lia

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

Your sister means kindly by it. She does. Her invitation had all the look of family affection and all the substance of pity besides—come stay with us awhile, come out of that lonely house, come be amongst noise and life, as though noise and life were sovereign cures for widowhood.

And perhaps they are for some women. Perhaps some woman, not yet a year bereft, would be glad enough to clap eyes on the nearest decent man, let him grunt his way over her, and set to breeding by way of proof that the world had not ended. That has never been your method.

Life has had the indecency to go on this past year. That is the trouble. It goes on in your own lonely house, and it goes on here, in your sister’s bustling one, with a cow to be milked and a kettle to be watched and small sticky hands forever catching at your sleeves, while every soul about you peers on as if waiting for you to remember your proper business and take another husband. In the meanwhile the plain truth is that the countryside is dull enough to drive a woman to gnaw her own hand for want of diversion, if only to see what might happen next.

Before your teeth reach the tendon, though, Bitterbridge answers. It gathers everything to itself: lordlings and lowborn, sellswords and cutthroats, the poor, the rich, the young, the old, the whores and the ones hot for them. Another tournament is proclaimed in honour of some spoiled highborn brat because she happens to be her father’s favourite daughter, and the town and its outskirts swell with ale, coin, filth, and horseshit.

Any breach in this boredom will serve. Any face but your sister’s—leg-spreader, Gods bless her, and lovingly said, though not without a pinch of envy—her kind-hearted husband’s, and those of her full-cheeked children might yet be your salvation. To walk streets bursting with life. To see blood running from men’s temples and lust bright on the faces of those who slip away by night to the makeshift brothel. To live vicariously through them might well save you from losing a hand after all.

What you are going to lose, beyond doubt, is either your sanity or your hearing, perhaps both, brought about by your sister’s piercing screech one morning. One of her offspring is lost. Unseen by his siblings the whole night past, likely wandered off into town to gape at knights and steal ale from the bottoms of half-drunk cups. A little hellion, that one. Curious and sweet in his own fashion, and by far the one nearest your heart.

“I’m taking the horse,” you tell your sister, shrugging into your cloak. “I’ll search the outskirts while Harlan searches the town.” She only stares at you, shaking. You cross to her, cup her face in both hands, and rest your brow to hers for a moment. “Be brave, my darling. We’ll find him.”

“What if he’s lost?” she whispers. “What if he’s taken, or split in half for disturbing a lord?”

Then you have four others still, you think first, sharp and ugly as a pin. “Nonsense,” you say. “What use would the Gods have for sweet little Pate, hm?”

“Gods? None.” She gives a weak little smile. “But I feel the Hells would take him gladly.”

You laugh at that, kiss her brow, fold her tight to you once, and then you are off.

First, you ride for the meadows where the contestants have pitched their camps. The horse you leave hitched beneath a willow, and the rest of the search you take on foot. You ask after Pate wherever there is a face to ask, though half the camp is too drunk, concussed, or both to trust their own names, much less a boy’s. The others tell you only that this is no place for a child alone, which you had gathered already. One man asks what it would cost to have your legs spread.

You smile at him sweetly. “I fear you have not coin enough for that, goodman.”

He is comely enough that, under other circumstances, you might have gone with him all the same. Being taken for a whore does not prick your pride half so much as perhaps it ought. There are worse things to be mistaken for, and you have another errand in hand. Still, the press of so many fine men in one place is enough to do a widow’s head in. You have not been touched in an age, and your body, faithless thing, seems minded to remind you of it now.

Then you hear your name, shrilled above the crush of voices spilling between the food stalls, trinket boards, and smiths’ tents. You turn, looking low first, towards the height of men’s thighs, and so it takes you a blink to find him.

Pate is not on the ground at all. He is perched high on a man’s shoulders, little legs dangling down the broad plane of his chest, both hands fisted in the man’s hair to keep himself steady.

“Aunt!” he cries, cheeks scored with clean tracks where tears have cut through the dust. “Ser Duncan—there’s my aunt!”

The knight turns at once, and the first thing that strikes you is his size. He is a mountain of a man, broad enough to block half the lane, with a face so open and kindly upon it that the whole effect goes strange. He glances at you almost fearfully, as if braced for a scolding for carrying off your sister’s child. The nearer you come, the bigger he seems. Your gut gives an odd little stir at the thought of trading places with Pate, of sitting astride those immense shoulders with your hands sunk in his hair. Then you come nearer still and are struck by the full offence of him.

Gods above, the man stinks.

Horse, old leather, sour sweat baked hard by the day’s sun, and something so thoroughly masculine and foul beneath it that your nose near gives up its office altogether. At this rate you shall end the morning with but one sense left to you, and it is fortunate that sight is proving such a useful one. For all his reek, the knight is a thing very well worth looking at.

“Beg pardon, m’lady,” the man says. “I found him wandering alone, crying—”

“I wasn’t crying!” Pate protests.

“I swear this to you, I was about to bring him home,” the knight says, all in a rush. His eyes are huge and honest, boyish in a way that sits almost absurdly on so large a frame. Pate has much the same look when caught at mischief.

You blink yourself back into the matter at hand. “I’ve no doubt of that,” you say, then tip your head further back to peer up at your nephew. “What did they feed you, little devil? You’ve grown rather tall overnight.”

You reach for the boy. He comes down from the knight’s shoulders into your arms, and nuzzles into you with a sweet little sigh. “Come. Your mother’s worried sick. Your father has gone all the way into town, and you know how much he hates that.”

Pate gives a small wet laugh against your neck. Harlan is a house beast through and through and holds that too much town air breeds wickedness by degrees. The man would sooner bed down with his pigs than pass a cheerful day amongst crowds.

“What’s this?” you ask when something warm touches the skin of your throat.

A sniffle. “Will he whip me?”

You put a hand to his back and rub. “There will be no whipping. No one whips children while I am here,” you say softly.

Then you turn back to the knight and find him gaping, caught at it beneath long lashes. “Thank you, er—”

“Dunk. Uh—” He checks himself, pulls out of his slouch, and for the space of a breath seems to grow even broader, as though the title is the only shape large enough to hold him. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Thank you, Ser Duncan,” you say. “Come.” You beckon him closer, having already taken his measure well enough. “My sister will want to give you her thanks for finding this unruly little demon.”

“Oh, no, m’lady, there’s no need,” he says at once. “I could not take payment for doing what’s only right.”

You smile. “Have you comfortable lodging?”

That stops him. His silence answers plain enough.

“Come, Ser Duncan,” you say. “There is no shame in accepting gratitude. My family has not much, but we may at least offer you a warm meal and a bed for the night.” Your gaze slips over him once, slow and knowing. “And a bath.”

The blush that rises on him is so sudden and so violent it is all you can do not to laugh outright. It goes straight through the grime. Endearing is too small a word for it.

He ducks his head. “Beg pardon,” he mutters, then falters and says, “All right. I thank you for your kindness. I’ll only have to fetch my squire.”

“Fetch him, then. I’ll wait for you by the willow tree at the back entrance to the camp.”

Little Pate must have been awake all night, for he falls asleep almost at once when you settle him before you in the saddle. A ridiculous sight, his limbs gone loose and boneless in slumber, but a calming one all the same.

Within minutes the frame of Ser Duncan appears again, already ahorse, which only serves to make him seem larger still. Behind him, on a smaller mount, trots his squire, and your heart gives an odd little catch at the sight of him. He is no more than a boy—small for a squire, with eyes so large you can make out their colour even at a distance, and a bare head shiny as though he had only just come squalling into the world.

When they draw near, you mount carefully so as not to wake the nephew. “You are rather young—” you say to Ser Duncan’s squire, and see him brace at once for insult, “—to be so thoroughly cursed with baldness.”

His mouth quirks. He lets out a breath. In the voice of a child who has more wit in that bald head than is entirely proper, he says, “You are rather grown to be losing children.”

“Egg,” Duncan hisses. “Beg pardon, m’lady. He ought not say such things.”

“No harm done.” You lift a hand once to stay him. Then, to the boy: “‘Tis not my child that got lost. I have none.”

“And why is that?”

“Seven hells, Egg—” Duncan mutters, reddening under the dirt.

“My husband was taken by a fever before he had much chance to get about the business of begetting any,” you say, and leave it there.

You put your horse to motion to lead the way. As you pass Duncan, you murmur low enough for the boy not to hear, “Do not smack him. I do not mind it. Spend a day in my sister’s house and you will thank the Seven for putting a child with such a sharp tongue in your path.”

“He’s not my child, m’lady,” he says, plainly taken aback.

Thank the Gods. “He is a child all the same. And he is with you. And—” You glance over at him. “I am no lady. You may speak plainly.”

He nods a moment later, though not before his eyes make a slow and thorough passage over your face. It tells you that he means to keep calling you lady regardless. You do not much mind that either.

On the road home, where the town gives way to the tourney camps, you pass an inn that has turned bawdy for the festivities. Women in dresses scant enough to shame a summer day lean in the doorway and spill laughing onto the road; men half-laced and half-dressed stumble out after them, rumpled, red-eyed, and greasy with old drink. Hair hangs loose, bodices sit crooked, one fellow has his belt in hand and no visible haste to remedy the matter. You are glad Pate sleeps through it, cheek pillowed warm against your breast. Glad, too, for the discovery. It lies not far from the house—fifteen minutes on horseback at worst. Something to keep in mind, if only for a cup of ale and a look about the next time boredom drives you to the lip of madness. Or desperation.

Ser Duncan keeps his gaze fixed sternly ahead, all courtesy. Egg stares as any boy would, sharp as a magpie and twice as interested.

“Egg,” Duncan says under his breath, “it is not seemly to gape.”

“I am only looking,” says Egg. “I had thought eyes were for that.”

“They are not for staring at women.”

Egg considers this gravely. “Then it is a wonder you know so much of staring, ser.”

That draws a laugh out of you. The knight only keeps getting redder. Egg, seeing himself successful, sits a touch straighter in the saddle with the insufferable composure of a boy pleased by his own cleverness.

By the time you reach the house, your sister is already outside. The moment she sees Pate, she breaks into a run as though he had been missing a month rather than a night. You cannot help rolling your eyes, though your chest loosens at the sight of her. She reaches up the instant you rein in, lifting the boy from the saddle into her arms.

“You insolent fool,” she says first, fierce with repose. Then her hand goes over his head, over and over, smoothing and mussing his hair. “Are you in one piece, my love? What came into that little head of yours, hm? We have been worried sick.”

“Oh, he has been saved all right,” you say, swinging down from the horse. “By no less than a true knight. I have brought Ser Duncan to us in thanks.”

“Ser Duncan, is it?” your sister says, turning to him. She shifts Pate against her hip, then thrusts him at Harlan, who has come hurrying round the side of the house, and catches both of Duncan’s hands in hers. “Oh, ser, you must stay. You must. I am so grateful to you.”

Then, after one brief hitch of hesitation, gratitude gets the better of her. She steps forward and throws both arms awkwardly round his waist, sobbing once against him. You can see in real time the stench of him getting to her nostrils. “Thank the Seven for you,” she says on a held breath. “Such a good lad.”

Duncan starts as though struck, then lets out a startled laugh and folds his great arms about her with touching care, as if afraid he might break her by recognition alone.

When she pulls back, she pats his chest once, brisk and affectionate. “Forgive me. I am only glad.” Then she turns to Egg, all softness again. “And who are you, sweet thing? Would you like a honey-cake?”

Egg puts on the most counterfeit pout you have ever seen. “Very much so, mistress. I have not eaten a proper meal in half an age. Ser Duncan requires all the food in Westeros merely to remain upright.”

Your sister blinks once at that, glances up at Duncan’s immense frame, and nods with a vague little murmur of sympathy, as if this explains a great many things.

“Egg,” Duncan hisses in a tight whisper of warning.

You snort into your hand, wholly lost. Between the giant knight, his bald and insolent little squire, and your sister already bustling them toward the door, perhaps this is your salvation from death of the mind after all.

Dunk is having a day of it.

It begins at the lists, where a clerk with a neck like a suet pudding informs him that Ser Duncan the Tall may well be entered to joust three days hence, but Ser Duncan the Great Oaf most certainly is not. Egg, when hauled up by the shoulder and stared at, only says he had thought the man might enjoy a little wit to brighten his scratching. The man has not enjoyed it. The man has in fact grown firmer on the matter, insisting that names cannot simply be altered once set down, not without the steward’s leave, and that if Dunk means to be Ser Duncan the Tall then he ought to have named himself so in the first place.

“I did,” Dunk says.

The clerk sniffs. “Then you should not have sent a bald liar in your stead.”

So Dunk, already cross, sends Egg back to camp before he says something that earns them both a kicking. Camp, as ever, lies under a tree beside a little run of water, because Dunk likes shade and Egg likes grumbling about roots in his back, and both arrangements suit them well enough.

From there the day worsens by degrees. A drunken knight makes some jest at table—something about tall men and how little use they are once unhorsed—and Dunk, who does not understand which part is meant to be laughed at, keeps his mouth shut. That somehow proves worse than laughing wrong would have done. The man takes offence, calls him a thick cunt, and gives him a punch in the belly for good measure. Dunk lets him. Better a hard fist to the gut than a brawl that ends with somebody’s blood up and steel drawn. The blow hurts. The knight’s friends laugh. Dunk goes away hungry.

Then a little cutpurse makes bold enough to try his belt. Dunk catches the boy by the wrist easy as anything, silver safe where it belongs, but in turning too quick he plants one boot on slick ground and comes down square on his arse in a pile of horse dung so fresh it near steams.

By then he is tired clear through. He is not to ride in the lists for another three days. He stinks, more than usual. His pride has been handled roughly from several directions at once. So he goes to a stall for ale, sits on a bench in the shade, and thinks perhaps the day has spent its malice.

Then something wraps round his calf. Dunk startles and looks down. A boy, no more than four or five springs, has both arms round his leg and his face pressed into Dunk’s knee as if he means to hide there forever.

Dunk blinks. “Hallo.”

The child peeps up at him with a filthy face and eyes gone gummy from crying. “Don’t let him take me.”

Dunk looks over the table. Nobody in sight seems keen to take the boy anywhere. Men are drinking, shouting, pissing against fences, arguing over horses, and minding their own business poorly. The boy smells of sleep gone stale, old tears, and whatever sweet thing he has spilled down the front of himself sometime yesterday.

“Who?” Dunk asks.

The boy only clutches tighter.

Dunk drinks half his ale one-handed, hoping matters might explain themselves if given a moment. They do not. The child remains fixed to him like a burr. When coaxing gets nowhere, Dunk buys the boy a heel of bread. That earns him a name at last, spoken round a mouthful.

“Pate.”

“Right,” Dunk says. “And where’s your father?”

Pate shrugs.

“Your mother, then?”

Another shrug.

It takes the better part of the ale and two women passing by, both too hurried to help, before Dunk pieces together that Pate belongs somewhere out beyond the town, where the houses thin and the road runs out into kitchen plots, goat pens, and muddy little holdings. Near Bitterbridge, the boy says, which is no use at all because they are already near Bitterbridge. Then, after much prompting and a fresh bout of tears, he gets something about a sister, then another sister and a brother, and some more, and a house with pigs and hens and blue window frames.

That is how Dunk finds himself with a sleepy child on his shoulders trudging toward the outlying crofts beyond town because he cannot, in conscience, do anything else.

Pate, now that he has decided Dunk is safe, sits astride his neck as if born to it, small hands sunk in Dunk’s hair for balance, kicking his heels lightly against Dunk’s chest. Dunk keeps one hand clamped round a skinny leg and wonders whether all children change temper so quick, from terror to comfort and back again. He cannot remember what kind of boy he had been himself.

The day, having spent itself on lesser indignities, answers him at last with something stranger.

The boy’s kin is found. Dunk sees the woman who comes striding through the crowd and is struck by a feeling so swift and so enormous he scarcely has time to know it before it is gone: a foolish, piercing regret that Pate is not his own, if only so she might belong with him. Then the thing rights itself. You are no mother to the boy, only his aunt. Why that should ease anything in him Dunk could not say, yet it does. Something heavy shifts off the inside of his chest.

After that the fist to his belly feels like nothing much. You do not look made for tourney crowds and camp filth, and yet you move through both as if you can manage either well enough. There is nothing grand about you, nothing painted, but you are prettier than any lady he has seen ride by that day, and prettier than the women leaning from the inn doors. When you tip your face up at him, Dunk forgets to breathe. Then he does breathe, and remembers at once how badly he smells.

It gets worse after that. The way you take the boy down from his shoulders. The way you hold him easy, as if you have always had a place for frightened children. The hand on the boy’s back. Your voice when you soothe him. It does something soft to Dunk’s insides that he does not care to examine too closely. When you ask him in, he says no once because he feels he ought to. When you insist, he is glad of it.

The moment you are out of sight, he turns back quick for the tree by the stream where Egg is waiting.

Egg is crouched by their things, poking at the bank with a stick. He looks up as Dunk comes near. “You’ve been gone long enough. I was beginning to think the stream had swallowed you.”

“I’ve got us lodging for the night,” Dunk says. “Fetch the horses.”

Egg straightens. “Lodging? I thought a hedge knight required nothing but the open sky and a sore back.”

“I reckon you’re old enough to sleep under it by yourself, if you love it so much.”

Egg gives a small huff and goes to gather their few things. Dunk, in spite of himself, feels a grin begin under his nose.

“How did you come by this lodging, ser?” Egg asks, bundling up the blanket roll.

“A woman invited us.”

Egg pauses. “A woman.”

“I found her boy wandering and brought him back.”

“Ah,” Egg says. “So we are heroes.”

Dunk shrugs. “The family means to thank us with supper and a bed.”

Egg glances up at him. “And you accepted.”

“It would have been rude not to.”

