Needle Reads Fanfiction

"Kathleen put some African ginger in the tea. She says it will help, my lady." You pour a cup and add some sugar as she prefers.

"She thinks of everything," Lady Drayfort preens softly. She accepts the cup but you notice the tremor as she struggles to balance even that weight on her own.

"And some berries and whey. It shouldn't be too heavy on your stomach, lady."

"Mm, I am not of body to eat," her lips downturn and the lines around her mouth and eyes deepen. Despite the decades behind her, she never truly looked or acted as though she knew them.

"You should try, lady. You need your strength."

"I've got it still. Never fret for me, dear. You are too kind to me." She thinks of reaching dorfyou but thinks better of it as the cup teeters. "Hm, have you seen my husband?"

"He was off early this morning, my lady."

"As ever he is. Busy of mind and body. In many ways." She smiles and leans back on the pillows. "When he returns, please let him know I am not fit to receive him." She goes quiet and peers into the depths of the porcelain cup. "I should hate for him to see me as such.”

“Yes, my lady.” You acquiesce with a gentle nod. “Would you like a cold cloth?”

“Please, go and tend your duties. I should hate to keep you.” She says.

“I will be back to look in on you,” you promise as you back away.

“You are always so sweet, ma petite.” She hums, the little name she’s called you since you were brought onto service as a girl.

“Lady,” you smile and curtsey.

You leave her with worry in your heart. You will call for the physician and bear her chagrin. She is ever stubborn but you’ve never seen her in this state, not even when her first husband died. She was ever lively, riding a saddle with ease and laughing over cards as she told bawdy jokes that would make men in their clubs blush.

You send Lionel in his cart to bring back Doctor Reginault. You go down to help the cook, Kathleen, but she waves you off as she does any gnat or rodent in her kitchen. You resign yourself to dusting shelves already touched with feather.

The physician arrives and you bring him up to Lady Drayfort. You leave him in the corridor as you go to warn her but find her unconscious with tea staining the high collar of her sleeping gown. She is breathing but pale.

You retrieve Dr. Reginault and he bends over her to feel her neck and forehead. He tuts as he opens his bag and searches out a vial.

“It is a summer sickness, I believe. Two centuries ago the like ran rampant in the cities. Not often out in the greenlands.” He advises. “Have her take these drops with her tea when she wakes. Sleep is most important. Rouse her in an hour or so. If you have citrus, have her eat some.”

“Yes, doctor.” You clasp your hands anxiously.

“Do not worry for the lady. The countess is a strong one.” He assures as he packs up his bag. “Be here with her.”

“Yes, doctor.” You repeat.

He goes and you sigh. You have a dreadful feeling for your mistress. You watch through the window as Lionel drives the physician out and you stare off into the sinking horizon. Some time later, hooves approach.

Lord Blackwood returns on his sable mount. He sits proudly upon her as he canters through the gate. His page meets him and takes away the beast as the master of the estate dusts off his trousers.

Though the countess bid you not to say it, you cannot keep a secret from her own husband. You go down to the kitchens and request a fresh tray of tea with lemon, and any citrus that might be in the stores. As Kathleen works on the task, you hear Lord Blackwood enter.

You go out to see him pull off his riding gloves. His eyes gleam at you. You bend your knees and neck reverently.

“My lord, Percy is around. Shall I fetch him–”

“I sent Percy off on an errand already,” Blackwood interrupts. “Come, you will tend to my jacket.”

You hesitate then go to him. He turns his back to you and extends his arms. You help him shrug off his embroidered jacket. It was one of the many gifts the countess rained on him.

“I will have claret in my office,” he commands as he hands you his gloves and hat.

You step aside as he strides past you. You wait until he is up the stairs before you scurry to store his things away. You return to the kitchen. The water is still boiling. You fill a decanter with claret and set it on a tray with a crystal glass.

You climb to the second floor and approach the lord’s office. The door is ajar in expectation. You stand at the threshold.

“My lord, you claret.” You announce.

“In, shut the door.” He demands as he pulls free his ascot.

You obey, setting the tray on his desk and going to the door. As you go to close it from the outside, he stops you.

“You must pour it.” He says.

“Yes, my lord. Apologies.”

