure you. He does you the courtesy of wiping his damp hands on his jeans first before offering them. He plants his elbows on the table, making both it and his chair creak when he leans forward.

You inch backward on your own chair in return, but even so, your eyes fall to his hands.

“Rough,” you murmur, hesitating a moment before leaning closer as well for a better look.

They’re crosshatched with old scars. Thick white lines earned from his honest day-to-day, the others from what pays better on the side. Split skin stitched over knuckles that have been broken several times. At a whirl of your finger, he turns them over, palms up, and wonders if the callouses on the meat of them make your ‘job’ any harder.

His cock twitches against his thigh when you finally touch him.

One at a time, your thumbs gingerly wander over the creases of his palms. You squint, hum to yourself, ask meandering questions, hedging your comments when he peppers in a couple what could tha’ mean. 

To Simon, your fishing could not be more transparent.

Sneaking peeks up at his face, tossing out broad enough statements and ideas that anyone with a pulse could see themselves in. It is cute, how you clearly think you’re getting away with something.

You tap the tail end of a line beneath his pinky. “So, there’s someone, or there was someone.”

“Yeah.”

Your brows lift a hair. “It ended badly?”

More times than he can count. Knock-down, drag-out fights, messy divorces, suicide pacts. Bleeding out on the steps of a temple or face-down in blood-soaked fields, each of you finding the other too late. Putting you down in a veterinary clinic and, in turn, you making him your dinner after fishing him out of a river.

The good times are fewer. Those memories smear in his head. Don’t stand out as much.

“Y’could say that. Last time I saw ‘er, she told me to—she was leavin’.”

“You really love her?”

“With all my ‘eart. She’s my other ‘alf.”

You nod, then pull his hand closer with a sympathetic and close-lipped smile. If you feel an ounce of guilt, the dollar signs in your eyes dampen it.

“Let’s see if there’s hope for a happy reunion.”

Your chin dips as you inch your fingers across the line, eyes moving rapidly like you’re actually reading something profound.

He flexes his thighs under the table. He’s hard, cock trapped and leaking into his boxers. Aching to give you something real to wrap your hands and head around.

“It’s…Huh,” you finally speak, the confidence in your tone audibly wavering. Your smile’s weak when you glance up at him, then quickly back down. You wet your lips, head slightly tilting as though the angle might change what you’re seeing. “This here says that you will, uh, see her again. That…”

“That?” he prompts.

Simon sees the gears in your head turn. A ghost slips across your eyes. The tiny muscles around your mouth tighten, forehead creasing. A shiver runs through you, to the hand holding his, traveling like an electric current. He feels it in his chest.

“That you’ve…y-you hurt–?” Your gaze snaps up to his. “I don’t…How do I know–”

At last, realization hits. You jolt away from him, hands pulling to your chest. Char legs scraping across the narrow floorspace as you thrust yourself backward, chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.

There you are—Here I am.

Simon watches your pupils grow, taking in the threat, and not just a threat, but the threat. Not the only predator you’ve ever met, but the apex. Singular in its appetite.

Recognition follows, and your hands jerk in quick succession. A twitch toward your hip, then up to your shoulder. Down to your thigh and ankle.

He delights in their familiarity. He’s seen them before. Grabbing for a revolver strapped to your hip. Nocking an arrow from horseback. Drawing a knife underneath a tablecloth at dinner. Every little thing you do, every nervous look or restless fidget, they’ll tell him what you’re about to do. He’ll read you like you’ve pretended to read palms.

So when you shove the table at him and lunge for the door—he’s already there, full weight thrown against it. Suddenly, there’s nowhere left to run but into him.

You shriek when you collide with his chest. He grabs your arms, holding them up as you twist and kick violently. It amounts to nothing. It is nothing. He gathers you against him, glad to collect your bruises, and buries his face in your neck. He breathes in deep and smells home. He doesn’t even mind when you bite his fingers, pressing the same horrible palm to your mouth to shut you up.