“Yes,” says Egg, in a tone that means he is filing this away forever.

Dunk bends to tighten a strap that needs no tightening. “What?”

“Nothing, ser. Only, you are not commonly so eager to let women be kind to you.”

“She asked proper.”

“I do not doubt she did.”

Dunk frowns at him. “You’ve a deal to say for someone who’s meant to be packing.”

Egg’s mouth twitches. “What sort of woman is she?”

“A common woman.”

“That was plain from the tale. I meant what sort.”

Dunk opens his mouth, then finds he has no good answer to that which does not sound foolish. Egg waits. Dunk scowls. “She’s—” He stops, annoyed with himself. “Decent.”

Egg nods once, very solemn. “Ah. Curious.”

“There’s naught curious in it.”

“No, ser?” Eggs says. “Because when washerwomen smile at you, you turn pink and look for a hill to die behind. When innkeepers’ daughters offer you broth, you near choke to death refusing it. Yet now a woman asks you in and suddenly you are all courtesy and gratitude.”

Dunk busies himself with the saddle so the boy cannot see his face too plain. “She asked proper.” 

“I am sure she did.” 

“She did.” 

Egg’s mouth twitches. “And is she ugly, then?” 

That catches Dunk square. He lifts his head. “What?” 

“It would explain a great deal.” 

Dunk stares at him. Egg’s eyes go bright with malice. “She is not ugly,” Dunk says, too quick. 

Egg lets the words sit between them a moment, warm as stolen bread. “Hm.” 

Dunk knows he has said too much. “Get on your horse.”

Egg does, though with all the relish of a boy carrying a secret he means to turn over for pleasure later. They ride back at a fair pace, Dunk ahead and Egg just behind, the stream noise falling away as they rejoin the road. His stomach has begun to remember the promise of supper. His body remembers the promise of a bath better still. Worse than both is that his mind keeps running ahead to the willow tree, to the woman waiting there, to the quick look she gave him when she told him to come.

By the time they reach the meeting place, he has straightened himself three separate times to no profit. You wait with the sleeping child in your saddle, and mount up as soon as you spot them. Dunk feels the same strange knock inside his ribs as before.

Egg, seeing everything because he sees too much, makes a small thoughtful noise through his nose and says nothing at all, which is worse. Then, he speaks again and Duncan is lost as to which is more troublesome, Egg speaking or not speaking. Firstly, because his own squire has a way of making Duncan feel a fool besides a knight. Secondly, because the news of your widowhood, though it stirs pity in him, fills him with terrible gladness.

Soon enough he learns that Egg’s tongue ought to be cut out, for despite Dunk having given the insolent prince the last of his supper only the night before, Egg somehow manages to make him look a selfish brute before a family full of gratitude. You seem to enjoy it immensely, and it is only the sound of your laughter that makes any of the misery worth bearing.

The rest of the day also does not improve matters. It undoes him.

Dunk has known inns where a man gets his trencher slapped down and is meant to be grateful for whatever gristle lies on it. He has known halls where a hedge knight is fed last, watched all through, and left to wonder whether asking for more bread would see him turned out into the yard. He has known too many places where a man is tolerated so long as he keeps small.

This house knows none of that. Your sister heaps his plate as if his size were a challenge set to her by the Seven themselves. When he scrapes it clean, she asks whether he wants more, and her face says she hopes he does. He cannot remember the last time anybody looked pleased by his appetite.

The children take to him so fast it near makes his teeth ache. One hangs off his forearm. Another begs to be lifted. A third wants to see whether his hand is truly as big as a trencher. Dunk obliges them all, laughing like he’s a child himself, and when he lifts two at once and makes them squeal, the little ones look at him as if he has performed some feat finer than unhorsing a champion.

He catches you watching him from across the room, chin propped in your palm. The sight of it makes him believe The Seven themselves have made him go through all the morning torment so that he can be here now. 

You drop your hand the moment you find him looking. A blink later, you look again.

Your eyes are very beautiful. So is your hair, though he has no proper words for hair beyond dark or fair or long, and yours defeats all three for usefulness. The house smells of stew and bread and rushes and children and the clean warmth that comes of many bodies under one roof, but beneath it all he can pick out you. He does not know how. He only knows he can. It keeps pulling his head your way like a hand at the back of his neck.

And he wonders. You are too young, he thinks, to be speaking of widowhood with that dry edge in your mouth. Too young to have such a settled bitterness in you already. Too pretty by half to be without a husband, and clever too, which may be the trouble. What sort of man had you had? What sort would you want now? Something finer than a hedge knight, surely. A man with land under him, perhaps, or silk on his back, or a name that means something when said aloud.

Not him.

Even so, when the children clamour for stories, he gives them stories. He tells them of roads gone white with dust in Dorne, of rain in the Reach, of a black boar that chased a knight up a tree and left him there till dawn. He drinks mead. He eats honey-cakes. He watches Egg, who at first stands apart pretending not to care, and then somehow finds himself drawn into a game with the younger boys using nutshells and pebbles for soldiers. The sight of him, bald head bent over so solemn a campaign, stirs a softness in Dunk he knows he will regret the next time the boy opens his mouth.

No matter. For a little while he lets the feeling stay.

Now and again he sees you turn at some sound from the road, some burst of laughter drifting in from beyond the yard, and a look passes over your face quick as a swallow’s shadow. Restlessness, maybe. Hunger of some sort. He cannot name it, but he sees it. You laugh with your sister, chide the children, fetch more bread, and all the while some part of you seems to be listening elsewhere.

By evening he is clean-fed, warm, and so unaccustomed to ease that it leaves him half-wary.

He has been shown to a little guest room with a bed better than any he has had in months. He stands in the middle of it with no notion what to do with his hands. The room smells of lavender and old wood. His own stink still clings to him despite the washbasin in the corner, because a basin is not a bath and there is only so much a man can do with a rag.

Then, comes a knock.

“Enter,” he says, and hears at once how stiff he sounds.

The door opens no more than a crack. You peer through with a candle cupped in one hand, the flame shivering behind your fingers in a little chamberstick. “Are you decent, Ser Duncan?”

He nearly chokes and folds his arms across himself though he is still fully clothed. “M-m’lady.”

“Hallo,” you say. The candlelight softens your face. “Supper’s near ready. And I told you already I am no lady, which I think you have gathered by now.”

“Beg pardon.” He ducks his head. The silence after seems to ask something more of him, so he snatches at the first thing that comes. “I—I am sorry. About Egg. What he said. And about your husband.”

You look at him a moment, quizzical, the corner of your mouth beginning to stir. “Are you truly sorry, or are you waiting for me to tell you time has passed and I am well enough now, so you may think yourself compassionate?”

“I—” He takes one helpless step forward and spreads his hands. “M’lady, I meant no—”

“I jest.”

Your smile widens. It shows your teeth. Fine lines gather at the corners of your eyes, and Dunk is struck by the want to put his mouth there, right there where your face folds with mirth. The thought is so sudden and so improper it leaves him stupid.

“Besides,” you say, “time has passed, and I am well enough. It was a marriage made for convenience. Poor luck that he died before I could come to love him. But thank you.”

Dunk stares, trying to set all that in order. He feels there ought to be something to say. Something wise, perhaps, or kind. He has none of it.

“I don’t know the right words,” he admits.

He is looking at his boots when you step closer, so he does not see your hand coming until it rests lightly on his forearm. He jumps as if burnt.

You chuckle under your breath. “You need not be so skittish, Ser Duncan. You are wanted here. You and your squire both. I am sure my sister would be glad to lodge you until the tournament ends.”

The candle flickers between you. Each small movement of the flame changes your mouth. Makes your eyes shine in a way that seems unearthly. Dunk can smell the soap on your skin, and something warmer under it that he has no name for and wants badly all the same.

“I could not put your family to such trouble,” he says. “I eat near as much as all the children together.”

“It is no trouble. It is an honour to host a knight.”

“H-honour. M’lad—” He swallows. “You flatter me. Needlessly. I am only a hedge knight.”

“A knight is a knight, Ser Duncan.” Your hand moves a little up his arm, no more than an inch, and stops there. He feels the place of it as if you had laid a coal against him. “I have prepared your bath,” you say.

He flushes hot. “Forgive me. For the stench. I—”

You laugh then, open and genuine, and not at him so much as at the whole miserable fact of his shame. “This house keeps hens, pigs, a barn full of beasts, and five little mongrels running underfoot. Do you think a man’s sweat will shock us?” Then you lower your voice. “And I have smelt worse on a man than on you. You make up for it elsewhere.”

Dunk’s head comes up. “What do you mean?”

“Only that you are kind,” you say. Your hand leaves him, and the loss of it is so immediate he hates himself for noticing. “And half-ashamed of it besides.” A pause. “Come, while the water is still warm. My sister found clean clothes for you as well.”

“That is much too kind. I cannot—”

“Oh, stop.” There is a smile in your mouth again. “You are not going to bathe and then drag horseshit breeches back on, are you? Harlan has a cousin near your size. They ought to sit on you well enough.”

Dunk lets out a breath that wants to be a laugh. “No,” he says. “I reckon not.” He looks at you because he cannot seem to stop. “Thank you,” he says. “Truly.”

Something changes in your face at that. Not much. Just enough for him to think you had expected another kind of man entirely.

Then you step back to the doorway. “The bath’s in the little room off the kitchen,” you say. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You go, and Dunk stands another moment in the middle of the chamber like the fool Egg says he is. Then he follows, because what else is there left to do.

By the time dusk settles proper, your mind feels raised from the dead.

Not only your mind. Other parts besides. Parts that have sat these past months like hinges gone bitter and unoiled, stiff with disuse, now creak with the force of wanting to move. All day you have found yourself staring at a great dirty fool of a man in your sister’s house as though he were a rare beast wandered in from the woods. Bigger than any doorway deserves. Goofy as a calf. Running with children dangling from him, making a giant child of himself for their delight, his whole face split with such open joy the dimples in his cheeks near end you. His teeth are uneven. They are beautiful. It pains you, absurdly, that they are not sunk somewhere on your body. He eats as if food were a thing meant in earnest, not pecked at and praised and left. There is pleasure in setting more before him and watching it vanish. Once jam runs from a cake down his chin and you have to hold yourself still with all your strength to keep from catching it with your finger and putting that finger in your own mouth in parody of a kiss.

He has woken something long asleep in you. Made want stir where want had sense enough to lie quiet.

When he lifts two of the children, one hanging from each forearm while they shriek with laughter, your throat goes hot and tight and the place between your thighs turns damp where you sit cross-legged by the hearth pretending to mend. After that there is nothing for it but to test your luck. So you see the bath prepared full and steaming, lavender thrown in to lend it some gentleness, and carry the news to him yourself.

Even then the sight of him catches. He stands in the guest chamber looking misplaced in the way of very large men inside small rooms, still carrying a trace of his day’s foulness, still gorgeous enough that you would take him if he came to you with horseshit on his arse and river mud to his knees. That is how bad the matter has grown in the space of a single day. Yet at a touch he jumps. At a look he drops his gaze. Either he is grievously inexperienced or so decent it borders on affliction.

You leave him to it and duck back through the kitchen with what remains of your good sense calling after you. It tells you to go about your business. To leave the man to his washing. To remember you are not sixteen and witless and peeping after stableboys through chinks in the wall.

There is, however, a crack in the boards between kitchen and bathing room so fine as to be near invisible unless one knows it is there. Press an eyeball to it, though, and the room beyond opens narrow and bright as a secret. You know this because you knew everything about this house when you were twelve, and some forms of knowledge stay put.

So you gutter the candle. The room goes dim around you. The bath chamber beyond holds only the wash of firelight from the small brazier and the soft pale steam rising from the tub. Then comes the creak of the door, the answer of the boards under his weight, and you do the unimaginable. You put your eye to the seam and look.

He goes first to the bath and lays in two fingers as careful as if testing broth for a babe. The heat seems to strike him. His shoulders loosen. His whole face changes. For one ridiculous moment he looks near to tears at the blessing of being able to wash in hot water instead of some stream cold enough to shrivel a cock back into the body. The sight of that plain gratitude in a grown man’s face moves something in you so tender it hurts.

Then he undresses. He catches the hem of the tunic and hauls it up over his head in the thoughtless way of men, and the motion stretches him so nicely you have to close your mouth against the sound threatening out. His stomach lengthens and bends. His skin pulls over muscle and softness. He is made of all of it. Sinew under flesh, yes, but flesh too, honest and abundant. Little folds appear when he bows his head and works the cloth free. His belly is soft low down, dusted with fine hair that thickens as it runs toward the waist of his breeches. His chest is broad enough to make a mockery of the basin stand, covered with copper fuzz. The paps upon it full and heavy and strong, larger than your two palms side by side. It comes to you with humiliating force that you could lay your hands there and feel his heart between them.

He strips with none of the vanity prettier men cultivate. There’s no posing, nor admiring of himself. He is only intent on getting clean. Boots off. Hose peeled. Then, he bends for the rest and you stop breathing.

You take him from the ground upward, greedy as famine. His feet are large, nails rimmed with the day’s dirt. One toe is blackened, as if trod on or kicked against stone or caught under some wheel of his own making. All likely with a man like him. His shins are marked. His knees are bruised. His thighs—God. Magnificent things. Thick enough to part a crowd by walking through it. Strong enough to sit a warhorse all day and still have ease left for children after.

Above them—well. Gods above.

He is large in a way that seems at first gentle, until the eye takes proper measure and understands what it sees. Heavy-hanging. Thick at the root. More than handsome there; startling. The sort of endowment that ought to put a strut in a man’s walk, and yet he has none. The same bashful lout as before, only naked now. His legs drive up into him as if fixed there by a blacksmith’s hand, all the lines of him gathering inward and down. Beneath hangs a full low sack, weighty and ripe-looking. The hair that is dirty-gold elsewhere on him deepens there to brown so dark it reads near black in the low light. A gorgeous man. A gentle one too, despite carrying such size without the least cruelty in it.

When he turns you get the clean sweep of his back, broad enough to make you dizzy, the round of his arse, and a little ugly scar on the plump of one calf. Then he steps into the bath and the water takes him piece by piece. All that riches you have only just discovered, gone under with a faint ripple that feels personal in its meanness.

As he lowers himself the rest of the way, his mouth lets out a sigh so low and filthy in its pleasure that your knees loosen beneath you. You close your eyes, though there is nothing to see with them shut. Keep the sound instead. Fold it up and tuck it away somewhere private for later.

This is no good. Nor is it manageable. When you straighten, your thighs are damp again, and your thoughts go skittering from one bad notion to the next: asking him outright, which is impossible; finding that man from the tourney who offered coin for your company and lying back under him pretending it is Duncan bent over you; or else taking the matter in hand yourself. Of the three, the last promises the least ruin, so you choose it.

The thirst remains. Seeing him again at supper—eating with that earnest appetite, smiling with those crooked teeth, clean now, smelling indecently like a babe made anew—only makes it more torrid. So, once the meal is done and the house fed, banked, and dressed for sleep, you wait until slumber lies thick in every room. Then you throw a cloak over your night-rail, quiet your mare so she does not wake the yard, and ride. For the inn. Only to look. Only to slip in and out unseen. Better to be a pervert for one night than die of something stupider than boredom. Excitement, perhaps.

Dunk lies awake. Tomorrow he and Egg will have to go back to the tourney outskirts. If he accepts any further kindness from your family, Egg will never let him know a moment’s peace again. His belly is blissfully full, and his mind is too, though morosely. It runs over with images of you. Eating. Clearing trenchers. Slipping past his gaze whenever it catches on you. He wishes you would hold his eyes for longer than a breath.

When he hears footsteps in the passage, he only means to see who is stirring at such an hour. Harlan, perhaps, or your sister up with one of the little ones. By now he knows the sounds of this house near as well as his own harness. By now he knows yours best of all. Even in the dark, with only the banked glow from the hall and the house asleep around it, he knows it is you.

You go softly. Cloak over your shift, a hood drawn up, one little lantern in hand with the light half-shielded. There is purpose in it, beyond wandering to the privy or fetching water. You mean to be out.

For the space of two breaths he tells himself to keep to his bed. You are grown. You owe him no accounting. Then you slip through the yard gate and into the night, and the thought of you riding alone amongst tourney roads thick with drink, camp followers, thieves, and men with more want than manners has him up before sense can catch him by the ankle.

He dresses in a scramble that feels shameful for how eager it is. When he gets to the yard you are already mounted and riding. He has only just enough time to throw himself onto his own horse and go after.

Some part of him knows to keep back. If you are abroad in secret, you would not thank him for riding up at your shoulder like a gaoler. So he follows at a distance, quiet as a man of his size may manage, keeping the little bob of your lantern in sight between hedges and trees. The road is near empty now but for the last of the drunkards reeling homeward and the odd cart sunk in the ruts. Your mare knows the way. So, it seems, do you.

The inn comes up out of the dark and Dunk feels something cold go through him. Even by day the place had looked rough. By night it is plain what it has become for the tourney: a bawdy house in all but name. Light spills from the lower windows. So do voices. A woman laughs somewhere high and sharp, then a man answers with the slurred confidence of one already too deep in his cups. There are bodies at the windows still, leaned together in tangles of shirt and skin, and more in the doorway. The whole place sweats ale, lust, and bad intent.

What in Seven’s name is a woman like you doing here?

He draws his horse off into shadow and waits, because surely you have only lost your way. Surely you will turn back once you see the sort of den this is. You, of course, do not.

You ride past the front altogether, circle wide, and make for the back of the place where the yard runs muddy and dark behind the stables. There you dismount, hitch your mare, and go to a ladder propped against the wall as if you have known all along it would be there.

