Needle Reads Fanfiction

It’s not a good idea, but it’s your only one. You don’t know what else to do. Your stomach clenches. You bend over your lap and breathe away the nausea.

Has it all been for nothing? All your hard work? Late nights?

You’re just going to walk away? Maybe you are your mother’s daughter after all. Your father always said so.

There’s nothing else to do. You can’t go back to your dad. He never wanted you and you don’t know if you can face whatever had Andy so riled up. You have no family to take you in. Your mom hasn’t been around since the week before you graduated and that was for about three days before she took off again.

It’s wrong. You know it. All the logic in your brain tells you this is more dangerous than the alternative. But what is that? Staying here, waiting for Andy to get back, living under the thumb of another man with all the control?

Sure, Andy could be nice, but it scares you that he can also be so mean. Even if it’s not to you. This can be his last favour to you.

You leave the phone but take his card. You silently dip out the front door and tiptoe down the hollow hallways. In the front lobby, you stop at the student ATM and take out more than you should. It will have to be enough.

You slide the card into Everly’s mail box before you head out the front of the building. You tuck the money in your pocket and set off on the long walk to the apartment across town. It’s getting lighter by the time you get there.

You approach the apartment door cautiously. You listen through the wood. You don’t think he’s back yet. He’d have messaged. Well, you don’t have the phone anymore.

You enter. It’s just as you left it. You pack up your things. Just your things. Nothing that he got you.

You look back at the apartment and your heart drops. You shuffle into the kitchen and pick up the little marker on the whiteboard. You write a single word; ‘sorry’.

You stick the marker back in the magnetised holder and turn away. You leave without looking back. You hike up your bag and cross your arms, head low, shoulders high. You’ll figure out where you’re going when you get to the station.

🖤

You buy a cheap flip phone from a convenience store across from the train station. You’re sure it’s not out of the usual. You set it up as you sit on a park bench with your bag in your lap.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this far from home. They say big city’s have a place for everyone. Is there even a place in this world for you?

You finish and tuck the phone away. It’s there for emergencies. Besides, you probably can’t get a job without a number. Or a place to stay.

Like any metropolitan hellscape, the apartments are overpriced. You sleep with your bag at a bus terminal for a few hours. You wake up and wander around until you find a library. They offer ten minutes on the public computer without a card. You scribble down addresses and phone numbers on the call cards and leave.

There’s a place. Three roommates. All female. It’s your best hope.

Gladys is the ‘landlord’. She owns the walk-up and lives on the top floor. She’s fifty-eight and annoyed by it. She’s suspicious as she warns you that they’re old ladies and they don’t put up with trouble. You promise none of that and count out the down payment. She’s not as unsure then.

You shiver as she leaves you to your room. That’s the same reaction Andy would get when he flashed his card, or even just his name. You shut the door and put your bag on the lumpy mattress. It will do.

Later, you meet your other roommates. Raylene has tattoos up to her chin and recites scripture as easily as she makes a joke about her illicit past. She’s only forty-two, you can’t tell right? Amanda is older and quieter. She seems annoyed as she pours her cereal. You go back to your room.

The next day, you return to the library. You need proof of address for a card. Right.

You go back to the house. There’s mail on the floor as you step in. You pick it up and turn it over. You leave it on the table.

You look for a job on the glitchy flip phone. It’s useless. You lay in the room, doing nothing but thinking about everything. Too late to go back now. You threw it all away. Because…

Because you’re scared. Because even though you were living in the same place as him, you know nothing about who Andy Barber really was. What little you do know, couldn’t convince you to stay.

You find a job at shipping service kiosk. They had a sign up to apply online but when you tried to get a pic of the QR, the manager asked if you were interested. You said sure. He hired you on the spot.

You realise quick why it was so easy. There are less customers than loiterers. Those who hang around, lean into their high and sway dangerously towards the ground. You watch them, as nervous for them to collapse as to suddenly lurch at you instead of whatever it is they’re seeing in their heads.

You weren’t safe before but you’re not safe now. Did you do the right thing? Is saving yourself really that? Has there ever been better for you? Was Andy that?

As you head off from your third shift, you nearly shriek. You sigh and shake your head. The man in the suit isn’t him. You don’t know why you thought it would be. He can’t find you.

You drag your feet along the streets, lost in thought. You take out your phone to check the time only for your shoulder to jerk suddenly. A man wrenches on your purse strap as your phone clatters to the ground. It bounces across the pavement as you cling to your bag. Your accoster pulls back his elbow and hits you in the left eye socket.

You keep a hold of your purse as you cry out. He struggles with you as pedestrians hurry by, acting as if they can’t see you. He gives up and grabs the phone, running off into the stream of bystanders.

You pant on your knees and hug your bag under one arm. You shakily touch your cheek as you feel the skin tightening already. You keep your head down as you stand up. Not one person will look at you. No one asks if you’re okay.

You’re not.

You made a big mistake. It was easier to protect yourself from one man you knew than a thousand faceless men waiting for their moment. You hurry home and lock yourself in the room. You don’t cry. You just sit there as the bruise pulses and swells around your eye.

The next day, you put your wallet in your pocket and leave your purse at home. You get to the kiosk and roll open the gate. You’re on alert as you stand behind the counter and the plexiglass screen. It’s a paltry shield between you and the general public.

A customer comes in to send out a package. You print the label and tape it up. The complain about the price. You agree, it is expensive, but they’re welcome to try to post office instead. The take their tracking number and scoff a thank you.

You turn to put the parcel in the bin of expedited shipments. The bell rings as the next customer steps up. You’re right there, they can wait.

You turn and nearly fall backwards. It’s like you’ve been punched again. You stare at Andy through the scratched protective glass.

“Hey, I’m here to inquire after a lost package.” He says calmly, resting his fingertips on the lip of the counter.

Your lip trembles and you flick your lashes. You deflate and shake your head.

“Tracking number?” You prompt, staying away from the counter.

He stares at you. “Sweetheart…” His voice scrapes up his throat.

You stare at him. His brow furrows and he leans in. He puts his elbow on the counter and rests his palm on the glass.

“Who did that to you?”

You blink as your eyes tingle. You shrug. You look away. He doesn’t. You can feel him staring. He exhales.

“You know it’s time to come home, don’t you?” He says quietly.

You gulp.

“Sweetheart…” his voice hardens. “I don’t want to make you… but I will.”

"Slacking again." Your father snarls as you tap the speaker and roll back against the pillow. You hold back a sigh.

"Dad?" You gulp.

"Daughter." He snaps. "You owe me rent."

"Huh?"

"With interest. You think I'm gonna keep holding onto this trash you left behind for free?" He sneers.

You rub your eyes, wide awake as your heart spikes. You sit up and clear your throat.

"Dad, you said--“

"You're just like you're mother. Running off whenever you want, thinking you can just barge back in when it suits you. I'm not a storage unit." He huffs. "Just as useless as her too."

"Dad, please, I'm still waking up. I..." You pause and swallow in your dry throat. You glance over your shoulder, staring at your bag on the night table. Andy's card... No you can't.

"Always a goddamn excuse. I thought-- I tried to raise you better but you're just as stupid as her." He growls. "A thousand by the end of the day or I burn it."

You wince. "Dad, please--"

The line clicks. You stare at your phone then close your eyes. You tip your head back and roll your shoulders. Well, it's a good thing you never had anything very valuable. But there's one other hitch; doesn't sound like you'll be going home after this term.

"Sweetheart." Andy's crisp voice slices through the lull.

Your eyes snap open and you turn to him. He has a cardboard tray with cups in his hand, a paper bag in the other. You push yourself to your feet and the blanket droops over the side of the bed.

"Andy?" You gasp. "When..."

He looks down at the coffee and wets his lips. His throat tightens. "Been here long enough to hear what I need to."

"Andy..."

He crosses the room and puts the tray and bag down on the night table.

"Wanted to surprise you. Figured you'd still be sleeping." His voice is thin with fatigue. "Sounds like you had a rude awakening."

"Andy," you repeat his name again. "What did you..."

"All of it." He turns to you and puts his hands on your shoulders. He squeezes. "I was gonna drive you to class but... I got business that just came up. Get yourself an Uber."

"What? Business? Andy. What are you talking about?" Your spine locks up as chills ripple across your skin. "My dad... He says things he doesn't mean."

"Sweetheart. That didn't sound like a concerned father to me." He rubs your shoulders with your thumbs. "And it's not the first damn time I've heard him talk to my woman the wrong way."

You flinch. You frown. Back in the store when your dad called... You thought maybe he overheard some but hoped...

"Please. It's not a big deal. You don't have to--"

"Sweetheart, you don't get it." He bends to kiss your forehead. "I do gotta."

"Andy..." Your voice cracks as you think Charles and bloody knuckles; of what Everly said. "You can't hurt him."

He goes silent and slowly drags his hands down your arms. He clings to your hands and hums. "No, I can. He hurts you and I know he does more than speak to you bad." He squeezes. "I see it each time you shy away from me."

"It's just my dad."

"Who's going to burn all your stuff?" He challenges.

"He's not serious."

"Sounded pretty damn serious to me." He snaps and you flinch, pulling your hands from his.

He cringes and shakes his head. "I'm not mad at you, sweetie. I'm concerned."

"Please--"

"This isn't something I can just let go." He leans back on his heel. "Don't worry about me. That's not your job. I worry about you." He insists. "And this is just that.”

He turns and strides away. You hurry after him. He stops just inside the front room. He faces you.

“Go. Enjoy your breakfast.” He orders.

“But… yours.”

“I’ll be fine.” He caresses your cheek and leans in to kiss you. “Sweetie. You have to trust me. That’s gonna be important. Trust that some things I need to take care of.”

“Please, don’t hurt him.”

He winces and closes his eyes. His jaw tenses. He shakes his head.

“I’ll try not to.” 

He spins and marches out. You stand stunned. He as much as admitted his intent. But what’s more shocking is you’re not stopping him. All that pleading, just words, and that’s as much as you’ll try for your father. It’s more than he ever did for you.

💗

You go to your midterm but you’re not really there. You can’t stop thinking, wondering what Andy’s doing. Flashes of his bloody knuckles and that deadly silence when he came to your house that night he found Everly colour your mind. The memories redraw his entire image; all those moments he firmed his voice and told you, didn’t ask.

You write on autopilot and hand in your exam. You don’t care if you do well. There’s more important things than twenty percent of your grade.

You don’t know what to do. You can’t go back to that apartment. You’re too nervous to be alone.

You call Everly. She answers. Surprising considering it’s before noon, even during midterms season.

“There you are!” She chimes. “All done with daddy?”

“Everly,” you warn. “Please.”