It’s short work to bend you over the table and kick open your legs. Your struggling jostles the vase, tipping it over, cool water sloshing over the wood. Eucalyptus wreathes your head when he pins your wrists to the small of your back and thrusts a mitt down the front of your cotton pants. He folds over you when your thighs start to shake, rutting against your arse while you whimper. He groans filth in your ear, relishing the pulse of your terrified cunt around his fingers. He doesn’t care that he spills in his jeans. He’ll have you lick it out later before he pops them in the wash.

You’re always more cooperative after an orgasm. Less whiny. But you’re still a flight risk, so he tethers you to the armchair with his belt while he generously locks up. You glare at him through the crack in the door. Must not be feeling very grateful yet.

He finds your car keys and wallet in your bag, and reclaims his two hundred dollars. He scans your driver’s license. The address makes him chuckle, though it feels close to injury. All this time, you’ve been living a handful of blocks away. Just outside his orbit. Walking the same streets, breathing the same fucking air. You’ve passed like ships in the night. All those near misses.

Thank fuck for burst pipes and other accidents.

He crouches in front of you, hand skimming up your thigh then jumping up to your cheek. 

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

However, it is still a photo shoot so you make sure to kiss him in a way that shows your wedding ring. Apparently it's been the ring of the Queen of Hoviriand for several generations. While he is not yet king, with Nick's father being so frail, it is understood that his coronation will be held in conjunction with the wedding. Thus, you will be made a wife and a queen on the same day. Quite the upgrade from a lonely spinster princess.

Nick wishes he didn't have to leave you, but a Crown Prince, a soon-to-be King, cannot be away from his kingdom for long. He trusts Bucky to put out any fires, but his brother was never really good at running things long-term. Especially with both of their little brothers being so distracted, one with grief, the other with a relatively new marriage.

Before he gets onto his plane, he kneels in front of Pookie and gives the directive to protect you that all guard dogs trained in Hoviriand are taught. Though Nick doesn't understand the cute name for such a fierce looking dog, he has to admit Pookie is already taking to it, and to you.

"The next time we meet, you will be greeted by an adoring crowd," Nick promises.

"We shall have to see," you smile shyly. "Until then, my future husband, please stay safe."

"For you, of course," he smiles before kissing the back of your hand.

Back at the palace you can hear Evie's screams of anger almost as soon as you enter.

Next to you, Lexie lets out a sigh. "Is it bad I'd hoped she'd ruin her voice by now?"

"No, no it isn't," you reassure. "Perhaps we should stay out of the sleeping wing for a while. Well, at least I should."

"I'll stay with you," Lexie promises. "I can't imagine she'll be any happier at seeing me."

"It's not as if I chose him! I even went out of my way to try to put you both in his path."

"I know. But I don't think she'll ever see it that way. It's certainly not your fault that Prince Nick seemed to choose you straight away."

"He is a very confusing man," you shake your head.

"At the very least, he's open and honest about his wants. He'll never leave you guessing."

There's a melancholy tone in your sister's voice that has you worried. You've suspected she's had a crush on someone but has been to hesitant to say anything. Perhaps the man, or woman, is giving her mixed signals.

Your phone goes off and you take a look. You've been trying to balance the sudden whirlwind of PR events with your regular activities, but it's been difficult.

Evie isn't the only one upset that you're marrying Nick. Unlike with her, though, the people you regularly work with are mainly scared about the funding for their projects. If you leave without the proper paperwork being filed first, a lot of people could be out of work. Many projects for the people of Zotia will be left in limbo.

Honestly, you're grateful for this time between engagement and marriage where you can work everything out. Between Mother, Lexie and your main servant, you know your things will be packed and taken care of. Including the toys you'd told Nick about. That just leaves you and Pookie to handle the changing of the guard that will keep things running.

Your shoulders drop as you realize how busy your month is going to be. Will you even have time for fittings for the wedding dress? Well, you'll have to find the time. Mother will be insistent and it really should be a priority. You're representing your entire kingdom, after all. You need to make sure to give a good impression to the people of your new home.