Dunk watches you climb. For a moment he can make no sense of what he sees. Then the truth of it begins to gather in pieces, each worse than the last. Perhaps there is some man waiting in that attic room above the rest. Some groom, some archer, some merchant with more coin than sense. Perhaps you have done this before. Perhaps widowhood sits lighter on you than he thought. Perhaps the look in your face all day had nothing to do with him at all. All of them thoughts are ugly.

He grips the reins till the leather creaks. It is none of his business. You are no maiden under his protection. You are no kin of his. If you have a tryst above a brothel roof, that is your choosing, and he ought to turn his horse and go. Only he cannot.

Because if there is a man up there, Dunk does not like the look of the place he has chosen. Because any woman alone in such a house might come to harm. Because tomorrow he will be gone back to the tourney fields, and if he rides away now he will lie the whole of the night wondering what became of you in that attic. Because some part of him, meaner and more hopeful than he cares to examine, wants to know. So he ties off his horse in the dark and goes after you.

The ladder shifts under his weight. The higher he climbs, the louder the house grows. Laughter leaks through the boards, wicked and wine-sour. Men’s voices. Women’s too. Then moaning, plain enough that Dunk’s face goes hot before he has even hauled himself to the top. By the time he gets into the attic, his cheeks are burning fit to set the dust alight.

There, the room holds only you.

You are stretched flat on your belly with your cloak spilling round you, face pressed near to the floor. Light comes up through the slits in it in narrow orange bars, filthy and bright as fire through shutters. The noises from below drown the creak of his boots, so he drops to hands and knees and crawls the last little way, trying with all his clumsy might to make no sound.

As he comes nearer he sees the quick lift of your ribs. Your whole attention is fixed below. So Dunk looks too.

Through the gaps he can make out a room beneath, high-ceilinged and close with candlelight. A man and woman are tangled together, kissing with wet, open mouths, pawing at one another as if trying to get under skin rather than clothes. The man fumbles at her laces. She gets her hand into his breeches and closes it round him greedy as hunger. He lets out a laugh thick with phlegm.

Dunk stares one foolish moment, then looks away hard, appalled less by them than by you watching.

He cannot make sense of it. Why would you come to see such a thing? Why would you creep into a foul place like this to lie on a floor and spy on strangers coupling below? You, who smell of lavender and fresh bread and speak softly to frightened children. You, who made him still under your touch and looked at him as if you meant to do it again.

He ends up on all fours beside you before he has decided what he means to do. You have not noticed him. Your hood is up, half-shielding your face. One of your hands is curled against the boards. The other lies open by your cheek. There is something so strange in it—your body stretched out long and intent, your face hidden, your breath coming a touch quicker than it should—that for a moment he can only hover there and stare.

If he speaks, you will yelp. If you yelp, the whole cursed inn may come running.

So, very gently, Dunk moves. His frame hangs above you, then presses down and he reaches out and clasps a hand over your mouth.

You go rigid at once. Your whole body jerks under him and you begin to fight trying to wrench free.

“It’s only me, m’lady,” he whispers fast, mouth to your ear. “Beg pardon. I thought you’d get yourself in trouble. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

You breathe out so hard the warmth of it shocks his palm. The fight goes out of you, and with that his own weight settles further. His belly goes where your spine dips. His head hangs over your shoulder. One of his knees ends up braced between yours on the boards, and the whole position is suddenly far too close. Your arse cushions him snugly and fire licks Duncan’s hips so violently he can feel his cock stir and give one helpless kick against you.

“Forgive me, I—” he breathes. Begins to shuffle on you, only making himself more tragic. When you mumble something out, he remembers his hand is still muzzling your mouth. “Oh, right.”

He lifts his palm. Spit stretches from your lips to his fingers. Other than the gag, you do not seem half so troubled with the predicament. Your head cocks slightly until you’re whispering into his cheek. “What are you doing here, Ser Duncan?” 

“I—I—” He swallows. “I thought you—”

“—were in trouble? I am not. Yet.” You give the smallest jerk of your chin towards the room below. Then, after a beat: “Is that the only reason you came?”

The truthful answer rises up in him and sticks there. No. He came after you with his head full of you. He came because you rode out alone and because he could not bear not knowing where. He came because he hoped for something he has no right even to name. With everything pressing in him, all he says is, “Yeah.” Then, wincing at himself: “I mean—yes.”

You let out a short breath that balances amusement and disdain on an uneven scale. “Then leave me be.”

“But—” He still does not move. The sounds from below make the boards faintly alive beneath you. “You oughtn’t look. You mustn’t.”

Your head turns just enough to pin him with one eye from under the hood. “Quiet.”

“It’s wrong,” he whispers, voice rising as Duncan’s forgetting himself. “The… coupling. It’s for them. For the—them. Not for—”

“For us to hear you blunder through your outrage?” you murmur. “Do you want your neck broken over peeking at strangers?”

“No, but I cannot let you—”

“You cannot let me?” There is a warning in your whisper, low and sharp. Mercifully, you ignore where his blood has settled between your back and his front. “What are you going to do, Ser Duncan? Drag me out by force?”

He has no answer to that, only a thudding pulse and the certainty that every choice before him is the wrong one.

“Leave,” you whisper, “or I will scream, and then you may have your neck broken for peeking at strangers after all.”

Dunk shuts his eyes for a second. The oaths come back to him in broken scraps, half remembered and badly timed. Protect the weak. Defend the innocent. Serve with honour. He is no wiser for them now than he was before.

“Forgive me,” he mutters.

And before you can answer, he brings one hand up over your eyes.

You start under him. “Ser Duncan, you have brought this on yours—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and when your voice threatens to carry, his other hand finds your mouth again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.”

The attic goes weird after that. He closes his eyes too, as if blindness might make the thing less wicked, but it does not. If anything, it sharpens it. The noises below seem louder for being all they have left: laughter gone low, a bedstead knocking, breath laboured. Beneath him you strain once in annoyance, once in warning, and each small movement turns the whole of him to misery.

He tries to hold himself rigid. It’s unbearably filthy, all of it. All of it is so deeply debauched, and he tries not to feel the shape of you under him. Tries not to notice how near your cheek is to his wrist, how your hair smells even here through the dust and old wood. He’s hard, possibly leaking, and he tries with such conviction his whole body is shaken by the effort, and still he does not move.

Then, The Seven lay two horrible tests upon him. The first is your tongue—it darts out and wedges itself into the cup of his palm and along the creases where his fingers join, warm and wet and so soft it shocks him worse than teeth might have. It sends his breathing hoarse.

“Cease this,” he whispers. “I beg of you. Oh, Seven fu—”

The second is your arm. It is a snake. Your whole hand slides down his side and then under, squeezing between his front and your back, where he is plain as day. A man, no better than the one beneath the floorboards. When you touch him, Duncan feels a horrendous cramp in his groin and simply has to buck. His hips roll into you, his palm leaves your mouth because he needs to brace against the wood, and his face presses into your neck as he strains out, “Oh, fuck. Fuck—I’m sorry—”

“It’s your fault I’m here,” you whisper to his trembling fingers. “I had been faring well enough. I was good to my family. I kept my peace. I had no need of a man.” Dunk makes a stricken sound, but you go on.

“Then you came into my sister’s house and spoiled it all. I know nothing of the art of coaxing a man. Nor is it becoming, I think, to go about seducing a knight. Beyond feeding you and seeing you bathed, I did not know how else to tell you what I wanted.” Your hand stays where it is, quiet and sure, and it burns him with fire The Hells have nothing on, Duncan’s certain. “My husband wanted me because he did. That was the whole of it. But you keep dragging your eyes from me, so I thought you had no want of me at all. I thought this”—a small shift of your fingers—“the least harmful way to help myself.”

For a moment Duncan can only endure it. Words crowd in on him, while your palm makes him into such mess his thoughts do not so much gather as drag themselves through mud. Then, the fact that you think him untouched by you, all while every pulse in him beats where you have him, causes such bewilderment his voice hitches a notch higher.

“You think I do not want you? M’lady, I—”

“I told you not to call me that.” Your hiss comes sharp, though not unkind. “It is unwise to use titles one has not been granted. I am no lady.”

“To me you are,” Duncan argues. “I’ve laid eyes on you for one day only,” he strains, “and already I know when I leave here I’ll never see such beauty again.”

Your hand freezes. Then—Gods above—closes around him more fiercely than before. “So… this is for me alone?”

His swallow goes down like a bolus. Then he lifts his palm from your eyes. You blink, and turn your head to look at him. Light from below catches in your irises and sets them aflame. Duncan stares into them. “Do you not see?” he asks on a breath. “I am all for you.”

Anger floods you cold, then hot. Heat comes with his body. How a man this size can sneak up on you eludes you entirely, but you are so shamelessly engrossed in a fat man’s hands on a whore’s body below that you notice Duncan only when he seals your mouth shut.

A knight with all the grace of an oaf and the body of a demigod, with dung still on his arse when you found him, has managed to catch you at your most humiliating: alone, needy, sprawled on dirty boards above strangers’ noise like some starved little creep. And he has the gall to be scandalised, bless his soul, while pressing his huge hard cock into your backside. How infuriating to be made to listen to him blunder on about honour, yourself unable to speak, while his whole body has cast honour off the moment his eyes were subjected to the same sight as yours.

His weight should crush you, but does not. It feels right. Just as you imagined: an enormous, total burden that extends beyond the borders of your body. His arms yoke your neck and shoulders, his stomach fits into the length of your back. Your feet reach only halfway down his calves when he lies atop you. His hips are right where they belong. He is all cumbersome care in his effort not to sag into you, and his breath comes warm and trembling and loud against your ear.

Shame prickles your neck. One moment the sight below is enough to sate you, the next you forget it altogether, because your knight has come to rescue you from indecency. Humiliated, you hiss at him as sharply as the scene allows, eager to be rid of him before he notices how disgraced your inner thighs are, how your jaw clenches and the veins in your neck stand out with the struggle not to make some telling sound.

First you are blinded. Then you are on the verge of throwing it all away, of screaming and setting the whole inn of scoundrels upright, yet you cannot. Gagged again and pressed into the wood, you lie there bathed in dust, bathed in the sounds of coupling below, nerves wailing for him to move, to leave you, to touch you—

So you touch him. A tell that tells you nothing beyond how large and dangerous he is where he is most a man. Any boy as shy and tender as Duncan would stir at the mere sound of a woman sighing. A boy at heart, yet built like no boy should be—armed with a cock fit for some swaggering brute who ought to walk broad-legged through the world, though he does not. He makes manliness and benevolence into something so uncommon, so singular and strange, that you understand at once why no other has ever tempted you to take up the burden of marriage again. He is simply the only one like this you have ever met.

Then, he begs. And with that comes the truth of who the thick one is here. For all Duncan frets over his wit, it is you who has been witless. You had not even thought his apprehension might spring from want. That it is for you he throbs in your hand. That his breath shakes because it is you who measures him there.

“Get up,” you whisper, rapt by his confession.

He blinks once and nods, already crestfallen. It is clear he thinks you are sending him off. He scrambles away from you with painful care, lifting himself to all fours first as if that might somehow hide what has no hope of hiding. Red climbs his ears. He stays there a beat too long, awkward and waiting, and the sight of such ready obedience draws your chest tight.

“There,” you murmur, pointing to the wooden pillar. “Sit.”

And so, Duncan sits. Backs himself to the post and folds down against it with the graceless caution of a dog trying not to dirty a clean floor. His knees fall wide because they must. His hands hover, useless and uncertain, as if any place he puts them might be wrong. In the dim light his face is still open with amends and want and that same ruinous virtue which has brought you to this in the first place.

You go to him on hands and knees, slowly, careful where you place your weight so the old boards give no treacherous groan. Dust clings to the hem of your night-rail and the sleeves of your cloak. He watches you come with his lips parted and his breath held badly, as though any movement on his part might scare you off.

When you reach him, you settle one hand to his shoulder for balance and climb into his lap with all the care the narrow space requires. Even so, the fit of it steals a sharp hitch from him. His head tips back against the wood. Breath leaves him through his mouth in a soft, stunned rush.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “M’lady, I did not mean to—”

“Shh,” you hum, fingers brushing his lip. “You’re doing nothing wrong. But if you wish to stop, tell me.”

“No,” he says. “No, I do not.”

He is still apologising. Still half afraid of his own body. Still looking at you as if you are something above him while you pant against him like a sinner. He is so decent he becomes indecent by accident. Where your bodies meet, he is all weight and impossible girth. His cock spans the whole length of your groin, and there is still some of it left unattended at the tip when you keep still.

You wrench the linen of your night-rail from the press of legs so it falls to either side of you. Bare against him, you run your hands over his cheeks and up, pull his hair back from his forehead, then slide down his scalp to settle at the neck. You lower yourself fully and into him. The cloth of his braies rasps against the tenderest skin while your buttocks spill into his lap. The limit is right there—one roll of your pelvis, and you are giving yourself away with a breathy, wanton, “Duncan—”

“Shh.” His palm finds your mouth again, even more delicate than before. He clasps one there and brings the other to the hinge of your hip. “Petal mine, hush, I beg of you,” he whispers. “You’ll ruin me by sound alone.”

Under his touch, you smile. Search his face in the barred orange glow rising through the boards. His brows are drawn tight. Wrinkles gather at the corners of his eyes each time they narrow. Freckles come and go across his cheeks and nose with every small shift of light, as if the attic itself cannot decide how much of him to show you.

You nod and move again. His forehead drops against yours. “Death be kind to me,” he mutters. “By the Seven, you are—”

At that, your own hands act. Fingers sink into his hair to hold him still while you cover the noise before it gets him into trouble. So that is how you stay then: mutually silenced, mutually trapped, breathless in the mouths. Your body, furious, clenches round bare air so viciously Duncan’s cock kicks. His hips give a helpless start, and you answer only with gestures: a pull at his roots. Your eyes roll heavenward, unseeing. Thighs quiver and knees skid on the floor while the strain of staying quiet becomes its own fresh torment.

Though he is doing the work of it well enough himself, you are making him damper still at the crotch. He lifts a little and adjusts, rides up and rocks you back and forth. The hand at your hip helps guide you and teaches you where he is most sensitive—at the crown. So you keep to that, spreading your cunt over wool, and however thick the cloth, you would know the shape of him exactly.

In silence, your shared breathing rings loud as a sept bell. Duncan huffs through his nose like a tired animal, and his grip grows confused. On your hip it tightens, but loosens over the mouth. You take the chance and wrap your lips round his fingertips, sucking lightly. He lets out the groan of a man on the threshold of something terrible or wonderful, and you tug his hair once more to straighten him.

“Shh, my darling,” you whisper. “You ought to be quiet.”

He begs with his whole being. His forehead is all drawn up, lines cut deep between his brows while the brows themselves disappear beneath the fall of his fringe. His eyes do not know where to rest. They find you, lose you, squeeze shut for a beat, then open again, all within the span of one second. Pleasure unfastens him from the inadequacy that normally clings to him. He is still unpolished, but stripped to something young and honest. Perhaps this is what he must be like in battle too: all the loose, awkward parts of him pulled into their proper place by force of need. Graceless to look at. Never elegant. But wholly given over to the matter at hand, with no room left in him for doubt or self-consciousness. Here, as on a field, he is too occupied to mistrust himself, and so becomes devastating.

Though your palm keeps his mouth covered, sound still escapes him: breath breaking hot against your skin, a muffled grunt deep in his throat, the low helpless noise of a man trying very hard not to come apart. His nape is damp under your fingers. Each time you hold him there and move, something in him gives. His chest brushes yours. His thighs brace wide beneath you to keep you up. His whole great body tries to contain itself and fails by degrees. The feeling of him is everywhere—his size hemming you in, his heat through the cloth, the trembling under all that strength. He is beneath you, around you, almost too much of him, and that is part of the pleasure too.

All of it carries you steadily over your own threshold. Come morning there will be soreness, an ache where skin has been rubbed raw to the fit of his cock, but for now you only rut and let your thighs shudder and lock round his ribs. You suck his fingers in to the last knuckle to silence yourself.

He has been so brave. Bracing so well. So you let it take you and eat you whole until you are so small he could fit you in the hollow of his hand.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes. He slips his fingers from it, drags the dampness across your cheek and into your hair beneath the hood. Draws you so close your palm is crushed between mouths, so you let that go too. The instant he is free, he starts panting. Murmuring yes, oh Gods, as if he is dying of it rather than being carried under.

From the back of his throat he hums—the last frail barrier between him and outright noise. When even that begins to fail him, he fits his mouth to yours and whispers, “Kiss me. Please, kiss me when it takes me, else I won’t keep quiet.”

With your head feeling dragged underwater, you loll your tongue out first. Lids drowsy and heavy, you force them open. Lick the crest of his upper lip and stare him dead into those big blue eyes when you kiss him properly. He looks. Rubs himself on you with artless jerks of hips, driving your tender flesh to a sting. Keeps looking when his hands come up to your face and hold the whole span of it, from chin to temples. He covers your ears too.

Then you watch him lose himself in it. His lashes flicker like wings, and at last rest lowered when he can bear seeing no more. His body tightens into a thousand knots beneath you—shoulders locking, neck straining, thighs shaking, stomach jumping. Kissing becomes holding. Your mouth becomes a well for his sounds.

“Petal mine,” he murmurs. “Seven fucking Hells, just—f-fuck—ah—”

He shatters in a way that makes pity and hunger strike you both. From the look of him, it would be gentler to drive a dagger through his heart than keep doing what your weight is doing to him. He is wholly gone. His face loses all shape but strain. Mouth breaks against yours, then at your lip, biting down not hard enough to hurt, only enough to keep the worst of himself in. What sound escapes him does so mangled—grunts, groans, one destitute moan dragged raw from somewhere deep and private. His whole body bears it badly. A shudder runs through him from shoulders to thighs. His hands cinch at your face as if he means to hold on and has forgotten to what.