“I didn’t mean it like that but… nice to know what’s on your mind,” she giggles.

You roll your eyes. “Just finished my last midterm.”

“Yay!” She trills. “So does that mean you want to get hyped on vodka?”

“Not exactly. How about a latte?” You offer.

“Do you have daddy’s card? We could go to the sushi buffet.” She suggests. You sigh. She laughs again. “Oh, you’re starting to sound like him.”

“Oh my god. Don’t say that.”

She cackles. 

“I need some sashimi.” She whines.

You chew your lip. Well, you need the distraction. You shrug and shuffle along the campus sidewalk.

“Sure, should I meet you at your place?” You ask.

“Uh, probably. I need to get myself together.” She yawns. “Do you remember Chase?”

“You didn’t…” You hiss.

“A girl needs to rebound!” She preens.

💗

After sushi, you go back to Everly’s. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re avoiding leaving or being alone. Sometimes her lack of perception is an advantage.

She’s too focused on begging you to upgrade her wardrobe as she shows you her ‘out of season’ pieces. You cross your arms as you sit on the couch and she presents shirts that look brand new and skirts you’ve never even seen her wear. You squint.

“I think that’s cute.” You argue at the mini skirt with the little tassels sewn into it.

“It’s totally last year!” She throws it down. “You can have it… and buy my a new one with daddy’s card.”

“Everly, it won’t fit me.” You chide.

“Sure it will. It’s got give.”

“You don’t need new clothes.” You rebuff. “Your dad said for emergencies only.”

“My dad? Your sugar daddy.” She laughs.

“Ew, stop doing that.”

“It is kinda weird.” She sticks her tongue out. “Are you like… my mom now?”

“Stop!” You shriek.

She laughs even louder. “Well…” she comes around the couch and pushes aside the clutter of clothing. She sits across from you. “You know… dad hasn’t dated since… mom. Hasn’t even tried. I actually was starting to think he was ace or something. Which like, no judgement to him, but he’s so wound up.”

“He’s a bit… uptight.” You say quietly.

“It’s so weird to see him… soft. Like, he’s my dad, of course he cares about me but he’s always been so strict, you know. But with you… I don’t know.” She pouts and her eyes brighten. “Do you think you could sweeten him and get me a car?”

You scoff. “Everly.”

She shivers dramatically. “Oh, you’re worse than him. Scarier.”

“Don’t,” you chide.

She winks and giggles again. She stands up and turns to scrutinise her clothes again. She holds up a pair of holographic heels. “I really need the new Manolos.”

You shake your head and huff. Despite the distraction of her bartering, you can’t settle. You just keep thinking about that look in Andy’s eye when he walked in this morning. That stone in his voice. The resignation in his face.

“Hey, honey, shhh.” You pet her sweaty hair. “Here, I saved some, for you.”

You take the bottle of water you kept crushed under you. There’s maybe a mouthful left. It’s hardly enough for her. You angle her around and pull her head into your lap. You feel around her lips before you tip the trickle of water into her mouth and rub her throat. She swallows with a croak.

“Is she gonna be okay?” Marska whispers from her other side, her accent thick around her words.

“I don’t know.” You admit softly, mindful of your volume. You glance towards the line of light, wary of one of the men passing by.

“Sick.” Marska states in her fractured English.

“Yes,” you agree.

You hold the girl against you, rocking her, caressing her cheek. You never thought you had any maternal instinct. At your age, most people assumed so. Seems you finally found it.

Teyona’s nineteen. She was on her way to college when she spun out on the country roads and woke up here. She wanted to study biology but her grades were too low so she went into economics instead. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but she’d take it now.

She asked you about your college years. You would tell her when you couldn’t hear the constant pace of soles outside, or the voices, the laughter. It was easier to tell her about the girl who was than the woman who’s now stuck in this place. The middle-aged office worker who was just taking the urn of her dead cat out to the beach to scatter.

The clanging on the side of the shipment crate echoes through you. You sink into your shoulders as the clamour rattles your skull. Several girls whine but they move quickly.

“On your bellies, girls.” A voice hollers through as the banging continues.

Shoot. You spread Teyona out. She whimpers and drones. You get her on her stomach then spread out. You put your hands on the back of your head, your face between the feet of the girl ahead of you.

The doors are pulled open. You stare down at the ground. You look up and you won’t do it a second time. Not after you feel the butt of the rifle.

The men’s shadows stretch over the prone bodies, trembling and gulping on the cold metal. Boots stamp down, stepping carelessly between the women. You hold your breath, not for yourself but Teyona.

You’re not stupid. The men told you themselves. You’re not meant to be here. You’re too old but maybe if they put a bag on your head…

“Well, better something than nothing, right?” One man scoffs.

“Where the fuck is she? Look for grey.” The other snickers.

You frown. They can’t mean... A third man kicks your side. “The old one’s here.”

You resent that. You don’t say so but you’ve caught a few glimpses of them. They’re not all spring chickens.

“Hey, let’s get her up.”

The man who kicked you grabs one elbow and another man takes the opposite. They haul you up. Panic swells in your stomach. Not for yourself, but for the girl on the ground shivering and slack on the metal as the outside beams in. Marska reaches over to take her hand. She’ll take care of her.

You don’t have a choice. The men pull your arms down and twist them behind you. The march you out of the crate. You squint at the brightness. The warmth of the sun is a relief from the humidity of the dark freight.

Why you? Why now? This can’t be good. You already understand what’s happening. Where the others go. Not the specifics, but the purpose. Women sold to the highest bidder.

“This way.” The first man commands as he leads the way.

You walk stiffly, chafing in their grasp, yet happy for the extra support. They walk you around the length of the freight and past another. As you come around the corner, there’s a man waiting by a truck.

His hands are in his pocket, then out of them. He paces back and forth as he pulls his gestures in silent conversation with himself. He scratches his sandy hair and turns on his heel, giving a start as he sees you and the men.

He wears jeans and a carhaart jacket. He looks like an average guy. Tall, maybe a few years youngrt than you, his boots scuffed and his plaid shirt slightly sweaty. He shoves his hands in his pockets again, fisting them under the fabric.

“This is all we got in your price range, guy.” They shove you ahead.

You stumble and the man’s face lights up in surprise and dismay. He opens his arms and catches you. Your head lands against his chest as you groan.

“Sorry…” you rasp.

“Hey, you don’t have to be so rough with her.”

“Ha. Don’t play like that. We all know what this is.” The guard retorts. “Now you have two minutes to get the fuck out of here and not come back. You’re lucky I didn’t beat you down coming in here with no money.”

“It’s all I got,” the man says.

“Ours not. Get.” The other retorts.

The man who holds you shifts you in his embrace. You struggle to stand and he moves you so his arm is around your back. He turns you and guides you to the truck. He lifts you into the front seat. Well, at least you’re worth something. You’re not sure this is an escape though.

He buckles you in and squeezes your arm. You ignore his gaze as you feel him looking you over. He shuts the door and hurries around the front of the truck. He gets in the driver side and fumbles to turn the ignition. He cranks the shifter and reverses out.

“Those guys are scary, huh?” He mutters as he rolls the wheel around and leans into the gas pedal.

You don’t say a word. Your head lolls and you stare out the window. You just want to watch the sky. It’s like an old friend.

“You know, I… I didn’t think it’d be like that. I thought they’d take care of you girls. You know…” he rambles. “That’s all I wanna do. So, you don’t gotta worry.” He grips the wheel and leans forward. “I’ll do better.”

You still don’t answer. He falls into silence and drives on. You slump and slowly sink into hazy sleep.

You jolt up as the door beside you opens. He touches your shoulder gently, rubbing your dry skin. “You looked… you’re okay. I thought.” He sniffs. “I just stopped a mile back. Got you something to drink.” He points over you to the cupholder. “Lots of electrolytes.”

You stare at him. His hand lingers then trails along the side of your neck. “You okay, honey?”

You stare at the buttons of his shirt.

“Look, I’m just gonna look you over. Make sure you’re not hurt.” He says.

He runs his hand back to your shoulder and with both, he feels along your arm, examining it, than the other. He does the same to your legs, tracing a thick scab below your knee. “Ouch, look like it hurts.” 

He feels up your thigh and you twitch. 

“I’m just… not gonna… hurt you.” He bends, slowly. He looks hypnotised as his thick fingertips tickle along your thigh. He gets lower and lower. You lean back into the seat. ”Just…”

You squirm but don’t push him off as he suddenly shoves his nose down against your pelvis. He nuzzles into the front of your worn-out panties and takes a deep whiff. You watch him in horror and disbelief. This is insane. He’s insane.

He stands up so suddenly, he looks ready to tip over. He grabs the door to steady himself and clears his throat. He spreads his hand over his chest and drags it down.

He swings the door shut and turns away. He pauses and grips his head, fingers curling as he says something you can’t make out. He drops his arms and marches around to the driver’s door and climbs into the seat.

Besides, at least a woman of your size wouldn't have to worry about the old men in your father's syndicate making unwanted advances. They prefer the small, petite girls that they actually have a chance of overpowering.

Still, a woman of your status was expected to marry well for your father's business. You tried, honestly you did, to get the attention of someone who would make father look good. You know better than to expect love, of course, but it would be nice to find someone who didn't immediately dismiss you when they saw you weren't wearing heels but were still eye level with them.

Honestly, the temptation to give in to the men who wanted you to step on them was getting harder and harder to fight. They'd promise you money, jewelry, custom made clothing and lingerie, just let them use your body how they wanted. All the while they made it clear you would just be a sex toy to them, not a person. You know love isn't an option but respect shouldn't be so hard to find.

It was quite the duality to have a body that was simultaneously seen as "unfit" and also fetishized.

So it was that, when your father called you into his office to tell you there had been offer for your hand, you were surprised and nervous.

"He's a former federal agent who helped our family get through some dicey times," Father explains. "He's out of the legit game, early retirement or whatever. But he's willing to continue helping us out with his connections so long as he gets you."

"I understand, Father," you nod. "Though I'm surprised you trust him enough. He betrayed his agency, why wouldn't he betray the family?"

"That's another reason I'm giving you to him. I trust you and I know where your loyalties lie."

"We'll probably have to come up with some new phrases," you nod.

"That's my girl," Father smiles. "He's asked you to meet him at your future home. Says he wants to get your opinion on things so he can get things renovated or fixed up before the wedding."

"That's...quite considerate of him," you blink. "What's his name?"

"August Walker."

The car pulls up to the townhouse you'll be moving into after the wedding. The exterior is quite plain but, if Mr. Walker can be expected to keep his word, you'll have a say in changing that.

When your car door opens, you're surprised to be greeted by your future husband, offering his hand to help you out of your seat.

