the nectar house

He tries not to think about it. Tries not to notice how his belt digs in more than before. How he can feel the new softness pillowing over the designer logo at his waist. Well, fuck you, he's not buying a new wardrobe. You think he can replace his vintage Armani jackets? 

He growls as he sucks in his guts as much as he can. He doesn’t get it. He works out as much as ever. He’s even doubled his crunches, as much as he fucking hates them. More than that bitch in the condo under his that keeps leaving nasty notes about his parking. Fuck her, he pays his fees. Does a woman with an ass that tight even have an opening left?

He twitches. It’s been… a while. It’s not really that he can’t find someone to bend over or put on their back, he just hasn’t tried. He’s been distracted. And he just wants his damn body to behave. Even now, he’s getting hard for no reason.

He growls and shifts. He checks his watch. He doesn't usually wait on people, they wait on him. Bodecker’s lucky he's halfway interesting.

Lloyd examines the rough edge of his pinky nail. He cancelled his last manicure. He doesn't know the fuck why. He just didn't feel like it.

He sighs as he runs his thumb nails along the slightly jagged edge.

“Sir, did you need more water?” The waitress startles him.

“Fuck balls.” He sneers. “I'll let ya know when I need you.”

“Yes, sir.” She chimes in the fake honey voice they all put on. He's never been stupid like those other jackasses. These bitches work for their tips, he just knows that if he's extra nice, he can give them an extra one when he wants too. Well, not today. That skinny-waisted bitch doesn't deserve the privilege.

The place is quiet. That’s why he likes the place. It’s out of reach to most people that make him want to shoot himself in the balls. They can’t even afford to clear his plate in this place.

“Sweetheart,” the syrupy drawl crawls through the air.

Lloyd glances over at his long-awaited breakfast partner arrives through the open gate of the patio. Lee Bodecker pulls down his sunglasses to wink at the hostess, brazen in his short-sleeve button-up, the top undone to show off some of his wiry grey chest hairs. His pudgy stomach pillows over his brown belt that doesn’t match his black shoes, but it doesn’t deter the effect of his greeting. 

The man is more confident in his cheap aviators and knock-off Rolex than those wannabe crypto bros in their overpriced polos and ill-fitting Cartier frames. Lloyd doesn’t envy any but he admires Lee for his arrogance. He isn’t oblivious to himself, he just doesn’t care.

“Ah, I see my buddy, sweetheart,” Lee’s timbre carries over to Lloyd as he points with a thick finger. “You think you can bring us some mimosas.”

“Certainly, sir. Anything else?” She toys with the wave at the front of her hair.

“I’ll let ya know,” Lee pushes his aviators back up his nose and lifts a palm in recognition of Lloyd. He struts across the patio, no, saunters.

He pulls the chair back slowly and grips the back, sliding out his phone and wallet to place on the table before he sits. He leans back and sighs. Just by his posture, you can tell his knees are wide under the tablecloth. He rubs the back of his neck, his arm bulging with unexpected muscle, as he slides off his sunglasses with his other hand.

He yawns and lets his arms fall down to the chair rests. He sucks his teeth and eyes up Lloyd.

“You look like you haven’t tasted pussy in months.” He scoffs.

Lloyd is rarely caught off guard, but he is. Can he see it or is he just being a jackass? Well, it’s Lee. Of course he’s being a cunt.

“Took ya long enough.”

“You’re early,” Lee tosses back coolly.

Lloyd rolls his eyes. “Still in a different time zone. Just got back.”

“Em,” Lee grunts and sets down his glasses. “All work, no ass play.”

Even for Lloyd, it’s a bit much. It’s nine in the morning.

“Well, I’m here. I’d’ve loved to have my morning lie-in, Hansen. Wake myself up nice and slow with my hand on my–” He sits up and tilts his head to the waitress as she approaches. She sets down two tall glasses with orange slices on the brim. “Thanks, sugar. That’s perfect. We get some menus?”

“Yes, sir…” she smiles. “Anything else?”

“Nah, just that for now,” Lee purrs.

Lloyd watches the waitress go with a twitch of agitation in his lip. He runs his finger over his mustache and huffs. He shifts in his chair again. When she returns with the menus, he lets her place it in front of him as Lee eagerly accepts his own. She goes and Lloyd leans his chin in his hand.

“Now that sounds good. Paradise stack with whipped cream.” Lee peruses the options. Getting no response, he glances up at the other man. “What’s wrong? You already eat?”

“I don’t need a damn menu.” Lloyd reaches down to adjust his belt and tugs the front of his shirt.

Lee shrugs and looks back to his menu. “Hmmm. Apple maple sausage. Savoury and sweet. Same’s been said about me.”

Lloyd lifts his head and rubs his fingertips together. He flicks his middle finger restlessly. He gestures to the waitress with a scowl. “Coffee. Black.”

She responds at once. She’s doing her best to get that tip. Good luck. He’s annoyed and he’s not feeling it.

As the waitress fills his mug, Lee sets down his menu. “We’ll order. I’ll take the Tropics Platter and a side of that sausage you got. French toast with whip, and sourdough with marmalade, sweetheart.”

She takes his menu and preens, “got it.” She looks at Lloyd. “And you, sir?”

“Egg white omelet. Two pieces bacon. Fruit cup, no bananas.” Lloyd grits and slides the menu over.