"YOU!" Evie's angry scream gets your attention. "You've ruined my life! I could've been a queen! But now what chance do I have?! There are only so many kingdoms you know!"

As she storms at you, Pookie steps in front of you and growls.

"Oh don't you dare!" she shouts the dog, but he doesn't stand down. "Ugh. Then again, if Prince Fowler thinks a mangy mutt like this is an acceptable gift, it makes sense that he'd want you instead of me."

"I suppose," you shrug. "Now leave us alone. I've got a lot of work to do."

"You should be apologizing! You stole my chance at happiness!"

"It's not her fault, or yours, that Prince Fowler didn't choose you," Lexi intervenes.

"You're conspiring against me, too? I suppose the boring sister would side with the ugly one."

"Evelyn, that's enough!" you snap, startling her. "You are a princess of a noble blood line. It's time you acted like it. Making fun of me is one thing, but you will leave Lexie and Pookie out of your attacks. Understood?"

Evie huffs and goes to turn away but you're not having it.

"Evelyn!" you shout, using the most authoritative tone you've ever used.

"I understand," she sneers before stomping off.

"When you're helping Mother with the wedding plans, please make sure she stays here?" you plead with Lexie.

"I was already planning on doing so," she sighs. "Thanks for standing up for me," she adds with a big hug.

"It's the least I can do considering I'm going to be leaving you with her."

"Eh, maybe I'll just ask Maggie if I can move in with her and her husband. Considering her pregnancy, she could probably use the help."

"Smart."

Leaning down you give Pookie some scritches.

"And you were so brave! You are such a good boy, keeping me safe!" you coo as his tail wags.

Standing back up, you look between your phone, your sister and your puppy.

"Let's get to work," you sigh.

Previous -- Next

You sit on the floor as 8KH1 sleeps on the cot. The morning rises slowly from the tepid night. You count out five nuts from the tin and eat them slow. You don't know your assignment for the day, you never do. It will be grueling whatever it is.

It doesn’t matter. You can barely remember what you did yesterday, let alone week ago. Yet, your last day at the market sticks. The thief, dog, the Legate. You dream about it. More and more, it feels like that’s all it was.

You pick at the sole of your boot where it once more separates from the rest. You traded a can of sour beets for a needle and leather cord to fix it. It only held for a month. Now you're hungry and your shoe is too.

The first bell rings. A horrible refashioned metal thing from a school house. There’s one in the hallway outside the cramped room you share with a dozen others. And others mounted on walls across the colony. There’s even one on the pole that marks the centre of the court yard.

8KH1 rolls off the cot. They pull on their sock-like cap and tuck in their ratty ends. You lock up your peanuts in the small locker with your number on it. You each get one. Enough to fit your boots at most, but those stay on your feet. You’d never get enough to fill it up anyhow.

You file out with the rest. Roll call. The Decanus soldiers with their silver buttons count the bodies standing in slumping blocks of eight by eight. Each block is called up and designated to their daily tasks.

It’s not market day for the quadrant. You’ll be headed to the drought land to dig bunds for rain water. If it ever rains. The work is tedious but better than staying in camp and tending to the rusting pipes under block 58S.

You shuffle into the back of a truck with the rest of your block. There are no seats. You stand, crammed into the canvas covered bed, and try not to tip into the person beside, behind, or in front of you.

You face the back, just able to see between the shoulders ahead of you and through the rustling flaps. A rumble of engine sound from ahead of the truck's bumper. A convoy comes into sight. Black tactical vehicles on high axles and heavily treaded tires. They disappear into a cloud of dust.

“See that?” Someone whispers. They’re hushed. Despite this someone else answers.

“What?”

Another shush.

“That looked like…”

“Sigil…” Another whispers.

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not getting lashes for you.” The shusher hisses.