"Thank you," you smile softly as you take his hand.

Stepping out of the car, you make sure to not put too much of your weight onto him, forever mindful that many cannot handle your size. But there is a strength in his arm that makes you wonder if he could.

Mr. Walker kisses the back of your hand and your cheeks heat up, unused to such gentlemanly behavior.

"I know this isn't a mansion or a penthouse, but I do hope the townhouse will be sufficient for you," he smiles. "Especially after all of your requested changes are made. I've got Mr. Carter, a local construction supervisor whom I trust, and who your father recommended, already inside, ready to take notes."

"Thank you, Mr. Walker."

"August, please. We will be married after all, and I would prefer my wife call me by my first name."

"I understand," you nod.

His lip twitches and you're not sure if it's in amusement or annoyance.

"Shall we?" he gestures to the front door.

"Please."

When you're inside, it's clear the townhouse is an older construction and you feel a slight thrill. You admire the custom work done that have withstood time. The contemporary style of everything being sleek, shiny and white has never appealed to you. Testing the waters of your fiance's promises to listen to you, you make sure to state aloud the fixtures you'd like to keep. You're pleased to not hear any arguments from Walker on the matter.

As the tour continues, you grow bolder, asking about replacing things that can't be kept with something similar in terms of style. Mr. Carter says he knows a very good woodworker who can provide some estimates and you find yourself smiling.

Every so often you catch a glimpse of Walker and you swear he's smiling more as you're going on.

"And now, for the final part of the tour," Walker takes your hand again, "the main reason I sought this house."

When he opens the final door you enter into a two-story tall library, making you gasp. You almost feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

"The shelves are empty, waiting for the books you currently own and, hopefully, there will be enough room for future books you should seek to purchase," August informs you. "My own books will remain in my office and this will entire library will be yours."

"August..." you whisper.

"I have seen other men attempt to woo you with gold and riches," he explains. "But you are no Atalanta, distracted by shiny things. You are a woman who craves intelligence more than money or power. Our lives are not given to expectations of love, but having a wife I can respect? That's a very good start, in my book."

You beam at him, almost teary eyed, "and having a husband who can genuinely make me smile is far more than I could have ever expected. Thank you, August."

You didn’t fool yourself thinking he’d agree to provide any help just from the goodness of his heart. You doubt he had a heart at all. So you were ready to promise free urgent medical care for his men, or to even serve as a money laundering spot. As long as people got free healthcare. 

He wasn’t interested in that. But when your heart was already sinking, Barber said there’s a different agreement you could come to. 

As you read through the contract he drafted, heat and dread settled in heavy, molten lava in your veins. 

He wanted you to carry his baby. 

That in itself shocked you to the core, but the stipulations left you completely unbalanced. There was nothing to hang onto. He wanted to get you pregnant. He wanted it to be done naturally - not a detached process in a lab, but real sex.

There were paragraphs on that. Including the one stating you’d give him your body anytime, anywhere, anyhow he wanted. Free use. 

You should be appalled! You should throw that in his face and storm out the door! 

Later, you’d tell yourself it’s because you were scared of what he might do, if you disrespected him like that, as well your desperation to keep your clinic. You had to pretend sudden heat wasn’t pooling between your legs as you thought of Andy Barber in all his lethal glory, in that expensive pristine suit, strutting into your clinic and telling you to bend over your desk, so he could fuck you full of his cum. 

Your fingers clenched on the edge of the desk as you stared at that paragraph. An image of him carrying you straight to his bedroom the moment you signed the contract; ordering you to strip for him and spread on the huge bed. 

Or maybe he’d tell you to do it here, while his men were outside guarding the door. They’d hear your moan when Andy forced you to stretch on his cock and take your first load. 

“Are you hesitating, or are you imagining?” Andy’s amused voice reeled you back from the spiral of dirty thoughts. 

When you looked up at him, his smirk broadened into a wolfish grin.

“Yes, little rabbit. Anytime. Anywhere. Always bare.” 

He wanted you focused on that. On how completely he’d own you. 

“When’d ya make this, girly?” She sniffs it.

“A few minutes ago.” You say through a grunt as you drag the lawn chair across the floor.

“Don’t be scratchin’ anything,” she warns as she sloshes coffee into a cup.

“I won’t,” you struggle not to do just that as you angle to the door.

You slide the frame over the threshold and the corner hits the top step. Your grip loosens and the chair falls through your hand, half rolling down to the ground and crushing your foot again. You stamp down after it but not fast enough.

That man grabs it, lifting it easily. You stand up straight and stare at him. He opens it easily and sets it on the grass where the imprint of the feet already flatten the grass.

“Oh, uh, thank you. You didn’t…mm.” Your voice and courage fizzle out.

“Nah, you can’t be fallin’ down after it,” he pushes the arms down to make sure it’s steady. “There y’are. Your throne.” He stands and frames his belt with his hands. “I got a spare one if you need. Not so crooked.”

“Erm, no, it’s…”

“Girly,” Your grandmother jabs your back with her fingertip. “Make a great wall, don’t ya?”

You shuffle down the steps and out of her way. She descends as she slurps her coffee. She clears her throat as she wipes her lips.

“Who’re you?” She growls at the man without hesitation.

“Just moved in.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Mm.” He sits and the chair jerks under her weight as the frame releases further. She extends her arm to keep her coffee from spilling. “Well, you don’t let your weeds grow over my grass and park that rig on your own.”

He glances over his shoulder at his truck. “Not a problem.” He says. “Frank.”

She huffs. She takes another messy gulp of coffee. “Magdaline.”

“And your daughter?” He asks.

She snorts. “You don’t got the face to be charming. Thats–” She introduces you.

The man, Frank, snorts. “Heh. Nah. Ma always said I had the hide and the head of a mastiff.”

“Face even a mother can’t love.” Your grandma jeers.

Frank doesn’t flinch. If it was you, you might cry. She never holds back what she’s really thinking.

“Well, I was hopin’ to clean up this place.” He turns to look at his trailer.

“Ones before you were pigs,” she scowls.

“Ah, looks like.” He faces her again. She doesn’t notice as he looks past her, to you. “Was likin’ the look of your flowers. Maybe’ll get some of my own. But ya know, I could build ya up a few flower boxes. Protect em, give em a bit of show. Put some mesh over the soil and squirrels won’t eat the bulbs.” He points to the garden as he talks.

“Uh huh. Why’d you do all that?” She looks into her cup.

“Cause I’m doin’ is anyway and I got the stuff to.” He shrugs. “If you don’t want em, saw a lady down the row was planting some new stuff–”

“Bess? Nah, I’ll take em.” She interjects. “Have the girl help bring em over.”

“Sure. Uh…” he drawls your name. It’s like gravel on his tongue. “You any good at painting? They’ll need a good coat. Less you ladies are busy? Day in the sun?”

“Tryna enjoy some coffee.” Your grandma snarls and turns her cup over the side of the chair to dump the rest. “Can’t even do that.”

“Got some of that too. Dark roast. And a press.” He offers. “You learn to make any coffee good in the field.”

Your grandma sucks her teeth. “You military.”

“Semper fi.” He salutes.

“Would known.”

He drops his hands to his hips again. “Well, I’m gonna get started. If ya change your mind, I’ll be around.” He backs up on one heel, stops, then gestures to you. “Uh, if you wanna help with the paintin’, wouldn’t mind.”

He turns and stalks away. Your grandma shoves the cup at you. “Make a new pot, girl.”

You take the mug and go inside. You put on a new pot. As you wait for it to brew, you pace and near the window. Frank breaks apart an old crate with his hands. You watch him curiously.

He stacks the slats of wood near the side of his trailer. As he stands straight, he catches your eye. You frown and reach for the curtain. He raises his palm. He approaches.

“Hey, you hidin’?” He says.

You shake your head.

“I scare ya?”

You can’t move or say a thing. You just stare.

“I hung up the dragonfly. Didn’t know if ya’d wanna see. Right up on the door.” He looks up at you. It’s the only time you’ll be taller than him.

“Oh, okay. That’s… nice.” You eke out.

He nods and runs his hand over his cheeks and jaw. “I don’t mean to pressure you none, just seems like you could get out. So… I got some paint and stuff. Maybe you could put some little dragon flies on the boxes?”

“I… I don’t know,” you hug yourself. “I… It’s nice of you to… do that.” You lower your head and speak to your chest.

He steps across the invisible border between lots. He stands right beneath the window.

“You’re quiet, sug. Can’t hear ya.”

You chew your lip and look at him, your head still tilted down. You sway nervously. “Sorry,” you cheep. “I don’t mean to…” you trail off again. You squeeze your arms tight and notice his eyes flick over to the tension in your grip. “I’m making coffee. I’ll bring you a cup.”

“That’s real nice of ya.” He says.

You nod. “It might not be very… good.”

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.”

If his behaviour didn’t alert you that something definitely was not right, the redness that spreads over Jake’s cheeks and ears would. He’s blushing so hard, you’re afraid he might start fevering. 

“Jake,” you say his name softly, “just tell me what’s wrong.”

You sit up a little, to match Jake’s position as he sits so far on the edge of the bed that he risks falling off. He has his back pressed to the headboard and the covers pulled up to his chin. He’s definitely not cold, since it’s the middle of a heatwave summer, plus he generally runs hot. 

“Nothing. It’s just- it’s just there’s only one bed.” He laments. 

True, the one bed situation at the hotel surprised you a little. Your cousin, whose wedding you were attending, knew you’d be coming with your friend Jake. She knew that you were just friends. But apparently the hotel put all people attending the wedding with a plus one as a couple. Hence, one bed in your bedroom.

Which isn't really an issue. Or so you thought. 

“What about the bed?” You patiently ask Jake. 

He turns even redder. You hope he won’t have a stroke. 

“You’re in it!” Jake blurts out. 

After that, the words keep spilling. 

“You were so close, and you’re so beautiful, and you’re warm, and you smell nice, and your ass was pressed into me, and I got hard, and now you’re looking all cute all mussed up and soft, and damnit I’m getting even fucking harder just looking at you, and we’re friends, and I’m sorry, and-”

“Jake!” You interrupt him before he suffocates from the lax of oxygen. 

He stops, mouth open mid-sentence. He keeps looking at you, all embarrassed and eager, and mortified. 

His confession doesn’t make you feel awkward. Quite the contrary, something light and warm blooms in your belly then spreads in fluttering waves through your chest. And down between your legs. 

“Will you show me?” You ask, biting your lower lip.

“Will I-?” Jake stutters, pupils widening further. “You want me to- show you my-?”

“Your hard cock, yes.” You grin and giggle when he nearly chokes on air. 