Then all at once it stops. Words and noises ease. Breaths come, pulled in great wrecked draughts like a man hauled half-dead from the water. Under you he goes loose, still shaking. Warmth spreads between your thighs, blooms and soaks through his bottoms onto skin. His forehead drops to your shoulder and stays there, damp and dazed, while he fights his way back to the world one breath at a time.

You take his heavy head in your palms. It feels like holding the rounded crown of a helm, all weight and surrender. He has gone boneless as a cut puppet and lets you handle him as you please. “Ser Duncan,” you say, searching him. “Are you well?”

His eyes open slowly, blue and dazed. For a moment he only blinks at you, as though the question itself is beyond him. Then he breathes again, ragged and embarrassed both. “Aye,” he says, though it sounds discovered rather than known. “I think so. Are you, m’lady?”

You nod. Smile, then chuckle. He smiles too and shows you his teeth.

“What became of petal?” you ask softly.

His eyes slip from yours. The colour in his face deepens, and for a moment he looks near ready to sink through the boards from shame. Then, instead of answering, he gathers you in closer. His arms come round you with quiet strength. He tucks his face beneath your ear, great and warm and shy there, and draws one breath of you.

“You are so beautiful it pains me,” he says.

Your fingers twitch against his back, then catch in the cloth of his tunic and hold. “Stay with me then,” you murmur. “Till the end of the tourney.”

He stills. Pulls back to look at you. There is something naked in his face that has nothing to do with what has just passed between you. “Do you mean it?”

The poor fool. As though he should be the one asking shame from the other. As though it is he who was found here half-sprawled over strangers’ sin, wanting like an idiot and grateful besides that the one who caught him still wanted him after all. As though he’s not at all the one who saved your mind and body from withering away in a world that is all bliss and honey-cakes.

You are opening your mouth to tell him so when a voice booms from below the boards.

“Who goes there?!”

You come by just after breaking your fast, pass Dunk a chunk of bread and cheese, and leave honey-cakes with Egg. On your way past, your hand lands once on Dunk’s shoulder—just a squeeze, no more—and yet it leaves him sitting there as if a mark has been pressed clear through cloth and skin alike.

Egg waits until you are well out of earshot. He turns a stick in his hands, pares another thin curl from it with his knife, and says, “She is not ugly at all.”

Dunk keeps his eyes on your back. “I told you so.”

“You did.”

A pause. The knife goes on scraping. “So we’re staying till the end of the tourney, then?”

Dunk tears off a piece of bread with more force than the matter requires. “Her family asked us.”

Egg nods as if this confirms some private reckoning. “Yes. I thought it might be something of that sort.”

Dunk finally looks at him. “What sort?”

“The sort where a hedge knight finds reasons to be grateful.”

Dunk frowns. “Mind your tongue.”

Egg’s mouth twitches. He lifts one shoulder. “I only meant she seems kind.”

“She is,” Dunk says, too quick.

Egg glances at him sideways, insufferably mild. “Yes. That too.”

Dunk opens his mouth, then shuts it again because you have turned in the yard and sunlight has caught in your hair. By the time he remembers Egg exists, the boy is already smiling into his stick.

“I’ll box your ears,” Dunk mutters, with no conviction in it at all.

“I know you mean to, ser,” says Egg, carving on. “That is why I cherish the time between.”

You’d been trying to suppress it all week. Truly, you had. It wasn’t your fault that Clark looked stupidly attractive in flannel, with sweat beading at his hairline and slipping beneath the collar of his t-shirt. It wasn’t your fault that his Ma and Pa had raised him right, that he helped with dinner and folded everyone’s laundry when it was finished drying on the clothesline. You couldn’t be held responsible for what happened between your thighs whenever you watched him complete miscellaneous tasks around the house, fixing whatever appliance or squeaky hinge that had been nagging Ma for the past several weeks like the perfect fucking son he was. 

So, really, you weren’t at fault for the way your kisses began lingering a bit longer than what was appropriate for his childhood home. The way your hand regularly found his thigh every night beneath the dinner table, daring to get progressively higher with each passing day. 

It was inevitable. A means to an end. A festering desideratum that was growing increasingly difficult to ignore. 

It was affecting Clark too, you could feel it. His hugs were longer. He hovered around you more than usual. Clark’s touches were always meaningful, so when he began squeezing your hips or shoulders as he slipped by you in the kitchen or living room, you knew there was intent behind it. 

It didn’t help that this was your first time visiting the Kents as his fiance. The knowledge that you were about to be married certainly didn’t help matters. Clark, along with his sweet, endearing, oh-so-oblivious parents had already been teasingly referring to you as “Mrs. Kent”, and it was more than enough to make you insane. 

For his parents’ sake, you sincerely hoped your joint desperation wasn’t as glaringly obvious to them as it was to you. Though, if the sly smiles on Ma’s face whenever she noticed the pathetically longing stares you two exchanged was any indication, you weren’t being as subtle as you thought.

Growing up, Ma had very strict rules about Clark’s girlfriends, as he’d informed you previously. She was the sweetest woman you’d ever met, if not a little old-fashioned by way of social standards (Clark’s gentlemanly charm had to come from somewhere). Which of course meant that every partner of Clark’s who spent the night at the Kent household was required to sleep in a separate bedroom. 

“As long as you’re stayin’ under my roof,” she had teased, waving a wooden spoon in mock threat. “Those are the rules. No bed sharin’ till you’re married.” 

When Clark was in high school and college, that usually meant he took the sofa while his girlfriend took his room. Back then, the spare bedroom in the Kent household had been used predominantly for extra storage, mostly for seasonal decorations and other delicate items Ma and Pa didn’t want stored in the barn. 

Recently, though, the Kents had cleaned out the space. Its “restoration” had become a bit of a passion project for Pa, who was always happiest when he had something to keep his hands busy.

Clark had inquired about it once when you were both in town visiting. He’d spotted the cans of paint in the hallway, to which Ma replied with the coolness of a cucumber and the subtlety of an elephant. 

“Just preparin’ for when we have kiddos in the house again.”

You choked on your sweet tea, and looked over at Clark to find that his blush had climbed all the way to his ears. 

“Ma,” he bemoaned. She only winked. 

One of Ma’s friends owned a ranch on the other side of town, and had introduced her to the wonders of Facebook Marketplace. Such began the spending spree that would result in brand spankin’ new (secondhand) furniture for the newly redone bedroom once Pa had finished spackling and painting. 

Clark fretted endlessly over the fact that his parents were lugging around heavy furniture on their own, and would regularly speed back to Smallville to help them if he had the spare time. When you came to visit this time around, the guest bedroom was the first place Ma had dragged you both off to, eager to show off her finds. 

“Ain’t it beautiful? Couldn’tve cost me more than a hundred-and-fifty some bucks. John’s good friends with Frank down at the hardware store in town, so we got a good deal on the paint, too. What was the shade, hon? Manchester tan, somethin’ or other? Anyway, I think it turned out pretty darn good.” 

“It looks great, Ma,” Clark complimented with a genuine smile. 

“Don’t it? Figured it would be nice not havin’ to make your poor fiance sleep on that rickety ol’ twin bed.”

There it was—the subtle confirmation that you were still expected to sleep in separate rooms. Which you would, because you respected your soon-to-be in-laws, and it wouldn’t be for much longer anyways. 

“It really does look incredible,” you agreed, filling the silence. “The wonders of Marketplace.” 

“Trouble now is gettin’ her to stop,” Pa called from the living room. “We got a crap ton of new patio furniture and nowhere to put it all!” 

“Oh, hush,” Ma scolded, and you both laughed. 

It was on day five that things became borderline unbearable. The Kents had invited some old friends over for a cookout and a bonfire. Some of the older couples’ kids had grown up alongside Clark, many of whom already had spouses and families of their own. Meaning, there were several young children in attendance, which thrilled Clark, who had been honest with you from the start about wanting a family of his own someday. 

It made perfect sense—he was incredible with kids of all ages, something you’d known for a while, having seen it secondhand on TV whenever he donned the cape to visit children’s hospitals or homeless shelters. 

Experiencing it firsthand, though? Your fucking ovaries were about to explode. 

Pa had bought some marshmallows for the kids to make s’mores, and Clark had somehow been designated the role of official stick-gatherer. You watched the kids—ranging from kindergarten to late elementary school age—follow him around like ducklings, giggling and laughing when Clark made a show of climbing all the way up an oak tree to fetch the ‘perfect stick’ for roasting marshmallows. 

One of the children, an adorable brown-haired little boy, shyly offered his first marshmallow—which was burnt to a crisp—to Clark, who accepted it with a broad smile. 

“Thanks, buddy. Is this for me?” 

His head bobbed. “Sorry. It burnt a little.” 

“Oh, that’s alright. It’s still gooey underneath. Here, watch.” 

You watched as Clark slid the charred, ashy part of the marshmallow off to reveal its perfectly melted, warm center. He sucked the mallow into his mouth, having to double down on his sticky digits as the residual bits clung to his fingers. You politely forced yourself to look away. 

The rest of the night, Clark had been seated right next to you as the adults exchanged work stories and life updates while the kids ran around chasing fireflies. Inevitably, there were more than a few prying questions shot in Clark’s direction about his interviews with Superman, which always made you grin, even if only himself and his parents knew the reason behind it. 

At some point, Clark’s arm draped around your shoulder as you rested your legs in his lap. With company around, he’d been forced to put on his hypnoglasses, but you certainly weren’t complaining. The firelight danced across his face and in the lens of his glasses, which you took every opportunity to push up his nose with a soft smile, leaning forward to peck his lips every so often. 

Mercifully, having both older couples and young children in attendance meant the night was called off relatively early, around 8pm. You both assisted with cleanup before settling in the living room to catch up on the news. Ma and Pa turned in shortly thereafter, pressing kisses to both of your foreheads before vanishing down the hallway. 

Feeling particularly greedy, you stole the chance to break the “appropriate distance” the two of you had been sitting on the sofa and cuddled up to Clark’s side with a long sigh. 

“Good day?” you ask casually. 

“Mhm,” he answers, fingertips brushing up and down your shoulder. You idly watch the TV for a few more minutes, toying with Clark’s fingers in your hand, already imagining the ring that would soon match yours. 

The quiet sounds lulled you into a state of blissful exhaustion; his parents doing their nighttime routine, the crickets chirping through the open window, the low conversation from the television, playing a gameshow of some sort. 

After a few moments of silence, you snuck a glance over the sofa, peeking to see if his parents’ door had shut yet. Clark followed your gaze curiously, about to ask what you were looking at, when you pinched his chin between your fingers and brought your mouth to his. 

A pleasant hum rumbled from the back of his throat as he immediately returned the kiss. His hand cradled the side of your neck, fingers brushing against your thumping pulse as you kissed, deep and slow. 

You part for air, and Clark’s mouth trails along your jaw, unhurried and without much finesse, seemingly content just to be touching you. Your eyes once again land on the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, weighing the risk before making your decision and swinging a leg over his lap. 

Clark, clearly a little surprised, laughs nervously as his hands find your hips. “Honey,” he warns. “What are you—” 

“Shh,” you hush him with a smirk and a finger to his lips, before kissing him again and carding your fingers through his soft curls. 

He hums in bliss, grip tightening on your hips before his hands travel up and down your sides. “It feels so good to kiss you,” he whispers into your mouth. 

Your breathing hitches, desire roaring to life deep in your belly, demanding attention. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly. 

You kiss for as long as you dare, tongues slipping into hot mouths and hands staying mostly PG; Clark wisely keeps you planted a safe distance away from his pelvis. 

When you finally part, panting for air, you sit there for several long moments. The chorus of sounds has changed, slightly. Clark’s heavy breathing intermingled with your own; the subtle-soft rustle of his palms against your blouse as he caresses you. The crickets still chirp, reminding you of the hour, and you reluctantly open your eyes. 

“We should probably go to bed,” you say, though you don’t mistake the sadness in your voice for anything other than it is—a thorn in your side for not being able to do anything other than kiss. “Ma said something about the Farmer’s Market tomorrow.” 

Clark’s head tips back against the couch, his blue eyes drowning in a sea of black as he catalogues the look on your face. He licks his lips in consideration, and your traitorous core flips in arousal at the sight. 

“Yeah,” he eventually—reluctantly—agrees. 

You drag yourselves down the hallway, taking turns in the bathroom as you prepare to weather the storm of spending another dreadful night apart. 

The Kent family home is small; a three bedroom, one bathroom ranch that had little room for much more than its Midwestern charm. It was an older house too, built by Pa’s grandfather in the 1920s; it had been refurbished, just enough to keep up with the times, but the bones of the house were old. Creaky floorboards and chipped paint. An extremely temperamental HVAC system. And, of utmost concern to you and Clark, thin walls.

All the bedrooms lined one hallway near the back of the house; the bathroom and his parents’ room on the left, the guest room on the right, and Clark’s bedroom tucked at the end of the hall. Everyone was snug as a bug in a rug, as the saying went.

Lucky you.

The air between you tonight feels inexplicably more charged than usual, and you have a sinking suspicion the make-out session you’d initiated had something to do with it. 

“Goodnight,” you say softly, turning to face Clark from the doorway to the guest bedroom.

Clark blinks at you in consideration, before leaning down to give you one final kiss. It’s soft and almost unbearably slow. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. Your lips hover, brushing one another before either of you can bring yourselves to pull away. The pad of his thumb tugs gently at your lower lip. 

“Goodnight,” he whispers. 

And then he’s gone, floorboards creaking beneath his feet as he retreats into his bedroom at the end of the hallway. You take a deep breath, needing a moment to collect yourself before shutting your own door and pressing your forehead against it. Get a grip. 

You try to distract yourself by doing some light reading before bed, just enough to make your eyes heavy. Of course, it doesn’t work, and an hour after you’ve put your book down and turned off all the lights, you can’t sleep. 

Your mind is consumed by the memory of Clark twisting open a jar of strawberry jam for Ma earlier today, and the how he’d sucked some of the jam off of his thumb. Then it flashes to the effortless way he’d carried several 400-pound hay bales over his head, across acres of farmland, all so his Pa could save some diesel on the tractor as you watched from the kitchen window. Then you remember how he’d immediately gulped down two full glasses of his Ma’s homemade lemonade, watching the condensation wet his fingers and the way his throat muscles moved as he swallowed. 

It’s too much. Too much temptation packed into a 1,300 square foot ranch, in the shape of 240 pounds of farm-bred Kryptonian muscle. Five unbearable days with only fleeting touches and lingering kisses, until tonight, when you got a taste of something more. You two had gone far longer without sex—you know this logically—but being in such close proximity and watching him around his parents and interacting with children has done irreparable damage. 

Your hand is slipping beneath your pajama shorts without you even making the conscious decision. 

Fuck, the way he’d smelled tonight, like burning wood and smoke, his skin warm and almost glowing as a result of spending all day in the sun. Around the campfire, you couldn’t help but caress his five o’clock shadow at any chance you got, imagining the scruff of his stubble chafing your inner thighs. 

Clark loved to eat pussy. 

Your fingers easily find your aching clit, but the touches are all wrong. Your fingers aren’t rough enough, aren’t large enough, can’t get the right angle. 

After tonight, it was impossible not to imagine him with your own children in a very near future. The thought of him cradling an infant in his massive arms; a toddler climbing all over his back, sitting on his equally massive shoulders. You weren’t even sure it would be possible to conceive with him yet, but fuck were you content to imagine it. 

You’re dripping already; it was second nature. A Pavlovian response. Your fingers are a poor substitution for the real thing, but it would have to do. He’s so close and so fucking far, and it makes your blood hot. 

“Clark,” you fail to bite back the weak moan, your hips shifting around on the bed as you curl your fingers. God, a part of you hopes he’s awake, knowing he could probably hear the way you’re touching yourself, moaning his name, nearly in tears from how much you need him. 

It’s when you’re finally on the precipice of a very underwhelming orgasm that you hear the same creaking floorboards and freeze. Your ears hone in on the sound, trying to brush it off as being Ma or Pa getting up to use the bathroom, which wasn’t uncommon. But the gait is undeniably heavier, and far too careful to be either of his parents. 

Then you hear the doorknob turn. 

You twist in the sheets, hastily pulling your hand out of your pajama shorts. You blink blearily at the door, watching as it creaks open slowly to reveal none other than your 6’4” fiance. 

“Clark? E-everything okay?” you call out in a whisper as he carefully shuts the door, wincing at the way it squeaks. You hear a click, and your stomach swoops with the realization that it’s the lock. 

He turns to you, a looming, impressive shadow in the darkness of the guest room. He’s at the foot of the bed in two large steps, clambering onto the double-size mattress. The sudden shift of weight makes the mattress groan, a deafening sound in the stillness of night, and your eyes widen in surprise. 

“Baby, what are you doing?” 

“I think I should be asking you that,” is all the explanation you get before Clark’s lips are back over yours. The kiss is slow, but it’s filthy. Nothing like the ones you shared earlier on the sofa. All tongue and lips and teeth as he hovers over you. Your legs kick out of the sheets, instinctively locking around his lower back, and you barely bite back a moan as he settles some of his weight onto you. 

“Gosh, you’re unbelievable,” he breathes into you. “Touchin’ yourself like that when I’m barely a wall away. Could’ve just asked me, baby.” 

You shudder, and the arousal is a burn that rips through your body. “Oh god, Clark. We- we really shouldn’t- your parents—” 

“I know, baby. I know, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t take it anymore. You’ve been drivin’ me insane all week, sweetheart.” He slid his hands up your chest, groping your tits over your pajama top. “I…I heard you. Jolted me right awake; thought I was dreamin’ at first. But then I heard your sweet little moan, the little wet sounds of your pussy. Your heartbeat, honey. Like a little jackrabbit.”