You stare out at the sun beaten road. Those vehicles were headed for 814; or so it looked like. Why? They didn’t look like a work sentry or even a delivery.

Soon enough, you forget them. You get to a strip in the drought land and disembark with a long shovel. You’ll dig a half circle pit along the peaks of the dried out earth. Crushing work that already has your back achy.

You work with M5PL, a squat older man turning red from the heat. You throw the dirt out of the pit as you carve out the crumbly dirt. It blows back at you, sticking to the sweat on your face and soaking through your clothing.

You dig until the air cools. It would be easier work to start in the evening but by then, you’re rounded up and put on the truck. M5PL cries out as he tries to climb up over the bumper. He clutches his chest and falls back, landing flat on the ground. He gets a kick from a Decanus. When he just writhes and whines, the step over him and close the short door to the bed of the truck.

“Vultures will take him where he needs to go.” They march around the truck and the doors creak loudly.

M5PL twitches as the truck takes off. You look down at the shadows around your feet. One day, it’ll be you. Not if, when. He isn’t the first, they’ll never be the last.

Back at the camp, the truck honks at the gates. It’s unusual. Usually, the sentries will open them on sight.

“Business?” A raspy voice demands.

“The fuck you mean,” the Decanus in the driver’s seat huffs. “We’re stationed here.”

“Watch your tone.” The other man retorts. “Can you read?”

“The hell kinda question–”

“Use your eyes, dick,” the snarl crackles in the man’s throat.

“Centurion?” The driver sputters.

“Good boy. Get inside before I have you boarded.”

The truck lurches forward as you hear the doors parting on their immense hinges. Those around you exchange looks but don’t dare speak. What is a centurion doing in 814?

You traipse out with the rest. You lean on the truck until you get the feeling back in your feet and lift your knees as you try to get the tightness out. You grip your hips as your lower back knots up. You turn in your shovel and collect your ration card.

“Half?” Another snorts. “Half a ration?”

“Did you say something, pleb?” The decanus barks.

No response. You all tuck away the orange half-ration ticket and shuffle away. You keep your head down and pull up your jacket to hide a yawn. You drop your hands and nearly cry out as something cold meets your palm. You learned long ago not to react.

You turn as the sniffing wet nose brushes your jacket’s hem. The same black and white dog nuzzles the bottom of your stomach. You show your palms and watch helplessly. Other pass by, side stepping the beast nervously.

“Hey, go on. Get to your quarters.” The decanus stomps over. “The hell are you up to?” The dog turns around and growls at the man. He stops and scowls. “You shouldn’t fuck with that dog. It’s–”

“Lupa,” the name rolls through the air, followed by a whistle.

The decanus turns and presses his fist to his heart. He lowers his head as the Legate approaches. That explains the centurion, yet doesn’t. Why are they here?

You get to your knees and the dog, Lupa, circles you. She sits beside you as her owner approaches and rests her snout on your shoulder. You stare at the ground and rest your fists above your knees.

“Decanus. Dismissed. Go away.” The Legate snips. The Decanus flees without hesitation.

“8E15.” The Legate recites your number.

You dip your head even lower. You can’t speak. Any plebian that speaks out of turn won’t always be able to ever again.

“You can stand.” He permits.

You shake and lean forward slowly. You lift yourself on your knees, set one foot at a time, and stand. You keep your head down.

The dog circles you again then presses her head against your hip as she sits close. She prods your hand with your nose. You let her.

“And you may pet her. She doesn’t always ask so nicely.” He girds.

You open your hand and turn it out. You pet the dog cautiously. The Legate inches closer.

“My men have been searching all day.” He states.

You flinch.

“The Optio told me himself you didn’t exist. I should have his left eye.”

You gulp and instinctively look up in shock, just as quickly dropping your gaze again.

“You see, the E looks like an F.” He stops in front of you and points to your jacket, almost touching you. “But I knew you were real.” Lupa rubs her face on your hand. “She’s been restless for you.”

You scratch Lupa’s ear.