When he just stares at you, a little helpless and probably losing all blood from his brain, you sigh softly. Still smiling at him. 

“Jake,” you scoot closer to him, but still leaving him space in case he doesn’t want that closeness. “I’ve been ogling your biceps and ass for the past half a year. Thinking about your cock did occasionally happen, too. So you getting hard from sharing a bed with me doesn’t exactly offend me in any way.”

“You’ve been checking me out?” Jake blinks a few times. “I’ve been checking you out the whole time! Shit! Sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that. But why- why wouldn’t you say something?”

“Because, apparently, we’re both disasters?” You point between the two of you. “I thought you wouldn’t be into me and that it would ruin our friendship.”

“I thought you wouldn’t be into me.” Jake laughs awkwardly and drops the covers he’s been holding tightly under his chin. 

The fabric pools around his waist, exposing his broad chest and the amazing biceps. 

“See, we’re disasters.” You snort, then burst out laughing.

“Oh my god!” You wheeze. “I can’t believe your wood made us confess our feelings!” 

Jake laughs at that, too, though his expression still holds a tint of shyness. It makes him even cuter. Makes your heart soften for him, as well. Jake may sometimes act a bold flirt, but he’s actually very genuine and respectful. 

“Can I, uh, assume-” Jake clears his throat after your laughing fit ceases- “that we’re both interested in each other and want to be more than friends?” 

You tilt your head to the side, purposely dragging your eyes down his torso and slowly back up to his face. 

“Yes. I want to be more than friends, Jake.” You reply with a soft smile. 

“Can I, in turn, assume-” your smile turns into a smirk- “that you’ll show me how hard you got for me?” 

“You really want that? Now?” Jake’s voice turns huskier. 

You don’t say anything back. Instead, you take off your tank top and fling it across the room. 

You hum beneath the vinyl melody, not daring to interrupt the smooth soulful croon of Sam Cooke.

I go to the movies and I go downtownSomebody keep tellin’ me don’t hang aroundIt’s been a long, a long time comingBut I know a change’s gonna come, oh yes it will

The only other noise is the fan whirring back and forth on its axel and your grandmother’s crochet hooks meeting between loops. You let your hand slip from your nose and continue your silent observation of the neighbourhood. One, in particular.

There’s a new resident. He’s right next door. From the window, you can see him at the back bumper of his truck. Now and then, he carries a box to the front door or hauls something around the side, almost right in front of you.

He has a growly look to him. Black hair, black beard, eyes covered by dark black lenses. You imagine those are just as dark. The sleeves of his tee shirt are rolled up above his biceps, a band logo you don’t know stretched across his chest, and his jeans dusty from the gravel.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Your grandma asks. “That dang squirrel back?”

“No, gram,” you turn, shielding your answer from the window. “I’m just lookin’.”

“Uh huh. Just lookin’.” She leans back in the lawn chair she has you drag in and out whenever she feels like. She furls her brows at the blanket square. “You’re hovering over there like an insect. Makin’ me itchy.”

“Sorry…” you turn back and grab onto the curtain again.

The man stomps up between your trailers. Before you can shut him out, your eyes sting and your nose speckles. You sneeze before you can stop yourself. He stops and looks at you. Not wincing, just staring. Your eyes go wide and you close the curtains with a sharp tug.

You turn and sniff. Your grandmother mutters to her crotchet hooks. You squeeze between her chair and the wall to get to the kitchen. It’s not quite separate from the rest of the place. You rinse your hands as the next track begins.

“Hey, gram,” you dry your hands off and hang the cloth. You turn and shuffle closer to her. “There’s a new neighbour.”

“Always some new ones.” She shakes her head. “Remember that one and his wife. Hollerin’ all night long.”

“Um, I think.”

“And the one with all those brats. They broke my flower pots.” She clucks and shakes her head.

“Yeah…” you trail off.

You back up and go to your corner. There’s a folding chair and TV tray there. You make little ornaments. You find glass bottles in other people’s bins and boil them before you smash them all up and turn them into pretty butterflies or sparrows. Sometimes you even cut up aluminum cans to add extra sparkle.

 You want to try to sell them but grandma says no one wants trash.

You shrug and reach into your little box of creatures. You take out the blue and green dragonfly made of beer liquor bottles. It’s a really nice one.

“I’m gonna go water the flowers,” you stand up straight.

“Don’t forget the morning glories.” She chides.

“I won’t,” you promise.

You hide the dragonfly behind your hip as you stop to step into your shoes. You glance at your grandma. She’s fussing at her crochet too much to care. You wonder if she would notice if you just went and didn’t say anything.

You go out into the sunlight. It’s much hotter than you expect, even if it’s not much better inside. You sweat in your circle skirt and tee shirt. Your aunt passed them down a few years ago.

You sit on the steps and examine the dragonfly. It sparkles in the sun. You slowly peek over at the man as he shuts the back of his truck with a big clank. You jolt.

It’s no fun not knowing anyone. You would know. You stand up and your stomach does a somersault. You’re just being friendly. People do that, give gifts to neighbours. Maybe this one won’t be so bad.

You near the man as he takes off his sunglasses and mops his forehead. He flicks back a thick shank of his black hair, silver glimmering through. You drag your feet as you slow with second thoughts. It’s too late, he noticed you.

He hooks the arm of the sunglasses on his collar and folds them. His thick brow lowers over his brown eyes. The lines of his face add to the grizzliness of his expression. You gulp.

“I ain’t over the line, am I?” He lines up his hand with the bed of his truck.

You look back and forth. You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”

He squints and his shoulders slant. He shifts and cups his ear towards you. “Gotta speak up.

“No,” you shake your head harder then look down at the glass bug. Oh. “Sorry, I… I…” You lean back on your heel.

“What’s at?” He points to the dragonfly. You hunch and hold it out. “You make that?”

You nod. You can’t speak. You don’t know why you do this. You think you might make a friend then you choke.

“Dragonfly, huh?” He says.

You nod again.

“Used to see huge ones down south.” He grits. “Size of your hand… nah, mine.” He spreads out his thick, long fingers.

You make yourself look at him and blink. He doesn’t look any happier but his voice isn’t so harsh. 

“Wow.” That’s all you got.

“Well, thanks for showin’ me. It’s real nice.” He says.

You frown. You sway and push the dragonfly towards him. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” He motions to himself with his knuckle.

“Yeah. Cause… it’s… nice. You’re… new?” You eke out dumbly.

“Right, right,” he steps closer and gently takes the little wire loop at the dragonfly’s head. “Look real good on the front door, huh?”

“I… guess.” You let go. He lifts it up and admires it in the sunlight.

“It’s real nice–”

You cover your face all at once. You keep both hands over your eyes and spin, blindly rushing back to the steps of the trailer. You scramble up, tripping, then haul open the door before hurling yourself inside.

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?”

He props himself on his elbow, watching the sun spill over your skin, striking gold from the fine hairs on your cheek and the unruly sweep of hair across your pillow. The covers have slipped, pooling at your waist, leaving the topography of your neck, your shoulder, and the softness of your curves lit in fresh daylight.

He memorizes the moment, the way your mouth is slightly ajar and your lashes flutter at the threshold of dream. Last night’s conflict has cooled on the air, replaced by the slow, syrupy warmth you always bring to a shared bed, though you don’t know it. God, he’s addicted to you, and he thought it was bad in the beginning.

Andy studies you for three or four shallow breaths, then slides gently out of the bed. You don’t stir, and that’s for the better. He knows he kept you up—kept you up waiting, and then kept you up trying to make up for the waiting.

Part of him is still genuinely surprised over how emotional you had been. That you’d attempted to wait up at all. He knows he’s on a long road to win you over completely, but last night was an unexpected indication that he’s further along than he thought.

He pads to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, and from there he stands a good three minutes, arms braced on the lip of the marble sink, absorbing the fact that he’s getting married today. He never thought he’d marry again.

Until you.

He thinks of you waking, drowsy and annoyed, scanning for him with that sense you have for knowing whether you’re alone or not. You hate being the first one up, but you hate empty beds more. He will be back before you miss him.

He’s had his share of women. Many, if you cared to count. But this is different—has been different since the first time he saw you. You hit him like a freight train, and you hadn’t even known it.

He’s changed, that’s the unexpected part. All the years building up callus, thickening moral cartilage, solitary walls, drilling in the discipline to never, ever let anything leak out. The years with Laurie had their own currency; that was a different flavor of ambition and mutual respect, a cold calculus he’s always valued even after the marriage ended and evolved into only the business arrangement. She never got in, not really. She never even wanted to. But this—this thing in the next room, wrapped now in sheets and vulnerability—this is something else. This is a full breach of his defense. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He stands in the doorway and gazes on you once more.

Then he leaves the bedroom on bare feet, stepping out into the hush of the hall, and finds the house already humming with the early, invisible work of staff. He smells coffee, hears the distant whir of a vacuum, and the low rumble of men’s voices as his security team keeps circulating, moving, monitoring. Everything about this morning is ceremonial, abuzz with anticipation. He’s more used to the casual constancy of threat in the air—a job to be done, a move to be countered. This, the wedding, the luxury of it, makes him almost more uneasy, but things have been different since the first morning you woke in his bed.

Brendan, his head of security, is at the oak table in the security den, laptop and phone and a half-empty mug, eyes flicking up as Andy enters. “Boss,” he says. The casual air is for show, underneath, Brendan is all readiness, efficiency, vigilance.

“Status?” Andy asks, not bothering to sit.

“Mark’s swapping the car rotation,” he says. “Everything is clear so far: perimeter checks, vendor arrivals, a revised guest list. It’s early, but we’ll be on it all day.”

“And any developments since the incident last night? Lupo or Levinson?”

Brendan shakes his head. “Quiet. Lupo’s side is posturing—socials and our sources indicate a few goons gathering but no sign of actual muscle movement. Jersey’s got no appetite for a Boston brawl and Lupo reminded his men of that after the sit down with you and Ari.” He taps the laptop. “Full logs if you want the details.”

Andy waves it off. If something mattered, Brendan would have led with it. He prefers the trust, almost as much as he likes testing it.

“We’ll keep our own hand on the situation, but Levinson’s outfit assured us their boss wants to make sure you’ve got a clean day as his particular wedding gift to you.”

Half of Andy’s mouth quirks up. He nods, a brief flick of the chin, then drags a finger along the grain of the table before pushing off. “Keep it that way.” He leaves Brendan to his screens and walks the circuit of the first floor—habit, comfort, a ritual like prayer but more honest. He checks the kitchen, the garden doors, the garage, noting each detail the way he’s trained himself: who’s working, who’s slacking (no one), where the weaknesses are.