You tip your head back against the pillow, breathing hard. “C-Clark, god, you can’t say things like that—” 

“I know how much you want it,” he breathes, hips bearing down between yours, and shit, he’s fully hard. You haven’t felt him like this in over a week, and it’s overwhelming. “I want it too.” 

Dark and quiet as it is, everything feels amplified; despite the very real threat of his parents overhearing, it’s like the two of you are in a vacuum, cut off from the rest of the world. You feel Clark everywhere, and yet it’s not enough to satisfy the insatiable beast that is frothing from between the cage of your thighs, desperate for reprieve. 

Of course, wanting what you realistically can’t—or shouldn’t—have has only made matters worse. 

“Baby,” Clark pants as you run your hands down his back, slipping beneath his soft t-shirt. “I can- oh gosh, I can s-smell how wet you are.” 

“Fucking hell,” you curse, and kiss him again. “I want you so bad, Clark. But this…this fucking bed is probably older than both of us combined, and it’s so loud, I—” 

“I know,” he responds between kisses. “I know, honey.” 

“I- maybe we could- you could just use your fingers? And I could do the same?” you suggest, though it’s weak, even to your own ears. You know Clark won’t object to anything you offer, but it was crystal clear what he really wanted. What you both wanted.

Clark lets out a whine, low in the back of his throat, concealing it in the crook of your neck. “Mmm. If- I mean, that’s- that’s probably the smart thing to do…”

“But not what we really want,” you finish, brushing your nose against his cheek. 

“No,” he agrees, before licking into your mouth. The soft, wet sound of your mouths causes your head to spin, heavy with desire. You can feel the blood rush in your ears, down the length of your neck, flushing the surface of your skin. 

“Baby,” you whisper when you part for breath, voice shaking with a mix of longing and crumbling restraint. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. Your fingers pull through his hair as your pelvises build a steady grind, slow enough so as not to cause the bed to squeak but enough to drive you insane as his stiff cock ruts against your clothed pussy. “I- I can’t fucking take it anymore. I need you.” 

Clark shudders, mouthing beneath your jaw. “I need you too, honey.” His lips hover over yours, words an urgent, needy whisper. “Wanna give you my cock so much, sweetheart. So, so much.” 

“Oh god, Clark,” your voice shatters around his name. Your pussy flutters at the mere idea of having his cock inside you. You need him so bad you could cry. “Seeing you w-with those kids today…” 

Clark groans instantly, understanding the implication. “Yeah? Imagining they were ours?” 

“Mmm. Yes.” 

“I know, I was too,” he admits, sucking a bruise into your skin that you will definitely regret in the morning. “You’d like that, huh? Makin’ a family with me?” 

“Fuck, I- you know I would, Clark.” 

“Gosh, yes. I’d give it to you in a heartbeat, my love.” 

“Please,” you whine, and you truly can’t remember a time where you’ve been this desperate for sex. “I’ll book the fucking appointment tomorrow. Get my—mm, fuck—get my IUD taken out.” 

The sound that escapes Clark’s throat is a mixture of pity and pain. “Oh gosh. honey, I- you’re not being fair.” 

“I know, I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

“We- maybe we can just go slow?” he suggests. “So slow, I promise. Won’t even put it all the way in. It won’t be loud that way, if we go slow. We can be quiet, if we…if we’re careful.” 

“I don’t want it slow,” you breathe, and that’s the entire problem, isn’t it? Clark lets out another low-pitched whine, and says your name like a curse. 

“You’ve been driving me crazy, too,” you continue, pausing to give him a slow, deep kiss. “I just…I just wanna fuck, Clark.”

Your hand snakes between your flush bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants and bypassing his boxers completely. Clark jerks, burying his face in your shoulder with a sharp exhale. The heat and weight of him makes the burgeoning desire in your gut increase tenfold; he’s hot and thick and fully hard. Your goddamn mouth starts salivating like it’s competing with your sopping pussy for his attention. 

“W-we…we have to be c-careful, honey,” Clark repeats as he pumps slowly into your hands. That simple movement alone makes the mattress groan with the sound of shifting fabric. “I can…fu- baby, gosh- I can listen to make sure they don’t wake up, but I’ll have to focus. And this bed—” 

“Please,” you beg, heart pounding as you listen to his breathing increase the longer you stroke him. Your own restraint is falling apart at the seams; you’re about one Clark-moan away from throwing all caution to the wind. “Forget what I said earlier, I don’t care. I- please, Clark. I need you so bad.” 

“Honey, I- oh—” He’s cut off when your fist focuses furiously on the weeping head of his cock. 

“Do you want to come on my fist, or in my pussy?” you ask. You know you’re playing dirty, but you need him in you. Now. 

“Holy- th-that’s so mean,” he whines. 

You mouth at his jaw. “Clark Joseph Kent, if you don’t put your cock in me right fucking now—” 

“Good gosh, I- okay, okay.” He plants desperate kisses on your lips, firmly yanking your wrist away from his cock, desperate for a break. “Just- are you-” 

“I’m fine, Clark. More than ready. Please just…just fuck me,” you demand, nipping at his earlobe. 

“Okay. I- okay, gosh, hold on-” 

It’s a frantic tangle of limbs and swatting hands as you both try and wiggle free of as minimal clothing as necessary without jolting the bed too much. The comforter is thrown off the bed. You blindly yank Clark’s sweats and boxers down enough to fully free his cock, while he fumbles for the waistband of your sleep shorts, cursing sweetly as he struggles with the tie. It probably doesn’t help that you’ve started jerking him off again, smearing the resulting bead of pre-cum over his sensitive tip. 

“Stupid freaking-” 

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter, growing impatient. “Just rip it off, Clark.” 

“But you hate when I-” 

“Rip it.” 

He doesn’t need to be told a third time. The fabric snaps the second his fists close around the tiny strings, and even that small display of his strength makes your clit fucking throb. 

His fingers are on you the instant your shorts and panties are gone, rubbing messily over your folds. It’s likely for his own peace of mind, despite your insistence that you were adequately prepared for him. It feels good nonetheless, so you aren’t about to complain. 

“Oh, gosh,” he marvels, thick fingers circling your clit as he glances between you. “You’re soaked, honey. Even wetter than I thought.” 

“I told you,” you shudder. “Now fuck me.” Your hand, still on his cock, guides him to your waiting pussy, slipping the head through your labia and making you both moan softly. 

“Fuck,” Clark curses. 

“Clark Joseph,” you gasp, the profanity deliciously foreign coming from his tongue. “Did you just—”

“This is a serious matter,” Clark insists as he thrusts his hips torturously slowly. The head of his cock catches on your clit and another moan slips out of you. “See? That right there.” Your eyes widen when Clark’s palm moves to cover your mouth. “Gotta focus if we wanna be quiet.” 

His words only make you whimper, the sound mostly smothered against his hand. 

“Quiet,” he scolds again, but then he’s pushing in. The initial stretch burns, as it normally does (you definitely could’ve benefited from some extra lubrication, but desperate times call for desperate measures). However, the flicker of pain is quickly doused with sheer relief, like your body is sighing at the solace of finally getting him inside you. 

Clark’s hand abandons your mouth in favor of supporting his weight as he half-collapses onto his forearm. The first thrust of his hips tests the waters; a little overzealous on Clark’s side, succeeding in making the rickety old bed frame squeal once, loudly. You both hold stock-still, allowing you to acclimate to his size and him to listen intently for any signs of life in his parents’ room.

Clark looks down at you in silence. Nothing. 

You release your bated breath and drag him into a kiss. “Move,” you hiss, sounding like a total brat, but neither of you seem to care. 

Clark obliges, pumping his hips slower this time, the motion more fluid as he disperses his weight across his whole body rather than planting his knees on the mattress. 

It seems to be working, the sound of your joint heavy breathing being the loudest sound in the room. That is of course until you shift positions just slightly, and the fucking Marketplace-monstrosity of a bed frame groans loudly in protest. 

A huff of agitation escapes you. “Oh fuck that’s— it’s loud, Clark. Why is it so fucking loud?” 

“Shit,” he curses desperately. “Maybe- here, pull the sheets up—” 

“That’s not going to do anything!” 

“Well, I don’t know!” Clark exclaims in a whisper-yell. “I’m trying to help! I- oh gosh, honey, I can’t pull out of you now—” 

You lock your legs around him in warning. “Don’t you dare.” 

“I’m not, I’m not.” 

Your head flops back against the pillows in frustration. “Just…they’re still asleep, right?” 

Clark pauses to listen. “For now, yeah.” 

“So…” you can’t believe you’re about to suggest this. Morning-you is going to be so fucking embarrassed. “…just…just keep going, and stop if you hear them wake up.” 

Clark lets out a pained groan. “That’s easier said than done when I’m balls deep inside you, honey. I can’t focus on making you come and listening for the slightest rustle of awareness across the hallway.” 

You wiggle your hips, pulling another wounded sound from Clark’s chest. “Please,” you resort to begging, yet again. “Clark, I- I’m so sexually frustrated and I finally have your dick inside me and you’re just fucking- we’re not even- I can’t—” 

Clark must take pity on you, because he’s soothing you with quick pecks across your face and neck. “Honey, I know, I know. I’m sorry. Oh, my sweet girl. I’m sorry.” He starts moving again, the same slow, fluid movements as before. The bed squeaks beneath you, but it’s not too loud, you think. 

Clark continues, “I wish I could fuck you how you need, baby. But we gotta be quiet. Shhh, shhh. I know. Just try and take what I’m giving you. Want me to rub your little clit? Will that help?” 

You nod, only slightly horrified as you feel tears well in your eyes from the sheer frustration of it all. Clark coos praises and apologies into your ear as his fingers gently circle your swollen clit, but it’s not enough. 

Sure, it feels good, amazing even, but it’s not what you’d been craving. Not the itch you needed scratched. 

“Jus’ a little harder?” you beg, your voice a wet, sultry whisper against his ear as you bury your fingers in his hair. “Please? Please Clark?” 

He buries his groan against your chest, mumbling a slew of frustrated, mostly incoherent words that sound something like “gonna be the death of me” and “can’t handle when you beg me for it”. But then, abruptly, the pace changes yet again. The movement ceases, just for a moment. He shifts his weight above you. His hips snap—once, twice, thrice. Still slow, but firmer. Sharper. Deeper.

“Oh—” 

Anticipating your moan, his free hand flies back to your mouth, effectively cutting off the incriminating sound. He hushes you gently as his eyes bore down into yours. 

The bed is…well, it’s definitely making noise now. The box springs make their presence known, creaking with every forward motion. Unfortunately, you’re too cock-drunk to pay it much attention. 

At the very least, it’s not like the headboard is obnoxiously slamming against the wall. Just…if someone happened to pass by the door, it would probably be fairly obvious what was happening on the other side. Which, horrifically, turns you on even more. 

Of course, you know Clark would never let something like that actually happen—nor would you want it to—but the thought of it, the risk of it, makes your stomach twist around itself in arousal. The notion that he’s fucking you in his childhood home with his sleeping parents a stone’s throw away has you hornier than you thought humanly possible. 

The fingers on your throbbing clit speed up, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull. 

“C’mon, baby,” he pants. “Gotta come on this cock. Know you want to. Wanting me to make you a wife and a mommy in the same calender year, my greedy girl. All with my parents right down the hall, sound asleep. Gonna look them in the eyes tomorrow morning, honey? Knowin’ I snuck into your room just hours prior? That my cum was dripping down your thighs?” 

From behind his sweaty palm, a muted chorus of “yeah, yeah, yeah” punches out of you on the crest of every sharp thrust.

Clark smothers you; with his body and his words and his kisses, his tongue just beneath your ear, his forearms caging you beneath his broad frame. Your nails dig into his back for dear life, thighs tense around his hips as every ounce of your focus narrows in on the pleasure.

“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot and voice shaking. “I know it- I know it feels good, but you gotta be quiet. Can’t let you come if you can’t be quiet.” 

You need to come more than you need air to breathe, so you force your shaking body to obey, swallowing your own sounds and digging your nails further into his impenetrable skin.

“Yes, baby,” he praises. “There we go. Nice and quiet. Can I have my hand back, now?” 

You nod shakily, breathing fast and hard, as Clark leans in to kiss you. The fingers swirling over your clit make a ‘v’ as they slip down to stimulate your outer lips of your vulva. Your thighs twitch around his hips, signaling your rapidly-approaching release. 

“F-fuck, Clark,” you whine into his open mouth. “I- I can’t, I—” 

“Yes, baby. Right there. Let it happen. Come on my cock, baby. It’s yours.” 

You shatter with a high-pitched whine, one that Clark suffocates against his still-clothed chest as he quickly presses your face into his breast bone. Your pussy constricts around him, spasming uncontrollably as he works to prolong your high. 

“I know, baby. I know, I- oh, that- that…I c-can feel you around me, so tight…it’s g-gonna make me come, honey—” 

The hand not cradling your head fists into the pillow beside you. His sharp, jagged thrusts—the ones originally intended for your pleasure—change a final time, turning frantic in a way that signals his own impending orgasm. Beneath your writhing bodies, the bed groans and shifts. Surely the headboard rams against the wall at least once, maybe twice. You don’t keep track, solely focused on your hypersensitive cunt as it throbs and clenches around Clark, egging him on. 

“C-come inside me, baby,” you plead into his ear, like that’s even a question.

“Did you m-mean it?” he asks suddenly, catching you a bit off-guard. His voice shakes as his hips falter. 

“Mean what?” you barely get out. 

“What you said about…about starting a family?” 

The tenderness of the question hits you square in the chest, and suddenly the emotion in your eyes has an entirely different meaning. 

“Yes,” you breathe, kissing the side of his face. “I love you so much, Clark. I wanna make a baby with you, m-make a family together.”

He whimpers, shortly before biting down on your shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. His hips stutter and still, cock pressed as deeply inside your pussy as he can get at this angle. He comes hard, the deliciously bizarre sensation of his cum filling your pussy pulling a final, blissed moan from you. He finally stills above you, struggling to steady his breathing. 

“Golly. Sweetheart,” he exhales, and you both let out disbelieving chuckles. He pulls back to look at you, still catching his breath as you feel his cock soften inside of you. “Did we really just…” 

“Have sex under your parents’ roof with them sleeping just across the hall? Yes we did,” you say, trying not to let the post-orgasm regret pull you under. 

Clark laughs again, kissing you on the nose before nuzzling into your neck. You love it when he tries to tuck his massive frame into your body; it’s adorable. 

“Mm. Worth it.” 

You can’t help but agree. 

You spend a few quiet minutes catching your breath and coming down from your highs. You run your fingers through Clark’s hair, something you know he loves after sex. 

“Need’ta pee,” you protest tiredly when you feel him start to go slack above you. 

“Mmm. Yeah. Yeah, m’kay,” Clark says slowly, like his brain is still catching up. He rolls off of you and you search blindly for your underwear, settling instead on Clark’s boxers which are the first thing you stumble upon. You carefully slip to the bathroom, cringing a little at the feel of his cum sliding down your inner thighs. You clean yourself up and use the toilet, trying not to think too hard about his Ma and Pa, sleeping soundly in the room next door. 

When you return to the guest room, Clark holds up a finger, then presses it swiftly to his lips, eyes closing in focus. 

“What? What’s wrong?” you whisper, feeling more awake all of the sudden. You lock the door—just in case—and tiptoe back to the bed. 

“I think Ma woke up,” he whispers back as you climb into his waiting arms. “Probably heard you in the bathroom.” 

Despite yourself, you feel your cheeks heat. “Well…they get up all the time, right? It’s not uncommon to get up and pee in the middle of the night.” 

“No, it’s not,” he agrees with a yawn. “Just…I should head back to my room soon. Don’t wanna fall asleep and have’ta sneak out in the morning.” 

You giggle, “god, it’s like we’re in high school or something.” 

Clark smiles back. “Yeah.” 

You snuggle into his chest, pleased to find that he’d taken off his t-shirt, finally. You always appreciated the skin-to-skin contact when you slept. So does Clark, so you’re not surprised when his own hands reach for the hem of your pajama top and lift it over your head. 

He makes a satisfied sound and presses a single kiss to your sternum before you settle back on his chest. Clark lifts the sheets back over you both, fingers gliding down your back in soft lines. 

“Love you,” he whispers into your hair. 

“Love you too,” you respond. 

For now, you’re beyond content to lay in his arms, listening to his soft breathing and the strong thump-thump of his heart. 

~

You wake to the sound of the Kent’s rooster, announcing the wee hours of the morning. As you groggily emerge from slumber, a few more things begin to cloud your senses. Chiefly among them, the smell of bacon, wafting in from the kitchen. Mm. Delicious. And the weight of Clark’s arm, comfortably slung across your—

Wait. 

You shoot up in bed, waking Clark up in the process, who startles with a sleepy-eyed huff.

“Clark, oh my god,” you gasp. 

“Wha- what is it?” he asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes. 

“You fell asleep in bed!” you hiss, eyes wide with panic. And from the smell of it, his parents were already awake. Just perfect. 

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. Do you think they noticed?!” you ask urgently, rooting around for your clothes on the floor. 

Clark relinquishes a deep sigh, leaning on his elbows as his head thunks back against the headboard in defeat. “Knowing my Ma, definitely.” 

“Oh my god,” you repeat, standing now. “She’s going to know that we- that you—” 

“Sweetheart, we’re engaged,” Clark reassures you. “And…adults, before that. She’s not that ignorant. And she won’t hate you if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just…a little, well. I guess it is a little, uh, mortifying.” 

Your head falls into your hands, and Clark has the audacity to chuckle. “Maybe she didn’t notice,” you say. “Maybe she hasn’t checked your room yet, and you can still—”

As if by divine intervention, a swift knock sounds at the door. 

“Breakfast’s ready, honey. Taters and eggs, and bacon fresh from the butcher.” 