“Will you walk with her?” He pushes his shoulders wide. “And me?”

You stare at Lupa as he licks your hand. It’s not a question, not from him, it’s a command.

"It's not my job." Cody huffs. "Besides, she's on one. Heard she dumped her coffee on Tiffy."

"I might too," Harris tosses back. "She's an idiot, like her boss."

You almost argue that Penelope is as good as all your boss. She might not be directly upwards but she could have any of you out of a job. She might just if you don't give her time tonforget your unfortunately stray into the spotlight.

"I know, I just thought..."

"Oh yeah, didn't you fuck up?" Harris chortles.

"Typical," Cody rolls his eyes. "You ladies should stick to makeup."

You frown. They are so annoying. Whatever. If they did it, you'd probably have to redo it anyway.

You give up on the firmware updates and grab your gear. You clip your radio to your belt and head down to the studio stage. Penelope is there growling at Tiffany and tugging her limp waves.

"What the hell did you do to my extensions?"

"Nothing, they look good." Tiffany insists as she spritzes hair spray and tries to add volume.

"That's not what I asked. I always look good." Penelope retorts.

"Where's the guest?" You ask Karlsen, the stage director.

"Late. Kid called to say he got stuck on Sunset... Somehow." Karlsen shakes his head.

Right, no distracting yourself.

You approach Penelope as she sits in her chair. You take out a clip-on mic and look for the best place to put it on her busy dress. She barely notices as you slip it behind a ruffle.

"Where's my coffee?" Penelope snips.

Tiffany looks down at her stained satin blouse. "Mick went for a refill--"

"You are all useless." She whines and swats you away like a fly.

You back up, avoiding her manicure, and she once more fusses at her hair. She's usually in a mood but since yesterday, she's been a terror. You can't help but feel responsible.

"...thanks very much. Every studio is the same yet different, huh?" The deep voice carries before the man appears.

It isn't the expected young actor and his reddish curls, but the same as the day before. What's going on? Napoleon Solo, action star, three time sexiest man of the year, enters with an armful of flowers; violets, daisies, carnations, roses, in a dozen shades of pink, purple, and cream. A lovely wild array.

"Ah, so you've come to apologise," Penelope scoffs as she stands and struts over. She reaches for the bouquet.

He lifts a brow. "If I assumed you had any sense of self-awareness, I might expect the same of you," he keeps the flowers away from her easily. "No, I spoke with Larry. The footage will be scrapped." His blue eyes barely graze her as he turns and searches the stage. "Ah, there you are." He walks towards you as your confusion has you frozen. He holds out the flowers and you stare. "My appreciation."

You blink and glance over at Penelope. She's fuming, lip curled, shaking. You put your palms up.

"Sir, I really don't think I can. Uh... It's a nice gesture and all but... I really can't." You sniff. "It's not professional."

He tilts his head. "Don't let her spoil it," he pushes the flowers at you again.

"Really, Mr. Solo--"

"Napoleon," he intones with a crooked grin. Then he says your name. You almost cringe. "I know you remember me. I remember you."

You stand, uncertain. Your heart pumps wildly and your ears thrum. All at once, the bouquet sends up a puff of petals and you back up as Penelope snatches them and swings them into the floor. The flowers explode into a cloud of stems and petals.

"As gracious as ever," Napoleon remarks tersely.

"You come into my studio." Penelope clings to the few stems still bound on the ribbon and pokes him with it. "And insult me like this. For a tech?" Her voice is shrill. "For this creature--"

She pulls her arm back again and aims at you. He catches the stems easily and yanks them from her grasps. He growls and throws them in her face.

"I don't think you realise how little power you actually have," Napoleon says evenly. "Your a name on a script. No one watches for you, darling."

She balls her hands and stomps, like a toddler in a tiara and plastic heels. "You are so stupid--"

She raises her fists as if to hit his chest and he snags them in his large hands. He walks her backwards as she squeals. He doesn't let go until she sits in her chair.