It’s dangerous, getting married. Too many moving parts. Too many incentives to fuck with the day. But he’s made a fortress of the day: layers of staff, loyalty, and contingency plans stacked one on top the next. Even if someone wanted to take a shot, they’d hit a wall of a wall of professional, cold-eyed men before they even crossed the county line.

He will make this happen and do it right, no matter the cost.

The wedding is a statement while also being a gesture.

A statement to everyone around him.

A gesture to the life he intends to build marrying you.

He takes the stairs two at a time, the climb burning off some of the adrenaline that knots at the base of his skull. The master suite is still, the hush broken only by the sound of your breath—the slow, measured in-and-out, so regular he could set his watch by it. You’ve shifted again in sleep, tangled limbs and hair, one knee exposed, the sheet askew at your thigh.

He slips back into bed just as you roll over, blinking awake like you’re coming to from anesthesia. You see him and scowl, though it lacks conviction. Andy reads it as a greeting and presses close to plant a kiss on your forehead.

You can’t seem to help but let a little sigh escape, but then burrow down into the pillow. “What time is it?” you ask, your voice a croak.

“Early. Go back to sleep,” Andy insists.

You mutter, “No, I won’t,” but you settle more into the mattress, your cheek pressed to the pillow, tension gone from your brow. He tucks the covers back over your shoulder, as if making up for all the things he can’t tell you if he can at least keep you warm for five minutes more. He should let you sleep—so much of today will be performance, for both of you—but instead he can’t help but trace his fingers along your jaw, your neck.

He runs his thumb along the curve of your cheekbone, marveling at the warmth that radiates from you, and the hold over him you have that he negotiates inch by inch.

He wants to fuck you again. When doesn’t he? He almost needs it after last night—not because of the business he had to deal with, but because he’s still unsettled with the new element that your existence has created in his universe. You’re a complication. Collateral he won’t let be damaged.

But he doesn’t.

The memory of last night is sharp, and the skirmish between Lupo and Levinson’s men isn’t what has him uncertain, it’s what happened after. He saw the way you collapsed, not just into his arms but into yourself. He saw the fine tremor in your hands, the way your voice had frayed when you’d asked him not to leave you like that again. It was the opposite of a threat and yet so much more potent. He’s been responsible for countless men, held thousands of secrets, and yet the look on your face made him more nervous than walking into the last sit-down with three guns pointed at his chest because last night was a reminder that he can’t make you any of the promises you crave, maybe not even the promises you deserve.

But he won’t relinquish you.

And he can’t leave you unprotected.

He reaches for your hand—fingers barely brushing yours on the sheet. You don’t pull away. He interlaces his fingers with yours and considers, for a fleeting second, what it would mean to never let go of this. When you squeeze once, almost irritably, he feels the pressure all the way up his arm. Married, he thinks. This is what married is supposed to be.

Maybe you won’t regret marrying him forever. He lies there longer than he should, the heat of your body drawing him into a stillness he doesn’t indulge for anyone else. The air is thick with the intimate vulnerability of sleep. Through the glass, the sun carves its way around the heavy velvet curtains, striping your bare shoulder and the mess of hair at your temple. Andy should regret disturbing the scene, but he’s never been any good at leaving beauty unbroken. He smooths your hair. You twitch and mumble, burrow deeper, exposing the tender shell of your ear.

“I’ll give you a perfect day, sweetheart. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you.” He whispers the vow into your hair, too faint for you to hear.

He waits. Two more minutes. The world can roll on without him for two more minutes. Then he’ll leave, letting you continue to sleep until the bridal party descends and sweeps you up for a celebratory brunch and a day of getting ready for you to walk down the aisle where he’ll be waiting for you and make you his.

🫠🫠🫠

So? Feels?

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

“But what if it’s not fine,” you’d pleaded. “What if there’s a- A storm, or more people than we thought, or- Or Bucky gets hurt-“

“Who is in charge of Bucky’s health?” Yelena had cut you off with a pointed look, and you’d swallowed.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t say in charge-“

“You make him eat vegetables. That is in charge.”

“I make all of you eat vegetables-“

“You don’t make me eat vegetables,” Walker had muttered, and you’d flipped him off.

“That’s because I hate you.”

Walker had scowled, Ava—pressed against the wall of the room and clearly trying not to be involved in this conversation—had snorted, and Yelena’s mouth had twitched.

“See,” she’d given you a winning grin. “You are a natural leader. You will be fine.”

“I will not be fine-“

Bucky had said your name, and everyone in the room had gone still. He’d been left out of this meeting. From Yelena’s wide eyes and Ava’s smirk, it hadn’t been hard to work out that it was on purpose.

“What isn’t going to be fine,” Bucky had muttered, and Walker and Yelena had an exchanged sharp, you do it looks.

Walker had lost the glare off, sighed, and turned to Bucky with a wide, winning grin.

“You’re taking the scout on her first mission, buddy, congrats- Shit- Hey-“

Bucky had stormed forward, metal hand flexing like he was thinking about wrapping it around Walker’s throat. He’d stopped himself, shot you a strange look, and jerked his head.

“Out,” he’d grunted, before pausing and adding, “Please.”

The please hadn’t been necessary. You’d almost run out the room with a nervous look back, a little worried you were going to come back to a bloodbath. The glass was supposed to be fully soundproof. You’d still been able to hear muffled, furious shouting. 

Bucky had stormed out after almost an hour, given you a tight look, strange look, then stomped down the hall. Yelena had given you a thumbs up. You’d—foolishly—hoped that meant you were off the hook.

It hadn’t.

You’d been dropped in Norway with Bucky a week later, an hour after planned—Alexei wanted to bring his camera, and wouldn’t hear anyone tell him no—with plans to be picked up in the morning.

“Stay close,” Bucky had muttered, not meeting your gaze. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You’d nodded, your voice barely more than a  breath. “James, I- I don’t know what you’d do.“

“Then don’t do anything.” He’d snapped.

You’d shrunken into yourself. You knew he didn’t like this—you weren’t a big fan either—but the bristling, electric anger almost radiating off of him, it wasn’t anything you were used to. Bucky was usually kind to you. He opened your doors and brought you muffins from the bakery down the street. You made him watch movies when he couldn’t sleep, and he asked you questions about pop culture when he was confused. You had a good—confusing, but good—relationship.

Yelena likes to tease that he like likes you. You try to punch her in the face, and always miss. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. He’s Bucky Barnes, and you’re a dork with a computer that he’s nice to because he’s a good man.

A kind, handsome, perfect man with a jawline you’d kill to kiss and hands you’d die to hold. A man who remembers your birthday when you sometimes forget, and knows your coffee order, and lets you push him around even thought he could crush you with a single hand. You’d like him to crush you with that hand. Maybe pin you down with it and split you open and kiss you with those soft lips that always ghost with a smile at your stupid jokes.

You never should’ve told Yelena about your tiny, little, totally manageable crush on him to begin with. It’s going to be the death of you. You’re sort of starting to worry that this was Yelena’s grand plan to finally make you talk to him. If it was, you’re actually going to kill her, or hire someone who can.

Because it started raining. And after it started raining, lightning cracked through the sky, and thunder followed, and you and Bucky got slowed down. Slowed down enough that—combined with the weather conditions—Alexei couldn’t come pick you up. And you had to find a hotel in Norway.

And the only room left had one bed.

And you’re going to jump off the balcony and pray that Bucky doesn’t catch you.

“You should take a shower,” he mutters, tossing your bag onto the couch. “I’ll go find some extra clothing.”

You nod, pulling at the sleeves of your drenched shirt. “I- I can take the couch-“

“No.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I’m on the couch,” he shoots you a stern look, bracing his hands on his hips. “And you’re on the bed.”

You swallow, and nod. Arguing with him right now doesn’t seem productive. You’re lucky he’s still talking to you after the mission.

It didn’t go poorly. In fact, given everything, it actually went better than you could’ve hoped for. But Bucky is still looking at you like you’re a problem, and it’s making you sort of sick. You don’t want to be something extra that weighs on his shoulders. Don’t want to be an extra layer of ice, pressing down on his chest when he’s already the one keeping you both together. It’s already cold enough as it is.

You shower. Bucky finds clothing—an oversized, thin fabriced shirt that just drapes past your thighs—and follows after you. Neither of you say much, and you try not to let the silence feel like poison, but it’s hard. He’s never been quiet with you this long, but you’ve also never been in this kind of situation with him before.

“Alexei will get us in the morning,” he mutters, stepping out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Then we’ll get you home.”

“Oh- Okay.” You flush, staring down at your hands. His chest is broad, and bare, and warm looking. The rivers of scars over his shoulder and pecs look like they’d be easy to map, and the dip of his towel show off the strength of his stomach. Thick and muscled, soft in all the right places, probably easy to wrap yourself in, and-

Bucky mutters you name, and you’d stopped staring at your hands without thinking. You clear your throat and slide into the bed, grabbing your phone with shaking fingers and pretending to be deeply invested in the blank lock screen. In your periphery, Bucky doesn’t move for a long moment. You dare to look at him under your lashes, and find him staring back.

“Bucky?” You ask softly, and Bucky’s throat bobs. “Are you-“

“You did good,” he grunts, and you blink, heat rushing between your thighs.

“I- I did good?”

He nods tightly. “Today. You did good.”

“Oh.” You swallow, unable to break his gaze. “I- I didn’t do much-“

“You got me through the lab. You listened.”

“Anyone can listen, James.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he huffs something close to a laugh. “You’d be surprised,” he mutters, grabbing his warm clothing off the arm of the couch. “And don’t sell yourself short, doll. You listen real well.”

Your mouth falls open, and you think you might be frozen in place. Bucky retreats back to the bathroom, and you’re not even sure what to do with yourself. You’re sure he didn’t mean it like that, but god, it would’ve been nice if he did. Your head certainly takes the thoughts and runs with them. Bucky over you in this same bed, that metal hand pressed against your stomach, cooed praise and light orders of take it and make some noise for me, doll. The gleam in his eyes when you’d listen, the way he’d feel buried inside of you, the burn of blue eyes as he’d watch you come apart, driving into your cunt over and over and over-

“Night,” Bucky grunts, and you blink at him through the dark.

“Night,” you breathe back, and for a second, you just stare at each other.

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. You could swear is does. And maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but his gaze drags down the fabric of your sleep shirt, catching on your bare thighs and spread legs. His tongue darts over his lips, and you press your thighs together, shifting nervously on the mattress.

He looks back up to you, jaw working tight. 

“Night,” he mutters again, and you swallow.

He goes for the light, and you glance at the couch. It’s small. More of a sectional than a functional piece of comfort.  

“Bucky?” You say, before you can think better of it. “Do you- Do you want to sleep in the bed.”