She takes the menus and turns away. Lee scoffs then tuts. Lloyd crosses his arms and glares at him.

“Whatsa matter, boy?” Lee asks.

“I’m two years older than you,” Lloyd snips.

“And I look the reverse,” Lee chortles. “What’s this eggs white bullshit?”

“Nothing. Late night. Don’t want nothing heavy.”

“Uh huh. I see you chafin’ over there.” Lee slurps on his mimosa then licks his glistening lips. “And I see that meat in ya belly. Ain’t no hidin’ it.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re comin’ of age,” Lee snickers. “Why you such a bitch about it?” Lee slaps his stomach. “Ladies love the padding.”

“I fucking don’t.” Lloyd mutters.

“Ya for real? Pretty boy Hansen and his midlife crisis.”

“No.”

“Yeah.” Lee insists. “Nah, you don’t get it. It’s nothin’ wrong with extra. It’s fuckin’ nice, actually. You put her on top, she can bounce a lil on it. Or from behind, you get that nice clap–”

“They can’t see you from behind, that’s why,” Lloyd rolls his eyes.

Lee laughs, loud. “There he is. Those balls still clenched up inside or you loosening up?”

“I’m not– I’m just–”

“How long it been?” Lee asks.

Lloyd leans his head back and exhales slow. He feels his shirt ride up at the bottom of his stomach. Fuck, piss, shit.

“Longest I’ve gone,” Lloyd straightens up. “I don’t know. Just haven’t… bothered.”

“Guy, you need a vacation.” Lee claps his hands. “Good thing for you, I was just thinkin’ bout headin’ outta town. Gettin’ some sun and fun. Them kitties on the beach are tipsy and toasted. Ready for the fucking.”

“How about a resort?”

“How about you get out of your own goddamn ass and leave it to me? I’m gonna find you the best thing you had since never. You just gotta lean into it.” Lee grins. “The belly, that is. Ladies love it.”

Lloyd rolls his shoulders. “I’m not… you know, whatever. Fine. You foot the bill, I’ll go.”

“Uh huh. Just you wait, buddy. Lloyd’s gonna get his groove back.”

“I’m not a fucking menopausal bitch.” Lloyd barks.

“Coulda fooled me.”

🩲

Lee is right. Despite his delivery. Lloyd needs a break and Susan can go to hell and stop calling.

He snarls at his car system, “do not fucking disturb.”

The automated British woman responds, “setting notifications to do not disturb.”

Whatever. Probably for the best. He doesn’t need to be concerned with all that shit. If it’s not one thing, then it’s another.

He follows the GPS up a slight incline, along a curving road that looks out onto the rippling lake. He kills the A/C and rolls down the windows. He can smell the freshness; the water, the trees, even the dirt smells better out here. Why the fuck did he ever like the city?

He pulls up to the house with white wash on the siding, an awning over a large deck, with steps that lead down to a winding trail over the incline. He parks beside Lee’s tacky old Cadillac. He takes a moment, stretching his neck and his fingers. Lee’s as close to a friend that he has. The guy’s a bit much but they get each other.

He gets out and shuts the door, eyeing the facade of the lake house. He goes to the trunk and pops it open. He blindly slings his bag over his shoulder. He can smell bbq already.

The deck creaks as Lee emerges from around the corner of the house. He’s shirtless, with a visor around his large head, his hair chest glistening with sweat above the edge of the apron strained across his square belly. He points the spatula in his hand at Lloyd as he approaches the railing.

“There’s the man. Hurry the fuck up and crack a beer.”

“Beer?” Lloyd echoes. “I brought my own stuff, thanks.”

“Uh huh. Hoity toity scotch drinker,” he retorts.

“Damn right.” Lloyd trods up to the bottom of the steps. He climbs one at a time.

Even with his shirt only half buttoned, he feels… thicker. He sets his bag on the patio table as he passes and Lee returns to the grill. He flips the sausages sizzling over the flame.

“Any chicken dogs?” Lloyd asks.

“Fuck yourself. We’re not down for that. We’re eatin’ good.” Lee snorts. “And I don’t just mean food.”

Lloyd puts his hands on his hips and paces. He nears the far railing and looks off at the lake below. He examines the jagged path down the shore. In the distance, he can see a speckling along the public side of the beach.

“We’re gonna eat till we’re full then we’ll go down and find some nice sweet things that we can fill up too.” Lee slithers.

“Sure,” Lloyd grumbles.

“Christ, pal. You got a twist in your jock?” Lee jabs him with the spatula. Lloyd spins away and tries to wipe the grease from his sleeve.

“Dude, this is designer.”

“Not my fault you wore it out here.”

“You brought me here,” Lloyd drones.

“Don’t act like you don’t need it. Wing men, alright? You don’t even gotta do nothin’. Let me do the lookin’ and the talkin’. I’ll find us the perfect little kittens.” Lee snickers into a groan. He rubs his stomach through the apron and shamelessly lets his hand hover just over his crotch. “You even jerk off these days?”

“Why? You got a free hand?”

Lee booms with laughter.

“Love ya, bud. Nah.” He turns the sausages again. “It ain’t like one of those… they got pills these days–”

“Don’t even.” Lloyd warns as he slaps Lee’s arm. “Fine. You think you can find me something good, go for it. But I’m not in the mood for twenty questions about Lloyd’s cock. It works just fine. Almost too good.” He crosses his arms and sighs. “I wake up and it won’t fucking stop.”