"Expect my complaint to be followed by legal notice," he brushes a fingertip over his palm. He turns and looks at Karlsen, "if those cameras are rolling, don't wipe the footage."

"Wouldn't think if it," Karlsen can't help but smirk.

Napoleon retreats and stops by you, "you'll need a new job, I expect." He pauses and feels inside his powder blue jacket. "My agent will arrange it." He hands over a card. You accept it, speechless.

"See you in court, Penelope." He turns and strides out. You quickly hide the card. Penelope stands and storms over to kick around the ruins of the flowers.

"Clean this up! Now!" She hollers as stomps past you. "You will all pay for this!”

You don't bother to try to get the mic back. Instead, you turn to help Tiffany clean up the flowers. The rest of the crew whisper in confusion. What do they do now?

As you father up the bent stems, you feel heat on your nape. You peek over and notice how everyone is watching you. Even Tiffany stops tidying to look at you.

You frown and ignore them as best as you can. You didn't ask for any of this. As nice as it is for him to want to make up for Penelope's behaviour, it's the worst thing Napoleon could have done. Especially for you.

“Hey, I'm here, I'm here!” The guest, Peter Parker rushes in, his shirt button unevenly and his hair askew. He stops short and looks around. “What happened here?”

“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.

Two years of background work and you’re not seeing the light just yet. But this is what you wanted. This is the only thing you could ever think of doing, and yet, you’ve done more than you could ever imagine.

You’ve never been the most social creature. You thought technical work would keep you in the background. That you would simply get your orders, the specs, and do setup. Unfortunately for you, life doesn’t always match expectations.1

You’re used to it, not comfortable with it. Talking to strangers, trying not to step on toes. Thankfully, the people you deal with are so much more important than you, they barely acknowledge your existence.

“Stage 3.” The call comes through your earpiece.

You hike up your kit on your shoulder and tap the button on the radio clipped to your belt. “On it. Gear in hand.”

You pause as you get to the curtain. Lights dim and brighten on the other side, voices drift through, one deeper than the rest. You chest the roster before you enter. Got it.

You push through and cross the set. Penelope is late. You think she could be on time for her very important work, especially given her boasting. All the stars want to talk to me!

Your eyes fall on the interviewee of the day. You recite his name in your head as you approach. The chair makes him look larger, though he is a naturally big man. As big as he looks on those posters you see at the theatre in passing.

“Excuse me, hi, Mr. Solo,” you say.

His attention turns to you, his eyes bold and bright. You’re surprised at the intensity of them as they don’t immediately roll away in dismissal. You rest your hand on your bag.

“I’m just here to mic you up. Do you mind?” You go through your usual rapport. Most times, you get a wave of the hand to get it over with.

“Of course.” He sits up straight and puffs his chest. “Jacket or shirt?”

“Um… probably just on your collar.” You look down and flip open your kit.

You’re used to feeling small, not just physically, but this man makes you feel miniscule.

“Sure.” He agrees.

You take out the mic clip and step closer to him. You hesitate. You can’t exactly reach without getting too close.

He slides forward in the chair and rests his hands on his thick thighs. He hunches his shoulder.”Better?” He asks.

“Oh, thank you.”

He leans in as you grab his collar. You can smell his cologne. It’s not too strong, a soft scent, like jasmine and something earthy. A piece of hair falls forward on his forehead as you secure the mic and his arm brushes yours as he flicks it back.

“You don’t happen to have some pomade on you?” He chuckles. “Can’t get this to behave.”

“Um, no… mic only.” You say awkwardly as you pull away.

“Ah, well, then, if I have any issue being heard, I’ll ask for you?”

Your eyes skitter back and forth. “Sure, or Ollie. He’s our floor manager.”

He laughs again. “And if I wanted to ask for you, what name would I use?”

You blink then answer stiffly. You can’t remember the last person who cared. It’s why you stopped introducing yourself.