Bucky freezes, his hand on the light switch. You swallow, pulling the sheets higher up your body, and Bucky mutters your name. “You don’t have to-“

“Are you going to be able to sleep on the couch?” You whisper, and his jaw ticks again.

“That’s not your shit to worry about-“

“Alexei’s going to talk the whole ride home,” you push, and his throat bobs. “And you- You get really grumpy when you don’t sleep.”

Bucky chuckles. “I get grumpy, huh.”

You nod, and he sighs. His hand curls into a fist, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to tell you no.

“I- I really don’t mind-“ 

“Alright,” he cuts you off, words short and clipped. “You win.”

You blink, and try not to smile when he hits the lights. The streetlamps outside let you see his figure, walking over to the bed. You force yourself not to hold your breath, and lie down like everything is perfectly normal.

The mattress dips. Bucky lies flat and stiff on his back, slowly pulling the sheets over his body, and you turn away, trying to hide the flush blooming over your face.

This was a mistake. That’s clear now. You adore him too much, and you wanted to help, and it made you forget about the actual consequences of Bucky being right there, next to you, wearing only sweats and emitting heat like a furnace. The bed feels smaller than it did a moment ago, but that might just be the size of him. Your fingers brush, and his hand jerks away like he thinks you’re going to burn. You twist further over, pulling the blankets with you.

“You’re hogging,” Bucky grunts, and you pull your knees a little into your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to loosen your grip. “Just- Cold.”

It’s not cold. It was, before he climbed in next to you. Now it’s impossibly humid, like you’ve been dropped in to a hot spring. Bucky sighs, and doesn’t take the slack of the sheets you offered. You shift in the bed, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to offer him more space.

The minutes crawl past you. It’s been an exhausting day, but you’ve never been more awake. You’re worried he can hear your heartbeat. You’re worried he can smell the arousal, pooling between your thighs whenever your feet brush. You’re almost curled fully into a ball, the sheet wrapped around you like a cocoon. A restless, anxious pill bug of a cocoon, trying to find a spot on the bed where you’re not painfully aware of Bucky’s presence.

His hands, brushing near your spine when you roll the wrong direction. The steady sound of his breath, that should be calming but only works you up more and more. The line of his jaw when you risk a look, and the flutter of his lashes as he stares at the ceiling. At least he’s not sleeping either. You can be grumpy together, in the morning.

“You’re movin’ too much,” Bucky grunts, and you’re flushing so deeply you’re worried you’re going to light on fire.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he sighs.

“’S fine.”

You think he might just give up and go back to the couch, but he doesn’t. You consider taking the couch yourself, but you’re stubborn. You asked him to do this, and if you try to go to the couch, Bucky will just throw you back to bed and take the couch himself.

That’s a nice idea. Strong arms wrapped around you, manhandling you, folding you over and tossing you wherever he pleases like a fuckdoll.

You risk another look, and almost whimper.

He’s staring at you in the dark, that strange, hooded look gleaming in his eyes. Your heart pushes into your throat, and your fingers dig into your hips as you hold yourself. Neither of you seem to be able to think of anything to say. Bucky licks his lips again, his eyes darting down to the arch of your neck, and your breath catches. The air seems to be pressing over your skin like a shroud. You’re not sure what to do with yourself but try to breathe.

This must be a dream. Bucky wouldn’t look at you like that during the day. And if it isn’t a dream, he probably doesn’t mean it the way your sleepy, addled brain thinks. He’s always had the same effect on you as a strong drink. Making you a little loose-lipped and foolish and delusional. There’s a reason you don’t go out with him. You’re not trying to ruin the good, steady friendship you’ve had for so long.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you whisper, and Bucky frowns.

“Stuck with you?”

“On- On the mission.”

His frown deepens. “I’m not stuck with you, that’s-“

He cuts himself off, rolling onto his back with a groan. He runs a hand over his face, and you swallow, pushing up a little to hold his gaze.

“It’s okay, I- I get it-“

“I wasn’t stuck with you,” he cuts you off, tone surprisingly stern. “I mighta been- Harsh,” he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “But listen to me, I’m never- I like havin’ you around, alright? Never stuck with you.”

“But-“

“You matter,” he grunts, staring firmly up at the ceiling. “I don’t like this ‘cause you- You’re not supposed to be in these kinda situations, doll. That’s it. Don’t think it’s anything else.”

“Oh- Okay.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes dart to yours.

“Got it?”

You nod, and he sighs, looking back to the ceiling. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t look cold, but just lying there without blankets, it can’t be comfortable.

“Bucky?” You say softly, and he grunts. “Do you want the blankets?”

“I’m good-“

“We could share,” you add quickly, and he shoots you an amused look.

“I tried to share. You’re the one who kept yankin’ them away from me.”

You flush, wrinkling your nose. “They’re small-“

“They fit the mattress. Should fit two people.”

“Well, they didn’t think one of those people would be you.”

Bucky raises his brows, and your eyes widen.

“I- I just mean- You- You’re very big, and- I’m smaller- The sheets are smaller, and you’re big-“

“Said I’m big already,” he drawls, and you’re going to smack him.

“Well, you are,” you snap, yanking the sheets fully around you. “And now I’m not sharing. Because you’re being a butt.”

You flip over, burying your face in a pillow when Bucky laughs. It’s a low, deep sound that rolls through your body, almost making you dizzy. You feel the mattress shift behind you, and curl further into yourself.

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters, low and rough, and you’re sure you’re dreaming now.

“Your heart is racing.”

Bucky chuckles again. That’s a dangerous sound. He shouldn’t be allowed to make it.

“You’re bein’ bratty tonight,” he murmurs, a large, light hand tracing over the curve of your hips. “It’s cute.”

You want to roll over and hit him or something. It’s not fair to do that. Not right now, not to you. “James…” You whisper, and he hums.

“Love when say my name like that,” he toys with your hair between, and you bite back a moan. “You know you’re the only one I let say it, right? Only one who could get away with damn near anything ‘round me.”

You make a disgruntled, confused little sound that’s a mix between a moan and whine. You’re really not sure what the fuck is happening, but you’re terrified to ruin it. To move wrong and break from the dream.

“But Christ, doll,” Bucky wraps his hand slowly around the back of your neck, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning back into the touch. “I’m tryin’ real hard to be gentleman, and you’re not making it easy.”

His thumb drags over the base of your hairline, and the mattress dips again. Your breathing becomes shallow, as Bucky leans down. His lips brush near your ear, and you whimper, clinging onto the sheets for dear life.

“I can smell you,” he says, and you’d like the mattress to just swallow you whole. “Can smell how you get fuckin’ wet looking at me, how you gush whenever I touch you,” he squeezes that back of your neck gently. “Tell me to back off. Before I do something real stupid and selfish.”

You roll over slowly, and try not to moan at just the sight of him. Hanging over you in the dark, broad shoulders and parted lips, staring at you like he wants to eat you alive.

“Selfish?” You manage to breathe, reaching up to rest your hand, flat against his burning chest. “James, you’re not-“

“Don’t.” He catches your wrist, but doesn’t push you away. “I want you all to myself. I’d call that selfish.”

You shake your head, your heart pounding your ears. Your nails scrape over his skin, and his whole body almost shudders with restraint. He mutters your name, cupping your cheek, his thumb dragging against your lower lip. 

“Please,” he rasps. “Don’t look at me like that, doll, c’mon-“

“What if I want you to look at me like that,” you whisper, and Bucky’s fingers flex against your jaw. “What- What if I want you too.”

Bucky’s gaze drops back to your lips. His tongue flicks out again, and when he looks at you, you can feel the desperation, tight as a wire between your bodies, begging to be snapped.

You’re not a brave person. You have never been. But under his attention, you feel like you could do anything. You drag your hand over his shoulders, and he shudders. You hold him, trembling with anticipation, and tug him down. He lets you, lowering until your lips are just brushing, his eyes lidded and features blown out.

“You sure?” He mutters, letting out a sharp breath when you nod. “I’m not- One night ain’t gonna be enough-“

“Good,” you whisper, and Bucky groans, fully dropping his brow. “Bucky- Please-“

Bucky kisses you, and you’ve dedicated countless hours to dreaming of this moment. You’ve played it out in a million scenarios, a million different ways, with a million different results. You never dared let yourself think that the reality would be better than the dream, and yet you’re here. And Bucky’s kissing you, and you didn’t know anything could feel so good.

He’s slow. Almost cautious, like he’s trying to test the waters of just how much he’s allowed to take. His lips are chapped and warm, working softly against yours, lighting a little fire with every single, teasing kiss. His tongue brushes over your low lip and you suck in a sharp breath. Bucky hums, pressing a little further down, caging you beneath the mass of his body, trapping you beneath him.

You’re exactly where you want to be. You open your mouth when his tongue presses on your lower lip, tugging gently on his hair to coax him on. He moans down your throat, weaving his fingers into your hair and tugging ever so lightly back. You let him guide you, clinging to his shoulders, getting swept away in the mass of him, the feeling of having him everywhere. His free hand drags down to caress your side, and you arch into the touch with a soft, uncontrolled sound.

Bucky groans, and his kiss gets sloppier. His movements become shorter, his lips demanding against yours. You’re already out of breath, but you don’t dare to push him away. You’ll let him kiss you like this until your head is spinning, until you pass out from the pleasurable, burning ache of his kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters against your lips, kissing between every word as if he can’t stop himself. “You’re so fuckin’ soft for me, doll, so sweet and easy.”

You whine and Bucky chuckles, kissing you deep and long and so torturously slow. His hand drags further down, tugging the hem of your shirt up. Your legs spread mindlessly, all the thoughts in your head being sucked away by Bucky’s kisses. Cool, metal fingers drag up your sensitive thigh, and you gasp, whole body shivering under the touch.

“You like that, huh,” Bucky kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “Tryin’ to take it nice and slow, but you’re already begging for a little, more. Look at you,” he kisses up your cheek, over your jaw. “Gonna take real good care of you, doll. Make it feel real good for my pretty, needy girl.”

Words are already failing you, and you’re getting a little worried for what kind of boneless, fuckdoll puppet you’re going to be when he’s done with you. It’s an electric, hopeful fear. You hope you can feel him when you sit down tomorrow. You hope you can’t walk straight for a fucking week.

Bucky kisses over your nose, then your neglected cheek, and down your jaw. His teeth graze against you, his hand in your hair angling you around so he can suck little bruises right under your jaw. Those thick, metal fingers are still teasing along the inseam over your panties, and when his thumb brushes against the embarrassingly wet spot against your core, he groans against your skin.