“Oh, alright! Be out in a few, Ma. Thank you!” you call out, hoping you sound less shaky then you feel. Even if she hadn’t noticed yet, she definitely heard you talking to each other, and there’s no way you could explain that. 

Then, with an air of mischief lining her Midwestern twang, Ma adds, “tell Clark there’s plenty for him, too!"

Clark, however, was feeling even more impatient than you. Every time he was close, he could smell you. He’d become accustomed to what you smelled like in different moods, and it seemed you really liked it any time he let his eyes linger on you. Or when he kissed you. Or held your hand, or hugged you, or… like, most of the time he was near you in general.

It was making him crazy.

He smiled at you across the table in another meeting at the Daily Planet, noting how you shifted a little bit after catching his eye. He felt his heart flutter every time he saw you react to him in any way. As much as he wanted to be inside of you, he wasn’t some pervert. He actually liked you. A lot. He just also felt hot under the collar any time he thought of you.

It was worse when you got a new perfume. Not that he didn’t like what you wore before, but now? The scent with the natural smell of your skin mixed together was intoxicating. It was also embarrassing. Nearly every time he could smell the trail of scent you’d leave behind you, he was fighting tooth and nail not to get hard; and often failed.

At the end of your third date, he’d kissed you a little harder than he normally would. It made you weak in the knees, and even more needy than you usually were with him. His big hands dipping a little lower on your waist than usual, and the most gentle brush of his tongue against yours. You wanted more, but true to Clark fashion, he just had to be so coy and sweet.

You almost groaned in frustration when he pulled away, his cheeks a little pink as he flashed you a smile.

“Goodnight,” Clark murmured softly. “I… I really like this. Being with you.”

Fuck. You knew it’d be a long night the second you were alone. You swallowed and nodded.

“Yeah. I do too.”

He grinned again, kissing your cheek. “Okay. See you at work?”

“Yeah. See you then.”

He watched you walk inside, letting his eyes trail down your body when he was sure you wouldn’t notice. He couldn’t handle it. Being around you all night, watching you laugh at all his stupid jokes, smelling that gorgeous smell that was all you and the sweet perfume you wore… he needed relief. Badly.

Clark found himself at home within seconds, stumbling into his room in a love-drunk stupor. He ripped at the buttons of his shirt, breathing shaky and excited. He pushed the shirt off, tugging off his undershirt as well. He shoved his pants down in one go, dropping down onto his bed with a hand wrapping around his leaky cock. He let himself picture you.

“Please,” he whispered to nobody but himself, hips starting to jut up to meet his hand.

He couldn’t help but think of how it’d feel if it was your hand touching him like this. How big he’d look beneath your fingers. If you’d use your mouth, your pretty lips struggling to fit him in comfortably. If you’d swallow around him as you tried not to gag, his cock touching the back of your throat. He stroked himself faster, throbbing and pulsing with the need to cum. He wondered if he’d be able to smell you soaking yourself as he came down your throat, and how long it would take for him to make you come on his tongue as a thanks. How you’d move against him, if you’d stay still and let him work or if you’d be so desperate that you wouldn’t be able to help but to grind against his face. He’d be overjoyed with either option.

He reached his other hand down, wrapping both firmly around himself, thrusting up into his fists, pretending it could be you. But he knew it wasn’t the same. He knew you’d be so soft and warm. Tight and cozy and wet around his length as he bounced you on his lap until you were cockdrunk and a little bit dumb. He liked the idea of being the only person who could make it so that you’d turn off your overactive brain for a little while.

He pushed himself into his hands, imagining every possible scenario, certain he could smell you even now. He breathed heavy, murmuring little pleas and whines of your name before he was tensing, hips still jerking as he spilled over his knuckles. It was a full minute of cumming to the thought of his pretty girl. His girlfriend? Maybe he should properly ask, he thought. He wanted you as his.

He glanced down, his own release drenching his hands and thighs. He took a deep breath. Time for a shower.

You saw him at work the next day, his face a little blushy every time he glanced at you. It was sweet, but a little… unusual?

He was generally shy and it wasn’t unheard of for him to get a little red-faced every now and then. But all day? Geez.

“Hey,” you said softly, walking up to him at his desk that afternoon. He looked up with wide eyes beneath his glasses. “I’m finished for the day. You want to go get dinner or something?”

“Oh! I, uh… after work is no good. But maybe later? Dessert? I can bring it to your place?” He offered, glossing over the fact that he was going to be busy with the Justice Gang. He hadn’t exactly let the Superman secret slip yet. “If that’s okay.”

“You want to come over?”

He blinked. “Oh… I, uh—”

“I’d like that,” you offer, smiling at his flustered expression. “I’ll text you my address.”

“Oh. Okay,” he breathed out, his smile bright. “Great. Maybe like… eight? Is that okay?”

“That’s perfect.”

“Great.”

You smiled at him again, then left. You went home, body buzzing in anticipation. It’s not like you planned on attacking him or anything. Just… suggesting more. Also, you figured you should probably let him know that you’d one hundred percent seen him use his super-speed out of the corner of your eye a couple weeks ago. So much for that ‘secret’ of his.

You made yourself a light dinner, then took a long, hot shower. You dressed down, a thin tank top and soft pair of cotton shorts. Nothing overtly sexy, but not covering much. You figured that the hint of a nipple through fabric would probably do the job for someone as polite as Clark. It turned out to be true, judging by the way he tried to not let you notice he was staring at your chest the second you opened your front door for him.

“Hey,” you greeted with a grin.

“H-hiya. Hi.” He swallowed, trying to make sure he kept his eyes on your face. Nowhere else. But gosh, a tank top and shorts never looked so provocative before. He lifted up the small cheesecake in his hand. “Brought dessert. I remember you liked the strawberry cheesecake from the office Christmas party last year.”

You smiled softly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. Come on in.”

He ducked his head, clearly happy that he’d done good. He stepped inside of your apartment, looking around curiously. He toed off his shoes as you took the cake and brought it to the kitchen. He trailed after you, eyes darting between your home and your ass. He was feeling a little hot.

“You have a, uh… a nice place. I like it. Smells good in here.”

“Thanks. I try to keep it clean.”

He hummed once, leaning against the counter as you popped the lid off the cake.

“Not just that,” he said softly, watching your hands as you started cutting into it. “It just smells like— you. Your perfume I guess. Your skin.”

“You know what my skin smells like?” You laugh.

He flushed. “Oh. Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so creepy. You just… you just smell good. You smell like you. It’s nice.”

“It’s not creepy. It’s sweet.”

“Oh.”

“I like you, Clark. Quit worrying so much,” you mention, glancing at him as you lick a bit of the strawberry syrup off your thumb.

His eyes followed the movement, his tongue running over his lip once. “I like you too. A lot.”

You just grin softly. You plate up the cheesecake, handing him both slices.

“Go sit in the living room. I’m gonna grab some wine.”

He faltered for a second. “I don’t really drink much.”

“I know. It’s only one glass, I know you do that sometimes. I don’t intend on taking advantage of you, you know?”

“R-right. Okay.”

You watched as he walked away. God, he has a cute butt.

Two slices of cheesecake and three glasses of wine later, two for you and one for him, you were definitely getting a little cozier. He pretended not to notice how you leaned into his side; you pretended not to notice his hand on your knee.

“Cat totally thought you and Big Blue were hooking up, by the way.”

Clark blinked, looking away from the movie you’d put on. “Pardon?”

“Since you’re always up his ass. She asked me after me and you started dating if you were getting some super-dick on the side,” you mention with a short laugh.

“Super-d—? That’s inappropriate.”

“And hilarious.”

“Oh, please.”

You chuckle, smiling up at him. Despite his verbal protest, his cute little dimples were still poking into his cheeks. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and sparkling.

“I really do, ya know… like you.”

“You said that,” you reply softly.

“I know. I mean it.”

You just look at him, heart fluttering and body thrumming as he leaned in, his lips on yours. It started off soft. Just a few soft, lingering kisses. You snuck a hand into his dark hair, not tugging but definitely gripping. Judging by the shaky breath that left him, you assumed he liked that. Your assumption was proven correct as he deepened the kiss, one strong arm snaking around your waist to pull you into his chest. You took that as your cue, swinging a leg over his hips, settling on his lap and right over the bulge in his pants.

He gasped your name against your lips. “Geez.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, hands running over your hips and waist. “Yeah.”

Clark felt like he could explode, metaphorically and physically, when you started kissing him again. You were aroused. He knew it well. It invaded his senses and made him dizzy, pulling your hips over his before he could think twice about it. He groaned in the back of his throat when he felt the friction against the extremely obvious erection straining to get out. He nearly passed out when you made an equally needy sound.

“I like you,” he breathed out, voice wrecked already.

“I know, Clark.”

“A lot.”

You smiled, rolling your hips again with his instruction. “I know. I can feel how much you like me, you know?”

He whimpered. Full-on, whiny little whimper. He was smart, he knew he was. And strong. He could pull a building off its foundation. But now? With you on top of him, rubbing yourself on him like this? He felt weak and brainless. Every single blood cell that should be in his brain went straight to his cock. The only reason he didn’t feel embarrassed is the fact that he knew you felt the same way, your pretty face glossed over with want. He mumbled your name once, looking up at you with big, wet eyes.

“You done playing gentleman?” you asked teasingly, brow raised.

He pouted. “I am a gentleman.”

“I know, baby. But I am a woman who wants my boyfriend to touch me for once.”

He groaned. Boyfriend. Yay! “Golly.”

You laughed, for a moment. But it was cut awfully short when his hands snaked under your top, cupping your bare breasts. You let out a soft noise, letting him grope you as he kissed down your neck.

“Clark.”

“Mm…”

Clark was in heaven. Clothing strewn all over the floor and furniture, leaving a breadcrumb trail all the way to your bed. He laid between your legs in only his underwear, staring at you bare and spread out for him as he kissed up your legs.

“Y’so pretty,” he mumbled against your thigh, looking up at you with stars in his eyes through his frames. “Smell so good.”

“Clark, please.”

He smiled, licking his lip as he dragged a finger through your folds, watching the slick gather on his fingertip. He spread you open with two fingers, taking in a deep breath. He leaned in, kissing just over your clit, tongue flicking out to taste you.

“Taste even better.”

“Fuck,” you whined, watching him with hooded eyes.

“Mhm. Thank you,” he muttered, diving in again.

Your hands tangled in his hair, gripping tight as his mouth moved over you. He smiled against you, giddy to finally be tasting you. He’d thought about it so many times, if you’d taste as sweet as you smelled. His hips ground against the bed on their own volition, wanting to find any kind of relief from how he was throbbing in response to finally being able to touch you. He’d been so good, so patient, so slow… and it was finally paying off in a big way. He moaned into your pussy, tongue delving into you, practically fucking you on his mouth. His hands wrapped around your legs, keeping you wide open for him.

Your hips moved against him as much as they could, trying hard to get that extra friction. He ate you out like he was starving for it. You wondered if he’d thought about it as long as you did.

He looked utterly ruined, his cheeks flushed and hair a mess. His glasses were fogged. You reached for them, trying to pull them off, but he quickly grabbed your wrist.

“No,” he shook his head, lips brushing against you.

“Why? Wanna see you.”

“I— I need them.”

“You said you were nearsighted.”

He looked up, trying to see you through the fogged lenses. “W-well, yeah, I just…”

“Please?”

“I really can’t.”

You huffed, horny and needy and wanting to see him.

“Clark.”

“Baby, please. You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand about glasses?”

“They…” He paused. How could he say it without saying it? He needed them because he was secretly a space alien who wore his underwear on the outside to fight crime and rescue puppies? Not exactly a sentence that rolls off the tongue. “It’s… they’re a part of me.”

“They’re not surgically attached.”

“No, but they’re, uh…” he glanced down, your pussy still wet and needy in front of his face. He had half a mind to tell you he was Superman just so he could get back to business.

“Quit it.” You pulled the glasses off before he could notice.

He jolted, shocked and nervous and feeling suddenly like he was in deep. Shoot. He stuttered out your name, his heart pounding out of his chest. You’d seen him. His cover was blown. You’d probably freak out and not want to see him again and not let him make you cum and he’d go home with blue balls and a broken heart.

“I’m… I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you, I know. I just didn’t know how to say it, and we hadn’t talked about if we were like actually a thing until you called me your boyfriend today, and… and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Clark.”

“W-what?”

“I knew you were Superman. Now in the nicest way I can say it, shut the fuck up and get your face back down there before I finish myself off instead.”

He blinked in shock, almost ready to protest before you pushed his head back between your legs. He couldn’t argue with that. He moved faster, wanting even more badly to make you feel good. You knew. You knew who he was and it didn’t matter. He could cum right then and there if he wanted to.

You gasped, back arching high as he gained a new fervor he hadn’t had before. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t feel like he had to hold back all the way now. Whatever it was, you didn’t really care. What you cared about was the way he humped the bed and whined against your skin as you came on his tongue.

You were in a haze, the orgasm knocking your feet out from under you. Clark watched you as you came down, chest heaving. Pretty tits and a pretty face and the cutest pussy, his pretty girl. He sighed dreamily, eyes flitting all over you as he pushed his underwear down his thighs.

You blinked your eyes open, mouth watering at the sight of a fully naked Clark Kent and his monster cock. Cat totally owed you twenty dollars, you knew he’d be massive.

“C’mere,” you mumbled, reaching for his hips, trying to draw yourself up to him.

“What?”

“Want it in my mouth. Please.”

“Baby…”

You leaned closer, hand wrapped around him. “Just for a little. Just let me.”

He let out a soft, shaking breath as you touched him. He memorized the way his cock looked in your hand. He knew he was big, but he looked almost scary in your grip. It was insanely hot. His mouth watered as you licked your lips, trying to prepare yourself to take him. He gasped, hand touching your hair softly as you leaned up to brush his tip against your lips. He shifted a little closer on his knees, trying to make it so that you were a little more comfortable.

“So sweet,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. “Sweet girl.”

You smiled up at him, no more of those adorably dorky glasses covering his gorgeous eyes. His lips stayed parted, clearly paying attention to every tiny move you made as you played with him. You let your tongue loll out of your mouth, dragging it against the blunt head of his dick. He moaned outright, hand resting in your hair now, hips jerking as you took him into your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered as you took more of him in, your mouth opening wider to try and accommodate his size. He felt hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of his precum nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. You bobbed your head slowly, taking as much of him as you could. He whined and moaned and made sounds you never expected to hear from him. If only the world knew that Superman was so desperate when he got his cock played with.

He suddenly pulled you off, chest heaving.

“Wait. W-wait. Sorry, honey, I just… I don’t want to cum in your mouth the first time.”

“Hm?”

“Wanna be in you.”

You swallowed, eyes still trained on his length as it jumped in excitement. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Do you have, uh… I didn’t bring any…”

“You want to wear a condom?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “You should always practice safe sex.”

“That the slogan on one of your educational billboards?”

He frowned. You laughed.

“Just want to be responsible.”

You nodded. “Okay. But, for the record, I’m on a contraceptive.”

You almost laughed at the way he clearly struggled with that though. He knew wearing a condom was still the safe option. He also knew that he wanted nothing more than to finish inside of you.

You giggled as he made his decision, pushing you back on the bed and kissing you deeply. He pushed your thighs to your chest and settled on his knees, brushing his thick tip against your pussy, still puffy and needy from the way he’d made you cum with his mouth. He let out a slow breath, rubbing your clit with it a few times before he pressed at your entrance.

“I know it’s… it’s big. Just tell me if it hurts, okay?”

You nodded, watching as his face tightened in pleasure and anticipation. You forced yourself to relax, letting him press into you slowly. You moaned pathetically as he pushed harder, the first few inches hurting as much as they changed your life.

“Y’okay, baby?” He grunted out, slowly starting to rock his hips in that shallow depth.

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

“Good. You’re taking it so good, baby. Look at you.”

You whined, not expecting the praise. You fluttered around his length involuntarily, drawing another sound from him. He pushed in further and further with each slow, careful thrust.

“That’s my girl. So good for me. So pretty.”

He dropped down on top of you, wrapping your legs around his hips with strong hands, pulling you up onto his lap. You gasped, the new angle letting him fill you to the brim. He thrust into you quicker now, arms pushing you off and on as he moved his hips.

“Pretty baby. Perfect for me, fitting all of me in you. Y’feel this?” He grabbed your hand, pressing it to your lower belly to feel the bump of him hitting you deep with every rock of his hips. “Take me so well. Gorgeous girl. You’re doing such a good job.”

“Baby… baby, please. Clark.”

He smiled. Cocky son of a bitch. “I know, honey. You like it, huh?”

You nodded quickly, brain and body turned to jelly as he rammed into you like you were his personal fuck toy. He breathed heavy, a million little sounds leaving him between all of his praises. His face was buried in your neck, moving faster now. You held onto him as tightly as you could, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand tangled in his hair.

He groaned, trying hard not to cum with every move of your body against his. He’d never felt such a perfect fit, it was like you were two puzzle pieces finally clicking. He shuddered against your skin, kissing down your neck and chest until he found one warm, stiff nipple to pull into his mouth. He sucked, alternating between a steady suction and his tongue swirling and flicking over it.

“M’gonna cum,” you gasped out, feeling deliciously overwhelmed.

“Good. Attagirl. You can finish, baby. You can cum,” his voice rumbled against your skin, switching to the other nipple. “Cum for me. You can do it.”

You whined and whimpered, letting him pump into you a few more times before you cried out his name, legs shaking hard. He moaned in time with you, trying like hell to keep moving in order to let you ride it out.

If he thought you smelled good before, the scent of you like this could rouse him from a coma. He could only move for a few more seconds before he was buried himself deep, grinding more than thrusting as he gasped your name, mouth still open against your tit. You felt him fill you, cock twitching and throbbing inside of you.