He repeats it with a lilt on his tongue and hums. “Wonderful.” He sits back and taps his head. “I never forget a name or a face.”

“We need to do a test,” you unplug your ear piece from the radio and pull out the console. You port the cord into the output. “Can you say something?”

“Something,” he slithers.

“Got it. Alright. Should be good.”

You turn without looking back. As you do, you hear a squeal. Penelope strides in, an iced coffee in hand, her big sunglasses hiding her hangover, hair freshly blown out. You see the wince in her forehead.

“Nap! Leon! What can I call you?” She chimes despite the grate in her voice.

“Napoleon,” He enunciates as he stands offers his hand to her.

She pauses and looks him up and down, pulling her sunglasses down her nose. “Wow, you’re taller in person!”

She shakes his hand daintily as she fans herself. He’s unaffected by her fawning. He lets her go and checks his expensive watch, the silver catching the set lights.

“I think we’re running behind.” He says.

“Oh, well, it isn’t live.” She flicks her fingers derisively. “You’re important enough for them to wait on.”

His jaw ticks but he maintains his easy expression. He backs up and sits down again. Penelope calls for Prisha and shoves her iced coffee at her. “Darling, I need more powder. Get that makeup girl in here, now.”

You keep out of the way, waiting for your opportunity. A flurry of assistants horde around Penelope and tug at her hair and her clothing, one even waving a silk fan at her. It’s always a show.

You twist your heel into the floor as your eyes wander. You catch Napoleon watching you, his head tilted slightly in impatience. He flicks his eyebrows as if to say, ‘can you believe this?’ You’ve seen it so many times, you’re numb to the ridiculousness of it all. It’s worse when the guest is just as pretentious.

Prisha steps around Penelope’s chair and you take your in. You quickly approach, clip the mic, and back off before you can even be noticed. You think of the star interview like a cat; clip their claws when they’re sleeping or distracted. Don’t make it too obvious.

You test her mic and listen to her catty demands through your ear piece. Now you just need to go up to the sound booth and get JJ to sort out the levels. Your job isn’t done. No, now you get to listen to a whole PR-scripted interview and be ready for any technical issues.

"Oh yeah, buddy. A real charmer when you want to be." Bucky slaps his back, hard. Peter's eyes widen as he stumbles just a step.

"Just followed your lead," peter chuckles nervously.

"Sounds like a drink earned." Bucky stays. "On me. I know this place. It's where I talked Fowler into giving me this role."

"Really? I auditioned twelve times." Peter says.

"It was all just a formality. I know what kinda scotch he likes." Bucky shrugs.

You don't recall this but to be honest, a lot of your time with Bucky is a blur now. You'll be all too happy to forget them. You pull out your phone.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it then." You say. "I gotta get stuff together for tomorrow. And sleep."

"You're not coming?" Peter asks.

"Um, no. Doesn't sound like business. You two have a good time."

"Bummer," Peter pouts. You realise, he might be intimidated by Bucky but you're over being a buffer. Besides, you know Bucky doesn't actually want to have drinks with the clueless heart throb.

"She's a busy lady, isn't she?" Bucky scoffs. "Boys' night. You still gotta tell me about this special lady of yours."

"Alright, have a good one. Your hotel key is in your pocket, right?" You say.

"Got it," Peter assures as he pays around, panicked until he feels the card in his back pocket.

"Okay, enjoy. Don't forget, you're shooting tomorrow morning."

"Bright and early," Bucky chirps and smacks Peter's arm. Hard. "I'll get him back nice and safe. Have a good night, sweetie."

You hesitate at that pet name. Peter glanced over at Bucky curiously. You give a wave and turn on your heel. Any longer with the jerk and you might throw yourself in a canal.

🎞️

The buzz sinks into your subconscious. It's a recurring nightmare for you. Your phone is always vibrating in your dreams, a haunting constant in your waking hours.

It doesn't stop. Your eyes roll open and you groan as you push the sheet away from your waist. It's humid even as a soft breeze flows through the open window.