“So wet,” he mutters, kissing over the sore mark under your jaw, then attaching his lips near your pulse point. “All for me, isn’t it? Thinkin’ about me fucking you, nice and slow.”

His tongue flicks against your throat, and you make a borderline pathetic noise.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You cry out, wrapping your arms fully around his neck. “Just for you- Only for you- Please-“

Bucky groans, pushing his face further into your neck. His thumb drags back against your clothed slit, teasing the lightest amount of pleasure until you’re clenching around nothing.

“More,” you try to demand, but it’s breathy and broken. “James, I- I need more-“

You roll your hips up, and Bucky’s thumb bumps right up against your clit. Your thighs try to push together and hold him there, but he grabs them forcing them back open and pushing his knee right against your core.

“Demanding,” he presses a quick kiss to your lips then pushes back up, tracing his thumb over the curve of your swollen bottom lip. “You wanna try that one again?”

You swallow and shake your head, trying to push him just a little, just to test what will happen. Bucky’s jaw ticks. He pushes his knee further forward against your cunt, and you cry out, rolling your hips to chase a little extra friction. Bucky lets you, his thumb pushing a little further into your mouth.

He groans when you take him, swirling your tongue and sucking as the need between your thighs builds impossibly high. He keeps hitting against your clit, but not with nearly enough pressure, and he’s planted against your fluttering cunt, but you need him in you. You need to not be able to think, outside of Bucky all around you. If you were stronger, you’d try to pull him back down, but you’re not. You’re  a messy, fluttering mess beneath him, unable to remember how cold it was moments ago as you suck on his thumb like a whore.

Bucky presses on your abdomen, pushing you deeper into the mattress, and you grab his wrist. You give him your best, watering, pathetic eyes. You need more of him the same way you need oxygen. His knee isn’t enough, no amount of him is enough. If you don’t get to drown in the pine scent and massive strength of him, you might start actually screaming.

“Look at you,” Bucky mutters, leaning over your body with a smirk. “So pretty like this, doll. Could drive a man fuckin’ crazy.”

You whimper, eyes dropping to his crotch. To the thick, massive tent pressing against his sweats, and the slightly dark spot against the gray fabric. You moan around his thumb, and watch it twitch slightly. Bucky groans, leaning further down so the head of his cock drags against your soft thigh. He pulls his thumb away, smearing a line of spit over your cheek, then ducks down and lick it away. You moan, turning your face to try and meet his lips, and he chuckles.

“That’s right,” he mutters, indulging you with a slow, gentle kiss. “I know what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed and Bucky goes back to kissing you like you’re something priceless. You’re still fucking yourself on his knee, the feeling spreading like a warm, rising tide through your body. Bucky hums, his now free hand slowly dragging under your shirt. Teasing up your side, under your breast, then pinching your nipple between two fingers and rolling it in tight, fast circles.

He swallows the cry that leaves your lips, flicking your nipple before soothing the hurt with his thumb.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Nice and easy. Let’s get you ready, huh?”

You nod, thinking back to that tent in Bucky’s pants. You’re going to need to be ready to take that. And whatever he has to do to get you there, you’re more than willing to let him.

Bucky pulls back up and slowly guides your t-shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side and helping you settle back into the mattress. A low groan rumbles through his chest as his eyes rake over your body, and your arms instinctively go up to cover yourself from the unrelenting, almost feral gaze.

He catches your wrist and pins it over your head, giving you a stern, knowing look.

“Don’t hide,” he scolds, his metal hand slowly trailing down your exposed body. “Most gorgeous fuckin’ girl I’ve ever seen, trying to hide her pretty little body from me.” He grabs your waist, squeezing the soft skin before massaging it, holding your gaze the whole time. “Been driving me made for years, baby. Thinking you were right there and I’d never get to have you like this.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Torture. Goddamn torture.”

Your mouth is hanging open, your breaths coming out in short helpless pants. You’re not even really sure what to do with yourself but lay there, and you’d feel worse about that if it didn’t seem to be exactly what Bucky wanted as well.

“Thought about just fuckin’- Living with my face here,” he palms at your breast, the cold of his metal hand a sharp contrast to the fire, brimming under every inch of your skin. “Marking those up until the whole world knew that you were mine. My needy little slut.”

You whimper, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Yeah, I know you like that,” he flicks your nipple, watching with dangerous attention as your body seizes up. “Always could smell you gettin’ wet when I’d tell you what to do. Drove me out of my mind, you got no idea.”

You think you’ve got some idea. His grip on your hands is tight like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, and his every muscle is rippling with restraint. You let out a low, soft whine of his name, and Bucky makes that deep, hungry sound again.

“This pussy,” he mutters, dragging his hands back down your body, cupping your pussy and grinding the palm of his hand against your clit. “It’s mine, isn’t it, doll.”

“Ye- Yes,” you whisper. “It’s yours, James- Please.”

Bucky grins, hooking two metal fingers around the ruined fabric, knuckles bumping against your needy pussy, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Damn right it is.”

He rips your underwear off in one motion, and you don’t even get a second to adjust to the feeling before Bucky’s shoving his ring finger straight into your cunt, pressing his thumb down over your sensitive clit. You make an embarrassingly loud sound, almost bucking off the bed, but the metal hand is impossibly strong. He pushes you back down, crooking his finger deep inside of you, and laughs when your eyes roll back in your head.

“Come on, doll. Eyes on me,” he pumps his finger once, twice, the slaps your sensitive cunt before shoving his hand back in. “Eyes on me.”

You force your eyes to open back up, locking onto his as you try to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. It’s just one finger. One thick, massive, metal finger that you can feel straight through your core and to your toes. The cold makes every sensation starker. Bucky’s forced eye contact makes you feel raw and exposed, like a meal he’s about to savor.

“Good girl,” he coos, pulling that finger almost fully out, swirling his thumb around your clit, and pushing it back in.

“Buckyyyy-“ You moan, lashes fluttering as he bumps right against that gooey spot deep inside of you. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasin’,” he leans over you, his hand picking up the pace. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby. You can do it.”

You try. God you try. Bucky fucks his finger into you like a machine, reangling his hand so the metal palm is slapping against your clit, working you open more and more and more until you’re whimpering and unravelling beneath him. It’s so overwhelming, you’re almost forgetting to breathe. You strain against his hold on your hands, but it’s hopeless, and you just end up wiggling below him, tits bouncing in his face.

Bucky groans at the sight of you, his hips jerking and cock dragging against your sensitive inner thigh, but he doesn’t slow down or offer you another kiss. He just keeps you pinned beneath him, drawling out praise and mocking words, shoving in a second finger when the first starts to slip in and out too easy.

“Greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he rasps, eyes burning against yours. “Bet my cock is gonna slide right in, doll. Made to take me like the pretty slut you are.”

You moan again, every last bit of dignity slipping through your trapped fingers. The eye contact makes it too intense, and the second finger is bullying you open just right, offering a little extra pressure against your sensitive g-spot. Bucky’s eyes flash, when a tiny, hitched noise leaves your throat, and presses down harder.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” he mutters, watching every twitch of your face, every flutter of your wet lashes like some kind of incubus sex-hawk. “There’s the spot, baby. Feels so good, I know you want to cum.”

You whimper, nodding desperately. Bucky grinds his hard palm against your over-stimulated clit, and your think you’re going to explode.

“It’s alright, babydoll,” he coos. “Let go.”

Your orgasm snaps through you like a rocket, ripping every nerve of your body and making your vision go white. You thrash and scream as you pussy gushes and clenches, your eyes still unable to leave Bucky’s. His jaw is hanging open, his face lust-drunk and predatory, and it just makes your orgasm crest higher. You think he could shove his whole arm in you and you’d be able to take it, with how he’s unraveled.

If the size of his cock in his pants is any indication of what’s coming. That’s for far better than worse.

You’re trembling when you come down, tears streaming down your cheek and broken mewls escaping your lips. Bucky leans down slowly, kissing your cheek, then your closed eyes, then your open mouth.

“You’re doin’ so well, baby,” he murmurs, letting your wrist go so he can cup your jaw. “Gonna fuck you so good, my sweet girl.”

You make a pathetic, eager sound, and Bucky’s faint smile ghosts over your lips. He leans back up, his thumb dragging against a hickey he left on your neck, and his shoulders shake.

“No idea,” he mutters. “No fuckin’ clue what you do to me.”

He pulls a little further back, tugging down his sweats, and you squeak at the sight of him. You didn’t think dicks could actually look like that without steroids or surgery or something. Thick and veiny, a good amount of hair cropped around heavy balls, his thick, angry head twitching as he fists himself and drags his thumb over his slit.

You look up at him, almost drooling. “You- You’re-“

“Big?” He teases, and you try to scowl, but it’s more of a pout.

“Shut up,” you whine, and he laughs, crawling slowly over your limp body.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky leans down, kissing you like you’re not both sex-addled, ruined wrecks of people. It’s the kiss you imagined when he would be a knight, and you’d be a princess, and he’d sweep you off your feet in your dreams. Slow and loving, more of an oath than an act of need. Trying to say things neither of you know how to articulate with words. You reach up, cradling Bucky’s face between your hands, and he lets out a shuddering breath, muttering your name.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he warns, and you smile against his lips.

“Yay.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but kisses you again, holding onto that soft, honey-sweet moment. His cock rubs between the lips of your pussy, and your breath catches.

“You’re so big,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke anymore. He’s nudging against your entrance, and a sting is already building back up behind your eyes. 

“I know,” Bucky mutters, kissing away your tears. “But you can take it, doll. Know you can.”

You nod, letting Bucky kiss you into the mattress. He’s holding you down with the weight of his hips, stopping you from squirming or crawling away as he nudges in the first inch.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans. “So tight, doll, shit-“

Another inch, and you’re struggling for air. The stretch burns in the best possible way, making your head spin and your mouth hang, agape and useless. Bucky kisses your open lips like he can’t help himself, and you can feel his control already slipping as he groans, pushing a little more inside.

His thumb fumbles to find your clit, rubbing tight circles, easing you further and further open. Bucky moans when he bottoms out, his whole body tensed as he tries to hold himself still, giving you time to adjust.

Your eyes cross, and your toes curl, and slowly the pain shifts into a warm, desperate pleasure.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You whisper, scratching at his back. “Move, please.”

He grunts, and pulls his hips fully out before driving them slowly back in. You moan, and he grabs your jaw, forcing his mouth back over yours.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunts against your lips, repeating the long, torturous motion. “Sweet fuckin’ doll, gonna milk this cock, aren’t you. Let me fuck you however I want.”

You mewl and nod, a molten puddle in Bucky’s arms. The sheets are long tossed to the ground, so you grab his bicep, blinking up at him with needy, pathetic doe eyes. Bucky groans, his pace picking up slightly.