She wipes the trickle on her temple. Peter looks over at her and swipes up a tissue from the box on the hotel vanity. It's an old style wooden thing with ornate posts around the mirror. He looks as if he's about to wipe away the sweat himself before he tilts his hand to offer it to her. She thanks him and dabs her glistening face.

"I wasn't ready for the weather," she pats along her lip as Peter leans on the vanity and watches her. It's good they get along. You wonder if she reminds him of his aunt.

"Yeah, it's... Stuffy." You agree and check your phone.

There's a knock at the door. "Pete! The bell tolls." Bucky calls through. "Street car will be by shortly."

"Shoot. Yeah." Peter stands straight. "I look good?" He's asking the stylist not you.

You cross the room and grab his wallet and phone. "Peter, come on."

"Right, right." He coughs and turns away from the stylist.

"I'll follow you out," she assures as she zips up her bag. "I saw some hand-painted fans at a shop. I might have to get myself one."

"Great idea," you say bluntly.

You're tense to the bone between Peter's oblivion and Bucky's looming threats. You just need to do you job. Focus on that.

You open the door and stand back to let Peter and the stylist out. She bids a hurried goodbye as the younger actor wisps out a breathy 'see ya'. Bucky watches her pass as he casually has a thumb hooked into his dark blue trousers, sporting a greyish purple shade on top: short sleeves and unbuttoned to the top of his chest. His dark hair is tied half back, some strands loose around his face.

"Looking snazzy, Pete," Bucky claps his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah, you too, dude. Ugh, sir?"

"Come on, I'm not that old yet," Bucky jerks him and lets go.

"No, I didn't... Sorry."

Loosen up, kid. It's just a bunch of PR. Smile and get through it."

He points Peter down the hall. You keep up with your client, only to have Bucky right behind you. The Italian hallways are narrower than most hotels; redesigned from long-standing structures built for a much different time.

"Besides. I bet she took care of everything." Bucky drawls.

"Mostly. I'll be chill. Once I'm there, I'll snap out of it." Peter says as if trying to convince himself.

As you continue to the staircase, you shuffle in behind Peter and Bucky is behind you again, closer. As you descender the tight spiralling flights, he brushes his hand down the nape of your neck. You try to lean away but the steps are steep and Peter's right in front of you. He traces his finger down to the top of your loose linen pants and dips under the belt. You swat blindly behind you and nearly tip over.

"Whoops." Bucky seizes you around the waist and pulls up against him as you gasp. "Don't fall, doll."

Peter looks over his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"She almost fell right on ya, bud. Woulda been like dominos." He clucks.

"Oh, um, yeah," Peter turns around and keeps going, clenching the railing. "These are kinda scary."

Bucky hums and his hand slips down to your pelvis. You snatch it away and throw your elbow back.

"All good, doll? Need to hold onto me?" He says coolly, ignoring your efforts to make him back off.

"I'm fine. I just slipped." You grumble.

You continue downward. You twitch again as he touches the top of your ass and grab his hand. He slips free and crushes your fingers. He pulls your hand back and you snarls.

"Stop!" You spin around, clinging to the railing.

"What?" Peter squeaks.

"You forget something, doll?" Bucky asks without a beat, one hand on his hip, the other on the railing.

"N-no, I... Sorry. No, I got it." You cringe. Asshole. Even if you cry wolf, Peter wouldn't believe it.

"Stairs kinda make you dizzy, huh?" Bucky snickers. "Come on, almost to the bottom."

You slowly pivot around. Peter turns, phone in hand, texting someone. You take the last bend, leaning forward as much as you can, but find no relief at the bottom. Bucky stays close.

“We could walk to the canal from here, get the waterbus,” Bucky suggests. “Doll, isn’t this your job?”

You don’t even look at him. “Good idea. Peter, take a left.”

Peter hesitates. He’s still in his phone. You sigh.

“I’ll lead the way.” You say calmly.

You step ahead, Peter drags his feet next to Bucky as they trail you.

“Heh, special lady?” Bucky asks.

Peter sniffs. “Uh, no, er, I don’t know.”

“Come on, I know that look,” Bucky laughs.

Does he? You saw how he got with Nat. He was never puppy-eyed.

You try to ignore their conversation. It’s a skill you’re well-honed at. You listen when it matters, otherwise, you don’t worry.

You get to the canal dock and wait for the waterbus to skim up. You don’t miss a few cameras in passing aimed at the men with you. It’s pretty typical but Bucky doesn’t voice his usual agitation.

You board. It’s crowded. You squeeze through and find three seats. In the jostle, you find yourself between Peter and Bucky. Great. You check the time.

“We should get there early,” you say to Peter as you distract yourself with his schedule. Peter is once more flicking around his keyboard, a lazy ‘uh huh’ in acknowledgement.

Bucky rests his hand on his thigh. He sits up tall, spreading his shoulders until he’s snug against you. He looks around as he extends his pinky over to touch your leg. You cross your knee over the other, making yourself as small as you can.

It doesn’t deter him. His hand slips slowly down the side of his thigh. As you lean subtly away, his fingertips crawl along your seat and graze the underneath of your lifted leg. He almost touches the seam of your damn pants before you force yourself flat, close to crushing his hand before he retracts it.

You look him in the eye and mouth ‘fuck off’.