You enter once more and close the door. You cross to him and pour a glass of the clear liquor. You set the decanter down and replace the gold cap.

“My lord. The doctor came to see the countess today.” You say.

He looks at you with a crinkle around his eyes. “Oh? Well, she is rather ahead in years. I suppose they are good acquaintances.”

“She is not well, my lord.”

“Surely, the doctor did more for her than I could.” He takes the glass and sips from it, watching you over the brim.

“Yes, my lord. Forgive me if I was overbearing.” You back away. “I must tend to her tea–”

“You tend to me.” He insists and drinks deeper. “And I’ve not dismissed you.”

You pause and dip your head. “Forgive me. I was not meaning–”

“You are shy.” He remarks.

“My lord, I only mean to attend my duty–”

“Evasive, I sense it. When I am around, you elude me.” He intones.

“No, my lord. I serve the countess.”

“You serve the household, of which I am master now.” He retorts. “You serve my wife but you also serve me.”

“Yes, my lord, you are true. I was not being defiant–”

“No, only… cautious.” He stands and rounds the desk. “For you sense it too.”

You chafe and clasp your wrist tight, unsure. “My lord?”

He crowds you, looming over you, his hand creeping up your sleeve. You lean away and he grips your arm to keep you from retreat. You gasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes twinkle as his cheeks dimple around his smirk.

“Don’t you realise how much I want you?” He whispers and leans in. “You don’t truly believe I want the decrepit widow?”

“My lord,” you gulp.

He grabs your other arm.

"But I'm having such a good time." You argue as you turn to him.

"Apparently. I thought you were too cool for these things." He scoffs.

"I never said that. You know I'm not the best at parties." You counter. "Susan was never much for them either."

"My lame sister? No shit." He rolls his eyes.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm over it. Let's go." He snips.

"Gee, okay," you look into your mostly empty cup. "Let me toss this."

"You know an Uber will cost you an arm and a leg."

"Johnny, I said one sec." You frown.

"I'm waiting two minutes then I'm out." He sneers.

You shrug him off and search for a bin. Johnny can be a real bitch. His sister says so, too. Unfortunately, they're a package deal.

You check your pockets and purse; keys, wallet, phone, and rush to the front door. You come out to Johnny revving his bright red Corvette. You get in as he takes off before you even close the door.

"Why did you even make me come?" You huff.

"Well it was for you to giggle at that idiot in the frog hat." He leans on the gas.

"Jake's funny."

"Funny looking." He snorts.

"What are you? Five?"

"And what are you? A slut?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me." He snarls. "Hanging off of me like a scarf until you see any other guy..."

"Seriously, we're friends, Johnny."

“Um. May I get… a strawberry turnover, please?” You ask, too edgy to read the menu.

“Of course. Anything else?” The cashier asks. You know her. She works at the grocery too. Or did.

“No thanks. I appreciate it.” You take out your change purse.

“Don’t charge her,” the owner calls through as he brings out a tray of pastries and slides it into the display. “Comped.”

“Thank you,” you eke out. You put a tip in the jar instead.

“If you want to find a table, we can bring it to you.” He offers.

“Oh, it’s…” you swallow. “Okay.”

You don’t want to draw any more attention. You look around and find a table by the window. You stare at the chair. The wooden seat won’t be good for your tailbone.

You let go of your walker and grab the chair. It’s heavier than you expect. You drag it and it scrapes on the floor loudly. You keep your head down, straining to lift the feet off the wood.

“I got you,” a voice grits and someone approaches. It’s him. Steve. The owner.

“Sorry I… don’t want my walker to be in the way.” You let go as he takes the chair and moves it to another table.

“All good,” he assures you.

You roll your walker around and grip the handles as you sit, locking the brakes. You nod and thank him under your breath. You can’t look at him. You’re too embarrassed. You should’ve got the pastry to go.

“If you need anything else, let them know at the counter.” He says.

“You’re too nice,” you stare at the table.

He leaves and you fidget restlessly. You’re used to the sideways glances and kids pointing, asking loudly what’s wrong with you. You’re too young to be like this. You know that, they really don’t need to remind you.

You move your purse onto the table and take out your little notebook. You go over the grocery list you made before you left your place. Shoot, you didn’t write down oats. You used the last ones this morning.