“That’s right,” he grunts, finding an angle that makes him bully your g-spot, a rhythm that pushes broken moans out of your throat. “So sensitive, gorgeous when you cry for me, shit-“

Bucky groans, pressing down to kiss you, all bruising force and spit. You let him, unable to think outside of the consuming way he’s around you, the brutal split of his cock inside your abused pussy.

He’s fucking you so that the bed creaks, so that everything feels floaty and light and impossibly good. His abdomen presses against your clit and his dick hits every good spot inside of you, rearranging your guts and turning you into pure putty.  It’s embarrassing, how quickly you’re getting to the edge again. Bucky notices, and doubles down, slamming his hips down just a little harder.

“Like that, baby?” He grunts, watching your slack, cockdrunk expression. “Like bein’ fucked like this? Wanna soak my cock, show me how fuckin’ good it feels?”

You nod, another wrecked noise escaping your throat. Bucky snakes his metal hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit in small, tight circles.

“Again, doll, cum on this dick,” he spanks your clit, then goes back to the circle. “Cum for me-“

You shatter with a cry of Bucky’s name, pussy clenching and fluttering, body arching off the mattress. Bucky groans and doubles over, pressing his face between your breasts and mouthing at them like an animal. Your hands shoot into his hair as you try to hold onto something, your orgasm just cresting higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you. You can feel his cock pulsing inside of you, his shallow thrusts desperate and uncontrolled, his moans vibrating against your skin and making your whole body twitch.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You sob with pleasure, pressing his face further into your body. “Fuck- James- Oh my god-“

Your orgasm doesn’t seem to be settling. It just builds higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you, desperate and rough. You rock beneath him, overstimulated and dazed, and his wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard as his thrusts start to get jagged.

You pet his head with trembling fingers, gasping every word with a hoarse voice. “Come on, James, pleaseee-“

Bucky moans your name, and crashes back up to your lips as he slams home, and cums deep inside your cunt.

There’s so much of him. He kisses you with tongue and long moans, and you’re barely even able to return the affection as he empties himself into your warm cunt. You can feel him in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, almost bursting out of your tummy and seeping through your pussy lips. Bucky fucks you through his orgasm, slower and slower with every thrust, panting against your lips. You clench around him and he buries himself back in with a grunt, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you up into his lap.

You kiss his slowly, everything a little bit of a haze as you finally float back down from your long orgasm. Bucky kisses all over your face as the last of him spills inside of you, then presses his face against your neck, letting out a shaky breath.

His tongue flicks against another one of those bruises he left, and you shiver.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and you hum, leaning your cheek against the side of his head.

“’S okay.”

Bucky sighs, leaning back to meet your hooded, starry eyes. You’ve never been so exhausted, but fuck, you don’t care. You’ve also never felt so close to someone. To Bucky. You never want to let go.

“That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” he mutters, and you’re not even sure which part he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, so you just shrug.

“Worth it.”

Bucky swallows, glancing down at your lips. Like he’s suddenly not allowed to just kiss you.

You lean forward for him, and he immediately melts over you. You smile into the kiss, curling into his chest, and he lets out a low, rough groan. You should probably get off the bed soon. Neither of you are going to be able to sleep in it now. But you really don’t care. If you could, you’d just stay here forever.

Bucky leans back, tracing his thumb over the corner of your mouth. He’s looking at you like you’re a dream. You hope he thinks you’re looking at him the same way.

“Might be a little late,” he rasps. “But can I get you dinner?”

You giggle, and nod. Bucky’s shoulders sag.

“Thank god,” he mutters, leaning back in for another kiss. “Got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, doll. Really.”

You hum, and just kiss him back. You’ll show him that you know exactly how long later, because you’ve been waiting even longer. For now, you just let him kiss you. You’re going to have all the time in the world, to ruin other beds. You don’t want to waste a single second of his heat and ease in this one. Finally, in Bucky’s arms.

✦End note: it can't believe i've never done this trope before it's amazing i love it here✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Footsteps approach and you stiffen. You’ve run into a few agents here or there. They don’t really acknowledge you. Although a security guard asked to verify your badge.

The button on the microwave depresses and the door pops open. The growl in return assures you of the shadow in your peripheral’s identity. You glance over as Agent Walker examines the stuffed oxen.

“Hm.” He huffs and flips it over. “How long does this go for?”

“Oh, uh… ninety seconds. You can add thirty if it doesn’t warm enough.” You guide him, not thinking as you cross and punch in the numbers yourself.

“Great.” He puts the ox on the glass plate and shuts the door. You back up as he taps start. “Thanks.”

“Meeting went okay?” You ask.

His brow arches. He tilts his head and looks at you from the edge of his eye. “You’re on lunch.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” You back up. “Speaking of… I had a bit too much so if you’re hungry…” you open the fridge and take out a container. “I made some quinoa and salmon. You don’t even need to warm it up.”

He stares at the tupperware. You feel ready to melt. You’re doing too much. You set it on the counter.

“If you don’t, just… put it back in the fridge.” You shrug and grab the other from the middle shelf of the fridge.

He exhales but doesn’t say anything. That’s probably the best response you can hope for. You leave him and opt to find somewhere to eat outside. You stare at all the luxury electric cars and their handleless doors as you eat without tasting.

Walker, Andy. You feel like you’re hanging by a string with both. Each sliver of progress is met immediately with backslide. You stir the last few bites and scoop them up from the tilted container. You put the lid back on and delay your return with a stroll around the grounds.

“That’s prohibited.” A holler startles you. You stop and spin to face the man jabbing his finger at you. “What are you doing here? How’d a civilian get in here?” He snarls.

“No, I’m not– I work here. I was only going for a walk,” you fumble for your badge as you keep the container under your arm. “See.”

You approach the man as he sneers down his nose. He squints at your photo. “You don’t have the clearance level, ma’am.”

“Redfield,” A timbre rumbles from behind the large man. “Leave her be. She’s with me.”

The man, Redfield, juts out his chin and clucks. He turns slowly. “Walker.”

“Sunny as rainstorm.” Walker retorts as he approaches. “I told her to take her break. This place ever think of working on amenities?”

“Can’t remember the last time I saw you outside your office.” Redfield snorts.

“I’ve been cleared for field work so… we shouldn’t see much of each other. Thankfully.” August gestures you past the other man. “Don’t talk to my PA like that again.”

“Don’t let her wander where she doesn’t belong.”

“And what are you doing? Got nothing better to do than lurk?” Walker scoffs. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He beckons to you again. You obey. You try not to notice that word he used. Not ma’am, not lady, sweetheart? Hell, when’s the last time Andy used that word with you? Well, it’s probably not a good thing. If anything it’s condescending, demeaning. This is a workplace after all.

He turns and walks beside you. The other man grumbles. You chafe and grip the container between your hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t meant to–”

“Don’t worry about it. Chris always finds a reason.” He assures.

“Okay, um… yeah but I don’t wanna break the rules.”

“You didn’t. Worry about my rules.” He insists.

“Uh huh…” you hum uncertainly. Silence festers around you. “Your shoulder feel better?”

“Sure. It doesn’t feel like a nails lodge behind it. Was tryna stretch…” he trails off. “Not your worry.”

“Well… it kinda is. I’m your PA.”

“My shoulder isn’t CIA business.”

“Fair,” you accept.

He’s quiet again. You approach the doors and he swipes his badge first. He opens the door for you. He waits and follows you in. You cross the lobby to the elevators. He taps his badge again.

You step onto the elevator and stand beside him. He seems bigger in here. You teeter on your heels.

“Can you do me another favour?” He asks.

“Sure. That’s my job.” You chime.

“Cancel that meeting with Fowler. I don’t got the energy.”

💔

“Sending a girl to tell me to fuck myself, huh?” Fowler slaps the screen of the coffee machine. “Does he really think I want to deal with him either?”

“Maybe tomorrow–”

“Fuck it. I’ll send an email. He can read, right?” He chuckles.

“Sir.”

“Jesus. I feel bad for you. Guy’s a prick. Specially since that thing in Vienna.” He hits start on the machine.

You look at his hand and something else catches your attention. The container you offered Walker is empty, washed out, and set neatly against the wall, labelled with your name on a post-it. Well, at least someone enjoyed lunch.

“Right. I’ll have him check his mailbox.”

“Sure, honey. I know he’ll get right on it.” He pushes his jacket back as he grips his hips. He glances over at you. “Didn’t peg you as his type.”

You frown. “The director hired me–”

He laughs again. “Go. I don’t like my coffee with stress.”

You do just that. Most of the agents have that bluntness. That lack of patience. If it’s not urgent, it doesn’t matter.

You knock before you enter Walker’s office. He sits back sharply from holding his forehead. You don’t acknowledge it.

“Done. Meeting off.” You confirm as you near your chair and pull out your phone. There it is. An email already. Oh, it’s not from Nick.

You sit and squint at the screen. It’s not easy to read the layout on the small phone.

‘Confidential. Mission Brief.’

You have to put in your employee number just to view it. You review the information, much of it in lingo you don’t really understand. You sit up and find Walker looking at you.

“You’re going to Paris?” You say.

He taps his fingers on his armrest.

“You need a tablet. Or laptop.” He says.

You nod. “Thank you, sir. It would be helpful, but… Paris.”

“I’ll show you how to do the expense report. You can book the travel.” He stands up and checks his watch.

“Uh, okay, yes, sir.”

“Make sure you get two tickets. Business.” He insists as he marches to the door.

“Two?” You wonder as you watch him strut to the door.

“Can’t do much here when I’m there.” He grabs the handle and twists it.

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.

Resting against Ari’s warm, solid body, something in you awoke with a need to track. You can’t even say exactly what you were investigating, but your own body followed a ghost of an instinct. 

You leaned more into him, face buried into the crook of his neck as your nose rubbed against his neck. It was as if you were in a trance, needing to take in all of the scent and sate yourself with it similar to the way Ari’s cum placated the burning demands of your womb. 

Scenting. The term comes to you suddenly. 

Ages ago, when the designations were still in full capacity of their traits and instincts, people supposedly smelled in specific ways. Nuzzling into someone’s neck or wrist in chase of that scent was either an invitation to sex, or a way to soothe yourself. It especially worked between Alphas and Omegas. 

But there are no scents anymore; nothing beyond perfume, anyway. Ari doesn’t smell of anything special. Just remnants of sweat, transference of your own body wash, and his typical scent. You didn’t see his bottle of cologne - not that you were looking for it - but whatever he used had distinctive ozone notes. 

And you definitely wouldn’t be seeking comfort in the Alpha who took you so brutally, reshaping your future to his desires.