He smirks and adjusts the belt of his pants, shifting in his seat. You shake your head and look away. Peter fidgets as his lips move in silent conversation with himself.

“Doing good?” You ask him.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, just getting myself in the zone.” He clamps his hands around his phone and exhales.

A gristly groan escapes Bucky’s throat. You ignore him as best as you can, even as he spreads his legs wide enough to crush yours. Your phone vibes. You look down. Fucker, you keep blocking him.

You open Bucky’s messages as he casually cradles his phone over his left thigh. His other hand is right up near his pelvis. You go to block again but the message imprints into your mind. ‘I know you’re making me hard on purpose.’

He nears in the small space and takes the plate from you, setting it down. He shuts off the tap without looking, standing closer than you expect. You can feel the heat roiling off of him. There's a trace of coconut or vanilla on him. 

“Oh, uh, thanks. I hope you enjoyed dinner. And the leftovers.” You inch away.

“Not sure they'll last very long,” he kids without a lilt of humour.

“Yeah… guess I could've brought dessert.” You chuckle nervously.

He nods, watching you without emotion. “I like sweet things.”

You don't know what to say. This is awkward. You're awkward. And it's late.

“I'll get out of your hair. And promise, if I have any other issues, you don't need to worry.” You clasp your hands together. “Really, I'm gonna figure this out.”

“Sure you don't want a beer or something? I'm sure I got a beer or two tucked up behind that spinach juice.” He offers.

“Really, it's fine.” You smile sheepishly. “I'm beat. That old thing has terrible ventilation and the oven got it all…” you stop yourself. “It's not a problem. I'll survive.”

You turn and head for the door. He follows, his footsteps a heavy contrast to your own. You stop and look back at him.

“Thanks. You're a great host.” You say.

“Really?” He scoffs.

“Oh sure. Even if I have to bribe you with food.” You kid. “Guess I'll see you around.”

You spin and go to open the door. He reaches around you and gets the handle first, his arm brushing you. He pulls it open so you're forced to back up into him.

“Oh, gee, thanks.” You angle around the awkward courtesy.

“Mm. See ya.” He rasps quietly. “Sure you don't need me to walk ya?”

“I can see my door from here,” you assure him. “Night, Curtis.”

“Night…” he drawls after you.

You descend the steps of his trailer and cross the slowly dimming park. Shadows gather under tarps and behind unlit barbecues, and bug buzz near your ears, chasing you back to your new home.

New to you but well past its expiration. Maybe that’s fitting.

🖤

It’s hot. Blazing hot. The lack of insulation in the trailer does little to ease the summer heat, even at night. You roll over again, shoving the corner of the blanket off your hip. You’re in nothing more than a tank top and panties. It sounds sexier than it is. On you, the top is all stretched out and sweaty and your panties keep riding up in creases.

You get up and move the fan closer to the window. Little help that is. You turn over your pillow and flop back down. You turn your back to the fan to let the sweat at the base of your spine dry.

Your scalp itches and your skin chafes against the cotton. You slowly sink into a humid sleep. When you wake, you’re no less damp and your head is heavy. There’s a noise outside, loud and persistent.

You roll over and throw your feet over the edge. You land dizzily, a bit too much momentum behind you. You nearly collide with the fan. You move it out of the way and bend to look through the window.

The sight of muscled back and broad shoulders adds a couple degrees. You stare dumbly for a moment before you recognise the person mowing your lot. Not that there’s very much to do. Curtis turns the mower and you wave behind the screen.

He stops and lets go of the mower. It quiets down and he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. His shirtless chest is thick with sweat-laced hair, trailing down his stomach to the top of his jeans.

“Hey, uh, thanks for that, but you don’t need to do all that.”

“Just did mine and Mrs. Neill’s. Figured I got enough juice left.” He shrugs.

“Hm, uh, right.” You utter. “Well thank you. Again.”

He nods. He watches you and his eyes slip. You give half a smile and back up. You glance down before you stand and sidle away. You pull up your drooping tank top, hoping he didn’t see too much.

The mower roars back to life. You dress in a pair of capris and loose tee shirt. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and battle your hair. You go into the kitchen. It sure would be nice if you had some lemonade or even some of that cheap powdered mix. You grab one of the three bottles of water left in the pack and slide into your clog sandals.

As you emerge, Curtis rolls the silent mower along the edge of your lot.

“Hey, uh… sorry, I don’t have anything stronger,” you offer the bottle.

He stops and faces you. He eyes you then the bottle. He accepts it.

“Thanks.” He snaps the seal as he twists the cap. He pulls it off and puts the neck to is lips. He tilts his head and gulps deeply. His throat bobs as he drains the bottle in only a few swallows. He sighs and licks his lips.

“Needed that.” He says.

“Real nice of you to do the grass,” you look around. “It’s half burn though. Probably don’t need to.”

“Fire hazard. If it’s dry and long, it’ll catch a spark.” He crushes the bottle between his palms with no effort. You watch how he crunches it almost flat.

“Right. Didn’t think of that.” You teeter on your soles.

“Any issues with the electric?” He asks.

“No, it’s working. Fan went all night.” You grip your hips. “I might need to get a second one. Maybe one that fits the window.”

“Ah, yeah.” He agrees. “I got A/C. If you need a break from the heat.”

“I’ve survived worse,” you assure him with wave of your hand.