“Shoot,” he whispered, kissing up your chest until he settled his face against your neck. “Baby. Thank you. Thank you.”

“God damn.”

“Never felt anything like you.”

You smiled drowsily. “Says you.”

He laughed, rubbing your back slowly, fingers tracing the skin. “I’ve been thinking about that a long time.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I get half hard any time I smell you.”

“What’s up with you and smells?” you asked softly, leaning back to look at him with sleepy eyes.

“Super senses.”

“Ah.”

“Super smell. I pick up a lot of stuff, and you… you smell extra good when you’re— when you’re wet?”

“That is so gross.”

“Can’t help it. You’re delicious,” he said with his lips against your neck again, voice rumbling in his chest. “Can’t believe you knew this whole time.”

“Not hard to guess, Clark. At least not when I both date you and work with you.”

“Mm… shoulda told me you knew.” He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then cheek, and finally lips. He smiled against your lips. “Dropping that and then pushing me between your legs wasn’t fair.”

You smiled back. “Yeah, well. Also wasn’t fair to hide it. We’re both at fault.”

“Maybe.”

You kissed him again, just once. “So… Superman. Super cock. Super eater. You got super stamina, too?”

It happened again: his shift ran late, and he found himself creeping into the house past ten, tired as ever, and popping open a whisky bottle while lingering in the kitchen.

He chugged the small glass back, rubbing his hands over his face, glancing at the front foyer. His eyebrows furrowed when he saw your white sneakers kicked off by the door again–you were with his son, somewhere in the house, doing something.

Now he lies wide awake in his empty bed, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the noise that makes him want to blow his head off: your soft moans, little whines and whimpers, and the occasional grunt from his son that has him grimacing.

“I’d rather you do it in the house, safe… than elsewhere,” he had told his son, urging him to have sex in the safety of his bedroom, as opposed to elsewhere the two of you might tangle yourself up in.

He quickly realized that this was a poor decision–he couldn’t blame the two of you, assuming his dad was off working, the house to yourselves, but now he has to lie there in a painful silence, listening to your moans.

“What…” you mumble softly as your boyfriend rolls off you, and your eyebrows furrow when your head turns to look at him; he’s on his side now, reaching for his phone.

“What?” he mumbles, looking over his shoulder at his girlfriend, still on her back, completely unfinished. 

“I’m… I didn’t… I didn’t… you know,” you tell him, a warmth creeping up on your cheeks as you look over at him, and he scoffs, like it isn’t that important. You’re humiliated.

“I did, though,” he shrugs and rolls on his back too, tucking his body beneath the covers, his phone propped in his lap. “Couldn’t last any longer, sorry, baby,” he mumbles, looking at the glowing screen.

“This is like… the fourth time,” you complain, your eyebrows stitching in frustration. “You finish in less than a minute, and then tell me that you can’t make me cum because you’re too tired,” you explain, glaring at him. 

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t feel so good,” he smiles, looking over at you, expecting you to take it as a compliment. You have a blank face.

“Doesn’t feel good for me,” you mumble, finally pulling up the blankets too, covering up your bare chest shyly. 

“Come on, babe,” he groans, putting his phone face down onto the bed. “I’ve been stressed lately… you know, and… it helps.”

You’ve never rolled your eyes harder at a statement, and you scoff, rolling onto your side and away from him. He’s never checked in on you–if you’re fucking stressed and need to finish or whatever the hell excuse that is. “Okay,” you mumble softly and look at the clock, groaning to yourself, eyes shutting.

And now his dad stands in the kitchen at nine o’clock in the morning, yawning, grabbing some coffee, watching the way you descend from the stairs, a sleepy smile on your face.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, pouring a glass of coffee for himself, and you give him a shy nod.

“Good morning,” you smile, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands, and he leans against the counter, holding the mug.

“You two sleep well?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, bringing the bitter drink to his lips.

“Uhm… mhm,” you nod shyly, pausing in front of the island in the centre of the kitchen, leaning against it. It’s almost as if he knows–he does.

“He gonna be awake soon?” he asks you, his mouth still around the mug.

“I don’t think so… he was out when I got out of bed,” you explain with a shrug, and he nods in understanding, turning around.

He doesn’t look like your boyfriend, and you tell yourself it’s unfortunate, while also beating yourself up for even thinking something like that. He’s tall and broad, his muscles straining against his white shirt, his sweatpants low on his hips, his forearms thick. You sigh quietly to yourself, wondering if your boyfriend inherited the can’t make a woman cum trait. Your cheeks burn red when the stupid thought slips in. 

“Can make you breakfast, darlin’,” he offers, still turned around, strong hands fixing up something.

“What–no, no, thank you, it’s okay,” you quickly shake your head, your eyes gazing at the back of his head, and he glances over at you, smiling.

“You sure? Not even toast with some butter, honey?” he offers again, reaching for the bread. “Wouldn’t be a trouble, making myself some, too,” he reassures, and you bite your lip, sliding into the stool against the island.

“Okay… yes, please,” you give in and nod, and he carefully pulls out four pieces of bread, popping them into the toaster, two pieces at a time. 

“You two doing anything today?” he asks, turning back away, patiently waiting for the toast to be done. “Beautiful day out,” he nods, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Uhm… no, I don’t think so,” you shake your head, resting your elbows against the island. “There’s some… video game, or something coming out, and he wants to buy it–all of his friends are playing it today,” you laugh, knowing you’ll be sitting on his bed, just watching.

“And you like that?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, and you’re not sure if it’s a test to see how much you like this man’s son.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug, looking away and out of the window; blue skies and a warm sun, a breeze slipping in through the window. You’re going to spend your whole day upstairs. 

“Don’t mind, or don’t like it?” he asks again, turning around when the two pieces pop out, and he’s reaching for the butter and honey. “Just cause he’s my son doesn’t mean everything he does is good in my eyes,” he adds on, using a knife to swipe on the butter.

“I know,” you nod, sitting up a bit more when he slides the pieces of toast in front of you. “But… there isn’t really anything to do anyway,” you lift a piece of toast, taking a bite.

“Nothing to do? Mid-July?” he scoffs, the other two pieces going in, and he leans on his forearms against the island. “Swimming down at the lake? Farmer’s market? A movie, even,” he explains further, his eyes looking into yours.

“I mean, I guess,” you laugh a little, putting the piece of toast down. “We don’t do… date stuff, like I don’t really need dates, and dinner, and stuff,” you shrug, and he’s amused at how this kid he raised turned out to be such a piece of shit. 

“Is he your boyfriend or your friend?” he suddenly presses, and you’re licking the honey residue on your lips, and he’s watching the swipe of your tongue.

He can’t help it; you’re sitting there, sleepy eyes looking at him, wearing nothing but a sweet nightgown, soft skin, and soft hands, and his son doesn’t know how to deal with any of that. It’s infuriating. 

“Boyfriend,” you say quietly, staring at the crumbs on your plate. “We do dating stuff at home,” you explain, and you watch him roll his eyes.

“Yeah? Like what?” he asks as the toast pops up, and he’s turning back around to pull it out. “I’m listening,” he taunts, and you’re biting your lip, watching his biceps when he puts butter on his toast. It’s so simple, but you’re staring.

“Like… you know,” you laugh again, and he’s smiling too, turning around with his own plate.

He stares at you now, watching you take another bite–yeah, he knows what you mean: lazy, boring sex, where you lie there, and your boyfriend basically uses you as a hole, and you take it because he’s the first boyfriend you’ve ever had and you don’t know any better. He could show you what it’s supposed to feel like; that’s all that’s going through his head. 

“Mmm,” he nods in acknowledgement, watching his jaw when he chews the bread, and you tilt your head to the side. He briefly wipes his mouth, glancing at the window; warm and sunny.

“Why don’t you get your bathing suit on?” he abruptly asks, and you quickly remember, yeah, there’s a swimming pool in the backyard, and your boyfriend never lets you use it for some reason.

“Uhm…” you mumble and shake your head a little, not knowing how your boyfriend would feel if he walked down and saw his dad with his girlfriend outside, and she’s wearing a bikini. 

“He won’t be up until noon,” he says, and you know he’s right; most of the time he sleeps in way past noon, leaving you bored and alone. You smile, carefully moving out of the stool.

“Okay,” you give in, and quickly disappear from the kitchen and back upstairs into your boyfriend’s bedroom. He’s still asleep, groaning when you crack open the door.

Digging through your overnight bag, you find your bathing suit and scowl at the look of it. You were going to wear this with your boyfriend, alone, hidden away in the lake he promised you he’d take you to; it was a little skimpy, and it was supposed to be–it was for your boyfriend; you didn’t want to wear something dorky. It’s all you have. 

The white, loose straps slide over your bare body, and you’re trying your best not to wake your sleeping boyfriend. You look down and swallow hard, noticing how little coverage there really is, then grab your towel from your bag and head back downstairs.

He’s already out by the pool, lounging in a chair; legs propped up on the small table before him, a mug in one hand, and his book in the other. His eyes lift when the screendoor opens, and you step outside, towel modestly wrapped around you, even though in seconds it’ll be draped over a chair. He smiles. 

You slip off the towel and instantly feel the summer heat on your arms and legs, a consistent warmth brushing along your skin. You can’t believe your boyfriend wanted to spend the day in his bedroom, rotting in front of a desk, playing video games. 

“Sweetheart,” his dad interrupts your thoughts, and you turn your head, your bare feet standing halfway on the steps. “Too sunny for you not to be wearing sunscreen,” he scolds lightly, shifting to the edge of the chair, closing his book and placing it on the table with the mug.

“I… I didn’t bring any,” you shake your head and stare at him, and he clicks his tongue.

“That’s fine,” he nods as he stands to his feet, reaching forward–right there, a bottle sitting on the table- and he waves you over to him. “Don’t want you to burn.”

When you approach him, he just gestures for you to turn around, and you swallow hard, no longer facing him. It’s cold when the cream hits your skin, and he’s applying it to your back for you, strong hands moving over your back and shoulders, one hand tucking your hair to keep it out of the sticky mess. 

“It’s cold, yeah?” he jokes, and gently pats your hip, and you turn around. “I know it’s hard to get your back,” he explains, and hands you the bottle so you can do the rest; your legs and stomach–he knows that would be a little too invasive, but you wouldn’t protest.

You hesitantly sit down beside him, using your hands to rub the cream onto your legs and thighs, trying to ignore the fact he’s watching you; hands roaming across the skin, your bikini strap slipping down your shoulder, and he bites back a groan, settling back into the chair again. 

“The water’s warm,” he comments when you stand to your feet, and his eyes immediately roam over you, focusing on the bottoms hugging you, framing you.

You look over your shoulder, and he’s crossing a leg over the other, his heels resting on the table again, and he’s holding his mug. He smiles at you, and you smile back, finally dipping into the water.

It’s beyond refreshing, and you sigh in relief when you’re waist deep. The summer heat immediately disappears as you sink lower and lower, just until your head is visible, and he’s watching, eyes peeking from his book. You’re smiling, gliding through the water and into the deep end, quickly dipping your head under.

When you come up, he’s already looking at you, nodding. Your hair is soaking wet, draping over your body, and he breathes in heavier, adjusting his hips. He’s mad just looking at you–you’re his son’s; that’s who you belong to, and it pains him. 

You swim to the edge after a bit, resting your chin on your forearms that cross over the concrete, the majority of your body still submerged, and he notices, putting the book down in his lap. He quirks his eyebrow, tilting his head, and you give him a grin.

“What?” he calls over to you, and you can only smile at him, and he’s tempted to walk over.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, and he’s setting the book down, standing up. You gulp, watching him saunter over, slow strides to the edge of the pool.

He stands there, hovering right over you, and you stare up at him, head completely tipped back. Your head slides up, shielding the sun, and he’s looking over his shoulder, gesturing for you to get out.

“He’ll be up soon, sweetheart,” he tells you, resting his hands on his hips now, and you sigh, swimming backwards. He smiles at the childish reaction and walks over towards the pool stairs, not getting in.

You slowly swim towards him, and he’s reaching out, offering his hand, and you take it, slowly coming out of the water. He glances down, watching the droplets drip down your body, and you shiver, covering your arms from the summer breeze. 

“Atta girl,” he mumbles when you get out, reaching over to grab your towel and carefully placing it over your shoulders for you. He pats your back gently, eyes focused on your damp lashes and flushed cheeks.

He carefully guides you back inside, his hand on your upper back against the towel, and you freeze the minute you step into the kitchen; your boyfriend sits there, hunched over the dining table, shoving a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. He looks up and over at you, grinning–that stupid fucking grin.

“You guys didn’t even wait for me.” he shakes his head, and you feel his dad quickly pull away like he was caught doing something. “I would’ve joined you, or some shit,” he says through a mouthful, and his dad is rolling his eyes.

“Kid, we don’t have all day,” his dad chimes in, lightly pressing his thumb in your lower back. “You’re dripping everywhere,” he mumbles into your ear, and you’re staring at your boyfriend who is focused on the bowl of milk.

Right. Your hair is wet from the pool, and the pool water is on the tile.

“Sorry–sorry,” you shake your head, and he smiles, patting your back now, ushering you to get changed upstairs.

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he drawls out, and you begin to walk towards the staircase, being careful not to slip.

He looks between his son and you; this beautiful girl, all wet, sun-kissed skin, and he sits there, mouth full of cereal, ignoring his half-naked girlfriend running upstairs. Maybe he’s that much of a fucking pervert for staring at you–he shakes the thought off as a moral dilemma, sighing and heading to the kitchen. 

You return after just a few minutes; hair still damp, but a white dress is thrown on, and your boyfriend’s dad notices before he does. He grinds his teeth, watching his son not even bothering to look up from his cellphone.

“Kid,” his dad calls out, and he quickly lifts his head, finally noticing you.

“You look hot,” your boyfriend nods, setting his phone onto the table, and you bite your lip shyly, looking over your shoulder for a second; those darker eyes are looking at you from the kitchen, and he’d use more than ‘hot’ to describe how you look right now.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and he lifts his hand, taking yours and pulling you a little closer. He’s still at the table, and you’re awkwardly standing by the chair. 

“My buddies are gonna be on in like thirty minutes,” he tells you, looking up at you from the chair. “Wanna…” he mumbles so his dad won’t hear, but he does, and pretends like he’s focused on refilling his coffee.

“I… just got dressed,” you whisper, shaking your head a little, already knowing how the sex would be.

“Yeah? And you look hot,” he grins, taking his hand from you, and shamelessly smacking the side of your hip, and you shift a little, shaking your head again.

“Not right now,” you mumble, and he sighs, leaning back into the chair.

His dad is listening to this entire kitchen despite the fact he’s in front of the sink, currently focused on scrubbing down a plate, though his ears are on both of you: your light banter, his son begging his girlfriend for sex, and she’s expecting the absolute worst. He wants to go in there and take you away, wants to show you how it’s supposed to be. He can only grit his teeth. 

“Fine,” he says, standing up, lifting his hands like he's guilty. “You can watch me game for six hours… without any sex later,” he whispers the last part, and you step aside, eyebrows furrowed.

“Come on,” you grumble when he turns his back on you, already leaving to log onto some stupid video game. “I’m dressed!” you want to stomp your foot like a petulant child, but he’s already heading up the stairs, his bedroom shutting. 

“You okay, kid?” his dad suddenly chimes in, and you look up and over into the kitchen. “Can take you somewhere if that’s what you’re worried about,” he offers, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Just… I don’t know, I thought he’d take me somewhere if I looked pretty,” you tell him, laughing at how stupid it sounds, and his gut twists at that stupid sentence.

“You do look pretty,” he says casually, tipping his head back to finish off the last drops of the coffee. “Where’d you wanna go?” he asks, putting his hands into his sweatpants pockets and slowly walking over to you.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, looking away, not even knowing where you’d go–you weren’t used to being taken anywhere, especially with any man.

“Mmm…” he hums, trying to think of where he’d take a young thing like you. “Can take you down to the diner, for lunch,” he offers, and you immediately beam at the idea.

“Really? I mean–we don’t have to; he’ll probably take me later, or something,” you quickly intervene, not wanting to cause any trouble, but he’s nodding towards the front door. 

“Get your shoes on, I’ll be ready,” he tells you, quickly turning away, giving you little time even to protest. 

Sitting on the bench in the front hall is when it hits; you’re going out for lunch with your boyfriend’s dad; meanwhile, your boyfriend is in his bedroom, gaming, oblivious to what’s happening. You smile to yourself at the thought, leaning over, tying the laces of your white tennis shoes.

“You ready, kid?” that deep voice says, and you quickly look up; he threw on some casual clothes–just jeans and a basic T-shirt, not bothering to shave off his five o’clock shadow before heading back down, and you nod.

He opens the front door and lets you out first, fumbling with the keys to his car, letting you climb into the passenger seat. He quickly joins you, and reversing out of the driveway, heads downtown where the little diner is located. You awkwardly shift against the leather seats, not really knowing what to talk about, what to say, or how to act. He’s intimidating.

You glance over, and he’s lighting a cigarette, having it propped in his mouth, his free hand holding the Zippo lighter to it, and you watch him. He looks over at you, raising his brows. 

“I didn’t know you…” You laugh a little, and he laughs out a breath of smoke.

“I shouldn’t,” he denies, holding the wheel with the same hand that holds his cigarette. “Plenty of things we shouldn’t do but still do,” he shrugs, and you can tell it has a double meaning. You look out of the window. 

The diner is busy, and it makes sense; a Saturday afternoon, and you hop out of the car when he parks, and he does it effortlessly–not the parking, the way he takes hold of your hand, squeezing it, keeping you close to his side. It’s a protective gesture, maybe not even romantic. 

You look up at him, and he’s focused on heading to the front doors, quickly opening it for you.