You reach for your phone. It's one in the morning and Peter is calling. He's usually in bed by now unless there's an after party.

You answer but not before you realise it's a video call. The shine of your phone limbs your sleepy face in the lower corner as youre'rmet with Peter giggling then gagging as he bends over. You hear his puke spew onto the Venice cobble stones.

"Damn, sweetie, looks like you should come get your boy." Bucky snickers off camera. "Can't quite handle his Grappa."

You stifle a yawn and sit up dizzily. "What did you do?" Your voice is crisp in your throat.

"We were just having a good time. When's the last time you did?" He taunts. "Woah, kid, don't fall."

Bucky's hand comes into frame and grabs Peter's arm before he can tip head first into the stone work.

"Bucky, he's... Messed up."

"You'd know about messing a guy up, wouldn't you?" He snarls.

You sigh and push off the bed. "I'm on my way."

He clucks. "Jeez, sweetie, I don't remember you being so worried for me."

You shake your head as you put your phone down to aim at the ceiling. "Where are you?"

"Really, when did you ever give such a shit about me?"

"Bucky, please--"

"You fucking quit. Coward." He growls.

"I remember well helping your drunk ass to bed the last night I suffered working for you." You snap. "It's over. Just... Leave me alone and tell me where the hell you are."

He's quiet. You pull on a loose midi dress and swipe up your phone. "Bucky, where--"

You see Peter sitting on the ground, head hanging. "I'm so... Drunk." He hiccups.

"Wanna know something?" Bucky flips the camera and stares you down through the phone. "I wasn't fucking drunk." His blue eyes bore through the lens. "I was giving you your grand opportunity."

"What are you even talking about? Just tell me where to find you--"

"You coulda been under me, doll. You still could be. Let me tell you, it's a hell of a lot better than this bullshit. Baby sitting this human disaster," he turns the phone and snorts. "All you had to do was look after me and my needs. You know, there's women all over who'd love one night in my goddamn bed."

"Just tell me where you are," you beg.

He sighs and faces the camera again. "All I wanted was to feel you."

You sniff. You flip around your apps. There. You can see Peter's location. It was his idea since he was so bad at giving directions.

"I'm on my way.”

You hang up and snatch up your purse. You clasp the strap between your hand as you hurry through the slanted hallways. You race down the steep stairs and out into the tepid night.

The only way across the canal are the smaller boats meant for couples on romantic outings. You pay the fare to get across and climb up onto the cobbles. You follow the dot on the app. By the time you get to them, Peter’s laying on the edge of a fountain, his phone beside him. Alone.

Bucky just left him like this? What the fuck?

You got to Peter and turn his face up. His lashes flutter. You scoop a palmful of water from the fountain and splash it over him as you call his name. His eyes open and he yelps.

“I love youuuuu.” He slurs then sits up, wobbling. “Oh… it’s you.”

“Peter, are you okay?” You hold onto his arm.

“Huh?”

“Where’s Bucky?” You ask.

“Huh?” He echoes again.

“Peter…” You huff. You pick up his phone and put it in your purse. “Can you walk?”

“Can I… did something happen to my legs?” He gasps.

“No, you’re drunk. Peter–”

“I… I can try.” He babbles and his head starts to droop.

“No, no.” You grab his arm and stand, tugging him. “Let’s go.”

He manages to stand, leaning on you as he can’t quite lift his head all the way. You angle him around and make slow staggering progress to the canal. You catch another ride, this one swaying with Peter’s inebriated tilts, and you struggle to get him up on the other side.

You get to his hotel and the stairs have you out of breath and ready to give up. You move slowly down the hall and get him inside his room. You put him on his stomach across the bed and put the bin next to it. You place his phone on the night stand.

“Peter,” you rub his shoulder. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

You stand up and back away, watching him as he gurgles senselessly. You turn at the door and all at once, you're snagged around the back of your neck, a hand across your mouth. Bucky smirks at you as he hushes you through his teeth.