“Uh huh.” He gazes at you, his eyes dipping so quickly you’re not even sure you really saw them move.

“Well, uh, I’ll let you go. I gotta go finish unpacking.” You back up slowly.

“Anything heavy,” He bends his arm and flexes his bicep. You nearly twitch. “Don’t wanna hurt yourself, right?”

She wipes the trickle on her temple. Peter looks over at her and swipes up a tissue from the box on the hotel vanity. It's an old style wooden thing with ornate posts around the mirror. He looks as if he's about to wipe away the sweat himself before he tilts his hand to offer it to her. She thanks him and dabs her glistening face.

"I wasn't ready for the weather," she pats along her lip as Peter leans on the vanity and watches her. It's good they get along. You wonder if she reminds him of his aunt.

"Yeah, it's... Stuffy." You agree and check your phone.

There's a knock at the door. "Pete! The bell tolls." Bucky calls through. "Street car will be by shortly."

"Shoot. Yeah." Peter stands straight. "I look good?" He's asking the stylist not you.

You cross the room and grab his wallet and phone. "Peter, come on."

"Right, right." He coughs and turns away from the stylist.

"I'll follow you out," she assures as she zips up her bag. "I saw some hand-painted fans at a shop. I might have to get myself one."

"Great idea," you say bluntly.

You're tense to the bone between Peter's oblivion and Bucky's looming threats. You just need to do you job. Focus on that.

You open the door and stand back to let Peter and the stylist out. She bids a hurried goodbye as the younger actor wisps out a breathy 'see ya'. Bucky watches her pass as he casually has a thumb hooked into his dark blue trousers, sporting a greyish purple shade on top: short sleeves and unbuttoned to the top of his chest. His dark hair is tied half back, some strands loose around his face.

"Looking snazzy, Pete," Bucky claps his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah, you too, dude. Ugh, sir?"

"Come on, I'm not that old yet," Bucky jerks him and lets go.

"No, I didn't... Sorry."

Loosen up, kid. It's just a bunch of PR. Smile and get through it."

He points Peter down the hall. You keep up with your client, only to have Bucky right behind you. The Italian hallways are narrower than most hotels; redesigned from long-standing structures built for a much different time.

"Besides. I bet she took care of everything." Bucky drawls.

"Mostly. I'll be chill. Once I'm there, I'll snap out of it." Peter says as if trying to convince himself.

As you continue to the staircase, you shuffle in behind Peter and Bucky is behind you again, closer. As you descender the tight spiralling flights, he brushes his hand down the nape of your neck. You try to lean away but the steps are steep and Peter's right in front of you. He traces his finger down to the top of your loose linen pants and dips under the belt. You swat blindly behind you and nearly tip over.

"Whoops." Bucky seizes you around the waist and pulls up against him as you gasp. "Don't fall, doll."

Peter looks over his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"She almost fell right on ya, bud. Woulda been like dominos." He clucks.

"Oh, um, yeah," Peter turns around and keeps going, clenching the railing. "These are kinda scary."

Bucky hums and his hand slips down to your pelvis. You snatch it away and throw your elbow back.

"All good, doll? Need to hold onto me?" He says coolly, ignoring your efforts to make him back off.

"I'm fine. I just slipped." You grumble.

You continue downward. You twitch again as he touches the top of your ass and grab his hand. He slips free and crushes your fingers. He pulls your hand back and you snarls.

"Stop!" You spin around, clinging to the railing.

"What?" Peter squeaks.

"You forget something, doll?" Bucky asks without a beat, one hand on his hip, the other on the railing.

"N-no, I... Sorry. No, I got it." You cringe. Asshole. Even if you cry wolf, Peter wouldn't believe it.

"Stairs kinda make you dizzy, huh?" Bucky snickers. "Come on, almost to the bottom."

You slowly pivot around. Peter turns, phone in hand, texting someone. You take the last bend, leaning forward as much as you can, but find no relief at the bottom. Bucky stays close.

“We could walk to the canal from here, get the waterbus,” Bucky suggests. “Doll, isn’t this your job?”

You don’t even look at him. “Good idea. Peter, take a left.”

Peter hesitates. He’s still in his phone. You sigh.

“I’ll lead the way.” You say calmly.

You step ahead, Peter drags his feet next to Bucky as they trail you.

“Heh, special lady?” Bucky asks.

Peter sniffs. “Uh, no, er, I don’t know.”

“Come on, I know that look,” Bucky laughs.

Does he? You saw how he got with Nat. He was never puppy-eyed.

You try to ignore their conversation. It’s a skill you’re well-honed at. You listen when it matters, otherwise, you don’t worry.

You get to the canal dock and wait for the waterbus to skim up. You don’t miss a few cameras in passing aimed at the men with you. It’s pretty typical but Bucky doesn’t voice his usual agitation.

You board. It’s crowded. You squeeze through and find three seats. In the jostle, you find yourself between Peter and Bucky. Great. You check the time.

“We should get there early,” you say to Peter as you distract yourself with his schedule. Peter is once more flicking around his keyboard, a lazy ‘uh huh’ in acknowledgement.

Bucky rests his hand on his thigh. He sits up tall, spreading his shoulders until he’s snug against you. He looks around as he extends his pinky over to touch your leg. You cross your knee over the other, making yourself as small as you can.