“You want a booth, sweetheart?” he asks you while you wait for a hostess, and you nod. That’s the first thing he asks when the middle-aged woman approaches the two of you, holding two menus, grinning, red lipstick on her teeth. 

“Father-daughter date?” she asks, a twang in her voice, and you look down at the table when you slide into the booth.

“Daughter, almost, yeah,” he nods, settling in the booth in front of you, taking a menu. 

She takes out her notepad. “Sweet. What can I get y’all to drink?”

“Just… water, please, that’s fine,” you speak up first, and she’s immediately jotting down the order.

“Just a coffee, black,” he grins at the waitress, and she’s off, heading into the back to grab the drinks.

This is what you were nervous about–how awkward it suddenly is. He sits there, rubbing his scruff in thought, staring at his son’s daughter, and your head is bowed slightly, gazing at the table. 

“You doing anything tonight at least?” he speaks up, resting his forearms on the table, his hands collapsed together. “Movie? Dinner?”

You shake your head. “No… he’s gonna be doing something silly,” you shrug, looking up at him.

He sighs and leans back into the booth, adjusting his hips, licking his lips. You watch in awe, blinking slowly, and you hate the light you’re seeing him in; beyond your boyfriend’s dad.

“I’ll make a movie night happen,” he reassures, looking back to you. “Just at home, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he promises, his eyes glancing at the waitress as she places down the drinks.

You can’t even protest against the idea again; he’s already ordering for himself- just a burger and fries–and you order waffles, feeling relieved that they were still serving breakfast, and he smirks at your choice. Somehow he knew.

“Going back to college in September?” he asks, holding the fresh coffee to his lips.

You take a sip of your water. “Yeah.” 

“He tells me you’re a smart girl,” he quips, putting down the mug, and you blush.

“Yeah… right,” you say sarcastically, biting your lip.

“No… no, I believe him,” he reassures, running his tongue against his teeth. “I can just tell, you know? Smart thing you are,” he says, and you hate the way your thighs squeeze together.

He breathes through his nose, a heavy huff, like he knows you’re almost squirming in the booth. And then comes the second thought: your moans and whines, how sickeningly sweet they were, and how he wishes he could be the one to coax them out of you. To make you finish.

“Waffles for the girl,” a woman’s voice suddenly breaks the silence, sliding the plate towards you. “And a burger for dad… enjoy,” she nods, quickly leaving the two of you alone. 

“Dad,” you repeat quietly, laughing under your breath, your eyes gazing at the mess of waffles.

“Father-in-law, if things keep going well,” he says, almost taunting, hanging the horrid idea over your head, and your heart drops at the idea of marriage, marrying that boy who doesn’t know shit about you, shit about anything that matters.

“Yeah, my father-in-law,” you mumble sarcastically, and he picks up on it, nudging your ankle with his boot. He does it so smoothly that anyone would call you crazy if you pointed it out, but it was intentional, and you know it. 

Lunch is quiet, and you don’t mind it, not at all. You occasionally glance up at him, and he’s usually already looking at you, watching your lips covered in syrup, your teeth, the way you bite, the way you chew, the way each part of your body moves. He grinds his teeth.

“You all full yet?” he asks, putting down his burger, and the words make you laugh, even with your mouthful of syrup and chocolate chip pancakes.

“Yeah… I’m full,” you mumble, placing down your fork. “Stuffed, even,” you continue with a laugh, and you see the muscles in his jaws clench. You’re not sure if there’s a play on words going on, but you feel a warmth in your stomach.

“Yeah, you finished?” he responds, and you can tell he’s not talking about breakfast food and sweet waffles. He’s talking about last night, and you blink, shifting against the booth, and he pokes his cheek with his tongue.

“I usually never finish,” you shake your head, looking back up at him, slightly gesturing to the plate with a little bit of food left. 

He knows what you mean. You both do. 

“Maybe you can finish this time,” he says back to you, looking at the scraps. “Finish for me?”

The tension is cut when the waitress is sliding the bill onto the table,e and you snap your head to look at her, like she might have a clue as to what that subtle conversation was about. She’s waiting as he takes the bill, fishing into his pocket for his wallet, and throwing a few bills onto the table.

“You ready to go?” he checks when the waitress wanders off, and you’re still stuck on the whole conversation about finishing and not finishing, but you nod, shifting out of the booth. 

He puts his hand on your back as you’re leaving, guiding you out of the place, his hand fingers lightly curling into the cotton of your dress. He gazes down, only being able to admire how you look right now: hair the slightest bit damp from the pool, legs shiny and warm, your eyes hitting the sun just right–all he can think about is his son, and how selfish he is. 

The drive back home is quiet, and you’re always finding yourself looking at him; hands on the wheel, no wedding ring on his finger–you’ve heard your boyfriend complain about it, the divorce, how messy it was, and how his dad never managed to remarry, nor find a woman to date.

You shift in the leather seat, letting your legs part slightly. Your lips go into a thin line, hoping he’d notice. He does. 

He looks away from the road and over at your legs, the gap between where your thighs part, the hem of your dress bunching up. It doesn’t help that the windows are down and the summer breeze catches it, letting it drift up a bit further. You look at him, and he’s looking at you too. It’s silent, just quiet blinking and the distant sound of the radio.

A large hand reaches over, swiftly, and it’s quick; just a gentle pat on your bare thigh, barely a big deal if you told your friends about it, but it’s him, and it’s his look, and he flashes that grin.

“Glad you had fun today,” he mumbles, taking his hand away and resting it back on the steering wheel, and you just stare, cheeks warm. You’re not even sure if your boyfriend touches your thighs like that.

When you walk into the house with him, it’s quiet, just the occasional shouts from upstairs–your boyfriend playing a video game, oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend and father just went out together and secretly talked about his inability to have good sex. He didn’t even check, didn’t even care. 

“I think… I’m gonna go see him,” you mumble to his dad as he shuts the front door, and he looks at you, nodding in understanding. You can’t just do this all day.

His hand catches your cheek, a gentle touch, and you wish you could call it parental, but it’s not. His thumb rubs your cheek, and he’s staring at you, and you’re frozen. Nothing is platonic about it, not a single part of it, and you swallow hard.

“I’ll be down here if you need anything,” he reassures, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Anything, okay?” he confirms, his head leaning down a bit, getting to your height, and you nod.

He watches you disappear up the stairs, and he wants to slap himself across the face when he catches himself trying to see if your dress accidentally slips up when you hit a step. He wants to bunch it up, put you on the counter, and show you that his son is nothing but a product of the man he isn’t. 

It’s painfully boring sitting on your boyfriend’s bed, staring at him, his head turned to you as his hand moves across his mouse, clicking at his keyboard. You sigh and tip your head back against the headboard, waiting for when he’ll give you any ounce of attention. You’re wondering how he can be so neglectful when you’re sitting there in a small dress, your thighs parted in a way so he can see your underwear–you just want attention, anything. 

The next time he looks back is when there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and his dad peeks his head in, looking at the scene: his son at his computer desk, you on the bed, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. 

“There’s a movie playing downstairs,” he cuts in, and he watches his son scoff, looking back at his game. “You two can go down and watch if you’d like,” he offers, and he looks over at you.

“Not right now,” your boyfriend mumbles, quickly shaking his head. “I have like four other matches after this one,” he adds, looking back at you. “Babe, you can watch if you want.”

His dad looks at you, and you give him a little nod. He gives you a discreet gesture; just two fingers beckoning you to leave his son’s room, and you look at your boyfriend, slowly crawling out of his bed filled with messy sheets and laundry that needs to be hung up. You smile to yourself when you enter the hallway, alone with his dad. 

“Saved you, didn’t I?” he asks, his voice quiet, and you laugh a little.

“Mhm, been doing that for hours,” you mumble, looking down at the hardwood, but his hooked index finger catches your chin, forcing you to look up.

“You don’t deserve that, you know?” he tells you, his eyes darkening with his words. “You're young, and pretty… and smart and nice, and you have a lot going for you, sweetheart,” he says, keeping his voice low. 

You stare up at him with parted lips, covered in gloss from when you were trying to impress your boyfriend. He notices, and doesn’t hesitate to wipe the corner of your mouth where the gloss gathers, letting the glitter stick to his thumb.

“Okay,” you mumble quietly, and he slides his hand down to your shoulder.

The two of you slowly walk down the staircase and into the living room. The television is flicked on, and a movie quietly hums, and you’re sure it’s just there for decoration, but you don’t mind at all. You take a seat on the couch, and it groans when he sits beside you, leaving little room between the two of you. 

“You want something to eat?” he offers, and looks at you, swiftly putting his arm around your shoulder, and you lean into him just a bit.

“Still full from the waffles,” you nod, laughing, and he swipes his thumb over the sleeve of your dress.

“Still?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

You nod again. “Mhm, really full.”

A silence stretches again, and he’s just looking at the side of your face: your nose, your cheeks, your lips, the way your hair is tucked behind your ear, and he wants to lean in and kiss that jawline until you’re whining and withering beneath him. He looks back at the television.

“Brutal kid,” he comments when there’s a scream from upstairs, and you’re assuming your boyfriend just lost a round of whatever video game he’s playing.

“He’s… just passionate,” you defend, still feeling like it’s your job to make your boyfriend seem better than he is.

“Not at much,” he ticks his head, lifting his whisky glass that rested on the side table to his lips. “Right?” he asks for your input, and you hesitantly nod.

“Yeah…” you mumble, and you shift your hips against the couch, and he notices.

“Doesn’t treat you right,” he adds on, shaking his head in distaste.

“He doesn’t,” you admit, and he sighs, sliding his hand from your shoulder and down to your waist, squeezing lightly. You’re trying to act like this is normal.

“Poor girl,” he says quietly as he turns his head again, and you do it at the same time; you’re both just looking at each other in the dimly lit room.

You make a silent agreement; your lips part and his do too, and suddenly, you’re kissing. 

His lips are warm and soft, whisky and cigarettes lingering, and your mouth immediately parts, inviting his tongue in, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip in past yours. You whine into it, and he realizes just how deprived you really are.

It’s a clash of your cotton candy lip gloss and his rough lips, and he’s taking advantage of his hand position. It’s sliding up your dress, and it’s reaching, gripping your bare thighs, pulling you further into the suide of him, and he’s groaning, and your eyes flutter beneath your closed lids. His hands are experienced, careful, his hand finding its way right between your thighs.

“Hey… hey,” you mumble, pulling back, and his hand halts at the front of your underwear. “M’nervous… really scared,” you whisper, feeling his saliva on your lips.

“Don’t be, baby,” he whispers, bypassing your lips and putting his own on the corner of your jaw, where he’d been eyeing earlier. “Gonna make you feel good… promise, kid,” he tells you, and you nod.

His hand lightly cups your core through your underwear, and you realize you’ve never had somebody focus on just a single part of you; you’re always the one giving a hand job, or on your knees, and right now this man’s thumb is working just against you, getting nothing out of it except your reaction. That’s all he wants.

You gasp, and your head tips back, feeling the friction of the cotton against your sensitive skin. You whimper, and he lightly squeezes it, and it’s something you’ve never experienced. It’s warm and rough, his palm. 

“See? Making you feel good,” he whispers into your ear, his nose nudging against it, and you nod, letting your hips almost grind into it, a needy gesture he smiles at.

“Mhm…” you agree, and he pulls away, gripping your hips and guiding you to sit against his thigh. You’re easy to move, especially when he’s strong, and you can feel the muscles through his shirt when you rest your hand on his bicep.

You’re back to kissing; all sloppy and hungry, clearly a result of your boyfriend avoiding any real intimacy. This is what it feels like actually to kiss a man, and the thought makes you guilty, but you know it’s right. 

“Grind your hips for me,” he whispers into the kiss, and you start rocking them, right against his thigh. His hands find your hips, helping you and guiding your movements. “Good girl.” 

You moan into his mouth at the feeling, the pressure and the friction, the constant stimulation right where you need it. It feels better than any sex you’ve had, and this is just with his damn thigh. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling back, and he looks up at you; head tipped back, neck extended. 

You keep grinding and grinding, moving against his thick thigh, and he’s watching your eyes flutter, and your features contort, all from the pleasure. It’s amusing, knowing his son can’t do this–it’s a sick thought, sour when he almost says it.

“Thank you… thank you,” you whine, and his eyes light up at the way you’re thanking him. You were that desperate, and he’s reliving it, just by letting you ride his thigh. 

“Oh, baby,” he coos quietly, lifting a hand to push your hair back. “Don’t thank me, nothing to be thankful for,” he whispers, brushing your hair back again.

“But… I am… I am,” you whine again, panting, and he can see your hips moving quickly, chasing a high you never seem to reach.

“Need dad to help?” he whispers, and you whimper at the way he’s speaking; low and slow, slick with them, calling himself dad–he’s supposed to be your father-in-law, if things keep going well, right?

“Please… help me,” you ask, and he almost feels bad at how neglected you are, and just how easy you’re melting and begging. He nods. 

“I got you, baby,” he mumbles softly, and he maneuvers you again.

His hands grab at your thighs, and he guides you onto the couch, your back pressing against the leather cushions. He’s between your thighs, working up your dress, looking between your legs now, gazing at the underwear he wanted a peek at; the white fabric is translucent.

“You’re making a mess, sweetheart,” he whispers, and you lift your hips in protest, your head tipping back. He feels his heart breaking–you are so desperate. 

“I know–I know,” you nod quickly, groaning, and he’s just watching in awe. He’s never seen anything like it before, such sexual frustration.

“Dad’s got you,” he reminds, reaching down to tug down your underwear, letting it fall down your thighs and past your knees. He doesn’t toss it aside, though. 

“Need you to be quiet, yeah? Okay, darlin’?” he says, and he does it; he makes you put your underwear in your mouth, gagging it, forcing you to whine into them instead of getting caught. 

You muffle something into the damp fabric, and it’s an unbelievable sight; your hair fanning behind your head, eyes glossy and wide, and your mouth filled with your underwear. It’s out of every sick fantasy he’s ever had of you.

He’s working on his belt now, unbuckling it, letting his jeans and boxers sag–he has to be somewhat discreet, can’t just throw them on the floor. He leans forward, a hand on your thigh, and the other one stroking himself; your eyes widen at the sight, just how long and hard he is.

He notices the look on your face, and his ego boosts. He’s big, bigger than anyone else.

“Yeah, I know,” he almost chuckles, stroking himself, letting his tip run through your folds and your head immediately tips back. “I’ll make it fit, baby,” he promises, nudging in just the head.

Somehow, that’s the best feeling you’ve had in a while; that sting, that stretch you’re not used to, and he’s already groaning himself, not expecting you to be so tight. You are, and he knows this is going to be harder than he thought. 

“Feelin’ so good already,” he praises, pushing in just a bit deeper, and then finally sliding in further. You’re so wet, it doesn’t take any effort for him to glide right in; it’s almost embarrassing.

“There we go… there we go, sweetheart,” he groans out, his head tipping back when you clench around him. It feels so good; he doesn’t know how to articulate words right now–you can’t; your mouth is stuffed. 

He starts slow, long thrusts, pulling out and diving right back in. It’s deep and slow, and he can hear the little whines from behind the cotton underwear, the way your eyes almost roll back each time he goes in fully, and you’re convinced he’s hitting your cervix.

“Never felt this, huh,” he jokes, and you shake your head, gripping the side of the couch cushion. “Never been fucked properly,” he adds, shaking his head with you.

He’s almost running off anger now; the thought of his son being so fucked stupid, so god damn careless, that his dad has to take over and show his girlfriend what it’s supposed to be like. He hates the thought, but it’s pushing him to thrust harder, to grip your thighs tighter, to go deeper and deeper. He can tell you’re enjoying, the blissed-out look bleeding into your features.

It’s the most foreign feeling ever; the sudden tightness in your stomach, the knot, the heat building and building and you’ve never felt this from pure sex. There’s always a hand at play, a thumb working against your clit, some fucking object doing the work, but it’s just him, just his cock making you feel this way. You’re drunk on the thought. 

“Gonna make you cum, baby, all over me,” he promises, grunting louder when he feels you clench, your walls tightening. “First time… yeah? First time being fucked and cumming from it?” 

You whine, head lulling back, but you’re nodding, almost crying at how good it feels to finally feel this way. To feel good. He’s swelling with pride.

“Feeling me all deep in your tummy, aren’t you?” he asks, and you groan, knowing he’s in your guts right now. “Mhm… gonna feel me tomorrow, eatin’ breakfast beside him,” he taunts, his words sharp and almost a threat.

You don’t care that he doesn’t have a condom on, that there’s zero protection–you just want him to fill you, to stuff you, to treat you like you’re supposed to be treated.

“He’s fucking clueless,” he eggs on, and you’re squirming now, trying not to cum. “Clueless m’fucking your brains out, right below him,” he grunts, and he feels you clench and clench, a pulse, and you’re cumming. For the first time.

His own jaw goes slack when he feels the rush, the warmth, the way your back arches and twists in defiance, like you’re fighting against your body. Your cheeks are flushed, and you’re sweating, forehead glistening, and he can only watch it happen between you. 

It doesn’t take long for him to catch up, and he’s cumming too, filling you up, just like you wanted him to; deep and warm, a strong feeling right in the centre of your abdomen, this constant pressure, reminding you how hard he just fucked you, and how hard he came. It’s the risk, how bad this is, how desperate both of you are, and he’s shameless.

“You’re so full… stuffed to the brim, m’promise,” he mumbles, his eyes closed as he pants, not pulling out, refusing to. “Filled with me… just, so full,” he adds on, like he’s drunk on the feeling too.

You’re still lying there, underwear in your mouth, swearing to God you can feel tears brimming at your eyes from just how overwhelmed you are. It feels good, just resting there, feeling more full than your boyfriend has ever made you.