It doesn’t deter him. His hand slips slowly down the side of his thigh. As you lean subtly away, his fingertips crawl along your seat and graze the underneath of your lifted leg. He almost touches the seam of your damn pants before you force yourself flat, close to crushing his hand before he retracts it.

You look him in the eye and mouth ‘fuck off’.

He smirks and adjusts the belt of his pants, shifting in his seat. You shake your head and look away. Peter fidgets as his lips move in silent conversation with himself.

“Doing good?” You ask him.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, just getting myself in the zone.” He clamps his hands around his phone and exhales.

A gristly groan escapes Bucky’s throat. You ignore him as best as you can, even as he spreads his legs wide enough to crush yours. Your phone vibes. You look down. Fucker, you keep blocking him.

You open Bucky’s messages as he casually cradles his phone over his left thigh. His other hand is right up near his pelvis. You go to block again but the message imprints into your mind. ‘I know you’re making me hard on purpose.’

You lean into tile and heave, senseless, mindless, numb yet feeling every breath and every tingle.

His lips trails from your lips through your wiry curls and long the crease of your pelvis and thigh. He kisses along the top of your leg and slowly grazes upward. He slaps his hand onto the wall beside you, then the other. He lifts himself with a deep grunt and sways.

You puff through your dewy lips. “Le…”

He hushes you. “I got you…” his damp hair hangs over his face as he stares at your body.

He watches his hand as his fingertips, some sliced and scabbed, brush along your hip and stomach. He feels along your flesh and fondles your chest. He hums and bows his head, taking your nipple in his mouth. You gasp and clasp on loosely to his silvery blond strands.

“I’m sorry… I need you.” He breathes into your skin, his tongue tickling your hard bud.

He sucks and teethes at you, nibbling between your breath as he leaves a path of saliva between your tits. He tends to your other nipple, swirling his tongue and groans. His hand hooks around your bottom and he squeezes, kneading the flesh hungrily as he bites down just hard enough for you to moan.

“Now.” He growls.

He loops his arms around you and lifts you. He sways but not much. He hikes you up until you latch on, scared of falling onto the hard porcelain. He turns and lifts one knee. He angles over the edge of the shower stall, lumbering across the bathroom, dripping onto the floor without heed.

He staggers into the bedroom with you locked in his arms. He dips his head and buries his nose into your neck. He inhales and snarls again.

“You smell… good.” He walks blindly, each step slightly clumsy.

He stops as he nuzzles into you then grazes his teeth against your flesh. He falls forward and you cry out, relieved to land on the spring coil of his bed. Your arms flail wide as your tits bounce against his chest. He holds himself over you as he lifts his head. His blue irises are thin around his large pupils.

“You’re gorgeous.” He drawls and brushes his nose up yours. “I can’t stop…”

“Leon…” you breathe. You don’t know what to say. That it’s okay, but it’s not.

The comfort of his warmth, the intimacy you’ve never truly known, the feeling of being wanted all smother the doubt and fear. This man took you off the street, from the lowest of the low, for himself. For his needs, not yours.

But you don’t care. No one wanted you out there. He does.

He steadies himself and the tip of his nose presses firmly to yours. His eyes swallow you up. He tilts his head slowly and kisses you. His tongue glides over your lips. You open for him, your legs falling limp away from his hips.

His tongue delves hungrily into your mouth. He groans and moans and growls. He eases back, nibbling your lip just before he parts. He pants lightly as he gazes down at you.

“When I was out there, this is all I thought of.” He rasps.

You can’t speak or move. You won’t stop him but you don’t know if you can embrace him back. If you can make yourself touch him like that. To believe that this won’t end with you back where you started. He’s a man, after all. He’s proving that right now.

“So beautiful.” He pets your cheek as he props himself up on one elbow, his other hand feeling between your bodies.

He follows the line of your cunt and rubs between your lips. You’re still wet. His jaw tense and his lashes flutter. He stretches his fingers along your folds and spreads you wide.

He shifts his hips, angling around cautiously. He hooks his tip between his index and middle fingers. He shudders as he bends his neck to rest his forehead against yours.

He slowly delves inside you. Your breath ebbs from between puffed lips and his eyes roll back in his head. He plumes out a dusky groan as he sinks in, inch by inch. He tenses until he's almost bottomed out. The last little bit has him collapsing down with a great huff.

He reaches blindly to pet your hair. He moans your name. Slowly, he slides back then back in. His hips roll carefully, in, out, in, out.

His long strokes pick up and he pushes his elbows down into the mattress. He lifts himself and curls his shoulders and neck to look down between your bodies. You drone out as your walls squeeze him, clinging to the closeness, the fervour of his need.

You spread your hands over his chest, tracing the scrapes and bruises along his torso. He keeps himself up on one arm as his other snakes between you. He times the deliberate swirl of his fingertips with the rhythm of his pelvis. He leans into the back of his hand, adding to the pressure blooming inside you.

You bite your lip and turn your head as you arch your back. You curl your legs around his and cum, rattling out a surrender from your throat. He drops his head down and kisses your neck.

“I'm almost there, sweetheart. Almost.”

He slams his hips down and falls into a full rut. The bed shakes, you shake, he shakes. The storm rages around your bodies as he forces another flare of delight from you.

He grunts and turns his arm, slipping his forearm under you. With all his effort, he pulls you up into his lap. You hang from his embrace as he pumps into from beneath.

He rests his head on your shoulder as he quakes and his climax rolls out from his chest. He fucks you until he's whimpering and weak. He slumps onto his side, taking you with him.

You lay in the hazy afterglow as your shallow breaths fill the lull. He hums as he inhales.

You lean into tile and heave, senseless, mindless, numb yet feeling every breath and every tingle.

His lips trails from your lips through your wiry curls and long the crease of your pelvis and thigh. He kisses along the top of your leg and slowly grazes upward. He slaps his hand onto the wall beside you, then the other. He lifts himself with a deep grunt and sways.

You puff through your dewy lips. “Le…”

He hushes you. “I got you…” his damp hair hangs over his face as he stares at your body.

He watches his hand as his fingertips, some sliced and scabbed, brush along your hip and stomach. He feels along your flesh and fondles your chest. He hums and bows his head, taking your nipple in his mouth. You gasp and clasp on loosely to his silvery blond strands.

“I’m sorry… I need you.” He breathes into your skin, his tongue tickling your hard bud.

He sucks and teethes at you, nibbling between your breath as he leaves a path of saliva between your tits. He tends to your other nipple, swirling his tongue and groans. His hand hooks around your bottom and he squeezes, kneading the flesh hungrily as he bites down just hard enough for you to moan.

“Now.” He growls.

He loops his arms around you and lifts you. He sways but not much. He hikes you up until you latch on, scared of falling onto the hard porcelain. He turns and lifts one knee. He angles over the edge of the shower stall, lumbering across the bathroom, dripping onto the floor without heed.

He staggers into the bedroom with you locked in his arms. He dips his head and buries his nose into your neck. He inhales and snarls again.

“You smell… good.” He walks blindly, each step slightly clumsy.

He stops as he nuzzles into you then grazes his teeth against your flesh. He falls forward and you cry out, relieved to land on the spring coil of his bed. Your arms flail wide as your tits bounce against his chest. He holds himself over you as he lifts his head. His blue irises are thin around his large pupils.

“You’re gorgeous.” He drawls and brushes his nose up yours. “I can’t stop…”

“Leon…” you breathe. You don’t know what to say. That it’s okay, but it’s not.

The comfort of his warmth, the intimacy you’ve never truly known, the feeling of being wanted all smother the doubt and fear. This man took you off the street, from the lowest of the low, for himself. For his needs, not yours.

But you don’t care. No one wanted you out there. He does.

He steadies himself and the tip of his nose presses firmly to yours. His eyes swallow you up. He tilts his head slowly and kisses you. His tongue glides over your lips. You open for him, your legs falling limp away from his hips.

His tongue delves hungrily into your mouth. He groans and moans and growls. He eases back, nibbling your lip just before he parts. He pants lightly as he gazes down at you.

“When I was out there, this is all I thought of.” He rasps.

You can’t speak or move. You won’t stop him but you don’t know if you can embrace him back. If you can make yourself touch him like that. To believe that this won’t end with you back where you started. He’s a man, after all. He’s proving that right now.

“So beautiful.” He pets your cheek as he props himself up on one elbow, his other hand feeling between your bodies.

He follows the line of your cunt and rubs between your lips. You’re still wet. His jaw tense and his lashes flutter. He stretches his fingers along your folds and spreads you wide.

He shifts his hips, angling around cautiously. He hooks his tip between his index and middle fingers. He shudders as he bends his neck to rest his forehead against yours.

He slowly delves inside you. Your breath ebbs from between puffed lips and his eyes roll back in his head. He plumes out a dusky groan as he sinks in, inch by inch. He tenses until he's almost bottomed out. The last little bit has him collapsing down with a great huff.

He reaches blindly to pet your hair. He moans your name. Slowly, he slides back then back in. His hips roll carefully, in, out, in, out.

His long strokes pick up and he pushes his elbows down into the mattress. He lifts himself and curls his shoulders and neck to look down between your bodies. You drone out as your walls squeeze him, clinging to the closeness, the fervour of his need.

You spread your hands over his chest, tracing the scrapes and bruises along his torso. He keeps himself up on one arm as his other snakes between you. He times the deliberate swirl of his fingertips with the rhythm of his pelvis. He leans into the back of his hand, adding to the pressure blooming inside you.

You bite your lip and turn your head as you arch your back. You curl your legs around his and cum, rattling out a surrender from your throat. He drops his head down and kisses your neck.

“I'm almost there, sweetheart. Almost.”

He slams his hips down and falls into a full rut. The bed shakes, you shake, he shakes. The storm rages around your bodies as he forces another flare of delight from you.

He grunts and turns his arm, slipping his forearm under you. With all his effort, he pulls you up into his lap. You hang from his embrace as he pumps into from beneath.

He rests his head on your shoulder as he quakes and his climax rolls out from his chest. He fucks you until he's whimpering and weak. He slumps onto his side, taking you with him.

You lay in the hazy afterglow as your shallow breaths fill the lull. He hums as he inhales.

Chris rubs you dry with a towel, his own slung low around his hips. The bottom of the fabric splits around his thick thigh as he bends to rub every crevice and curve through the towel. He pushes firm between your thighs until you move your feet apart and he dries your cunt intently.

“Nice and clean… for now.” He winks as he wiggles his fingers through the fluffy cotton then continues down your thighs. You shiver. Not just out of fear, but shame. You don’t even think of fighting him. How quickly you just folded into the shape he wanted you.

He finishes and drapes the towel over your shoulders. He pets the sides of your neck and cheeks with his knuckles. He draws his arms away and leans in to kiss your lips. As he does, he loosens the towel at his waist and lets it fall away.

He stands straight and offers it to you. “My turn.”

You stare him in the face, not daring to look lower than his thick neck. The top of his fuzzy chest teases the edge of your vision. You gulp and take the towel as you step closer. You reach to dab away stray rivulets along his throat as he bends his knees to help.

The cotton slips as you gently swipe away the moisture. He catches your towel and brings it around you. He folds the top above your chest, his palms grazing your tits through the fabric as he drags them down and growls. You focus on drying away the moisture rather than his body. 

As you get lower, your hands shake. Even if you’ve seen it all, felt it, you still don’t feel right about it. Your insides clench and you shift on your feet. His stomach is thick, barrel-like, but not soft. The lines are shallow but his torso no less strong.

He turns for you to get his back, lowering himself so you can get his shoulders. You can’t help but notice his bulging muscles all around. You didn’t think men really looked like this.

“You don’t gotta be so gentle. I can handle it.” He grabs your hand and presses it through the towel as you get to his ass, guiding it along the musculature. You squeak. He chuckles. “This is what I know, baby girl. You never had a man to handle you right.”

He turns again and yanks away the towel. He takes your wrist and puts your hand against his rigid dick. He purrs.

“We gotta get dressed before I forget what I had in mind,” he tilts his hips to pump against your limp hand.

“Yes, sir… Chris.” You say.

He exhales and tosses his towel. He cradles your hand and brings it up to kiss your palm. He toys with it as his eyes bore into you. “You’re so delicious but it’s too early for dessert.”

You smile, or try to. He clings to your hand and stands at full height. He’s a mountain in flesh. He turns and drags you from the bathroom. He leads you to the bed and sits you on the end.

He saunters away, naked and shameless, and slides open the closet.

“I don’t got much of an eye for these things. I wear black and black.” He snickers under his breath. “But I was thinking this’d look cute on you.” He faces you and shows you the two piece outfit. A gingham set in lilac and white, a flutter short skirt and off-the shoulder top. “Nice for a picnic.”

He stops in front of you. You’re eye level with his pelvis and… that. He holds out the clothes. You take them reluctantly. You glance up as he watches you. Shoot.

“Um, thank you. They’re cute.” You say.

“Cuter on, I bet.”

You look down at the gingham. What about a bra? Underwear? You’re too afraid to ask. Just like you’ve been scared to do anything but roll over and let him–

Ugh. Why do your insides do that? Why do you get all tight and tingly at the thought.

“Yeah, probably.” You agree.

“And I got ya some stuff in the bathroom. For your hair and all. Not that I think you need anything. You’re a natural beauty. Soft…” He pets your chin and his dick twitches inches from your forehead, nearly touching your nose as you look up at him.

“I don’t want to waste time,” you point your toes to the floor. “So… I’ll get ready.”

He drones and runs his fingertip down your neck. He slowly backs up. “Me too, baby girl. I wanna look good for you.”

🧺

Chris wears a robin’s egg shirt and jeans. You don’t know much about him but it doesn’t feel like him. He’s out of place in the pastel button-up. He holds your hand, in his other, a wicker basket. You don’t know where you are. Somewhere desolate but balmy with the scent of pollen and dew.

He stops you at the peak of a rolling hill. He lets you go and unfolds the blanket nestled on top of the basket. You peer around at the endless green. You could run but to where?

He hums as he opens the basket. He pauses, drawing your attention, and you turn to him.

“It’s pretty around here,” you say, hoping he doesn’t suspect your true thoughts.

“You’re pretty,” he says. He goes back to sifting through the basket. “Sit.” He commands. His voice is even but his tone is enough to make you obey.

You sit on your knees and fold your hands patiently. He unpacks some containers.

“I had some help.” He explains as he uncovers a bowl of berries. “My sister gave me good tips for keeping the berries from getting soggy.” He takes out sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper. “And her recipe for chicken salad. Hope I got it right. Don’t cook much. Field rations come ready to eat cold.”

You nod. Military? That would explain the guns and his posture. The way he orders you around.

He sets out a whole lovely meal with cucumber salad and little angel food cakes for the berries, with a can of whipped cream. He tries to settle on the blanket, too big to be sitting on the ground. 

He bends his legs, jeans straining, and clears his throat. He looks at you. Thoughts line his forehead and swim in his eyes. His jaw clenches. The sunlight illuminates the strands of grey hidden in his hay brown hair. He’s older than you. A lot older, you think.

“I can’t get comfortable, why don’t you come here and help me out?” He waves you over.

You stare for a moment before you understand. You lift yourself up on your knees and carefully move around the picnic dishes. Before you can sit beside him, he scoops you into his lap, sitting you sideways, right against his chest.

“Better,” he growls as his hand skims down your thigh, the skirt flipping up dangerously as you squeeze your legs together. He leans in, his lips closer to yours. “Forget the picnic, I could eat you up.”

Your lashes flick and you squirm. A deep tone rumbles up from his chest. He squeezes your thigh, fingertips digging in, then lets you go. He tuts and leans over you. He grabs a fork and scoops up some salad. He brings it in front of your mouth.