Steps approach and the scent of freshly warmed pastry kisses your nose. You look up as Steve sets down a scalloped saucer with a gooey turnover drizzled in lacy icing. You smile and close your notebook.

“Oh, thanks. That’s sweet.” You murmur. “It smells… looks delicious.”

“Not a problem. You’ll let me know if it’s too sweet.” He says.

“Um, I’m sure it’s good.” You frame the dish with your fingers. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy.” He claps his hands together and backs up.

You shrink down and examine the dessert. You peel apart the warm pastry and nibble on it. You get some of the filling on the next bite and your cheeks pinch. It’s better than the danishes you get on clearance at the shop.

You eat slowly as you dare to look around. You always liked baking but it was hard for you to stand too long in the kitchen. You always kept to quick and easy meals. Anything you could leave in the rice cooker or just boil water to add. Sandwiches and soup were the best.

You hold up your sticky finger and lick your lips. You sit up as you sense someone coming close. It’s Steve. Again. He puts down some napkins.

“Thank you,” you say.

"How did you like it?" He asks.

"It was good."

He sets down something else. The paper bag crinkles as a peak of crust shows through the little plastic window in the bag.

“Saw it on your list,” he says. “Sourdough. But if you prefer rye…”

“That’s… too much. I couldn’t.” You wipe your fingers, your hand shaking a moment. “Really, I’m on my way to the grocery shop.”

“One less thing on your list.” He insists. “Really, I don’t mind.”

You crumple up the napkin and sit back on the walker. You zip up your purse and hang it on the handle. You push yourself to your feet and release the brakes.

“I do. I appreciate the turnover but that’s already too much. I’m okay.” You assure him. “It was nice of you to step in earlier but… thank you. Just thank you.”

You slide your walker out from behind the table and reach for the plate and napkin. He swipes it up first. “I’ll take care of it.” He says.

You thank him one last time. You angle around and make your way across the bakery. As you near the door, he brushes by you and gets there first. He holds the door open.

You brace yourself as you let the wheels off the ledge. As you pass, he reaches to put the loaf on the seat of your walker. You gasp as you step down and pause. You look at him.

“I said no.” You insist.

“Take it.” He insists. “My treat.”

You stare at him. Even if he wasn’t standing on the ledge, he’d be huge. You wilt and purse your lips.

“Thank you.” Once again.

Though you had Bucky to thank for keeping you upright.

Did you really drink that much?

It was supposed to be a couple of drinks with the crew to unwind. A fun night. Bucky made sure you had a seat right next to him and never took his eyes off you. He even brought your last drink over for you. Your favorite.

How did he know?

“Jeremiah was a bullfrog. Was a good friend of mine. I never understood a single word he said…” You giggled again, leaning on the bulky super soldier for support as he helped you walk. “I haven’t heard that song in ages, and now it’s gonna be stuck in my head.”

“I think I was on ice when that song came out,” he tried to joke, giving you a lopsided smile. It looked a little sinister under the harsh street lamp. “But we can listen to music when we get back to my place.”

Your eyes lit up, even with how blurry your vision was getting. “Really?” you asked before your brows furrowed. “Wait… your place?”

You didn’t recall saying you’d go to his place. 

His grip tightened as he pulled you closer. “Yeah, my place,” he replied, bringing his mouth to your ear. “You can even sleep over.”

You shivered but not from the chill in the air. “Oh, I wouldn’t… want to impose.”

“You’re not,” he promised, smirking to himself. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

I would've gone willingly! Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Andy Barber was a patient man.

He waits for he knows good things come to men like him.

He waits, for that's the right thing to do.

But lately, his patience had been fraying at the edges, threatening to snap in half completely.

And really, could you blame him?

A pretty thing like you with your teasing little glances. The sway of your hips with every step. The soft, knowing smile you shoot his way like you knew something he didn't want you to know.

Did you?

Did you know he dreams about you every single night—waking up with his heart restlessly thrumming against his chest and a sheen of sweat all over his body, hands flexing to catch hold of the fleeting vision of you underneath him?

Did you know he looks for you every time he enters a room—eyes searching for you like a moth to the moon. Disappointment all over his face when he doesn't see you.

Did you know he spends hours working overtime—just to spend another moment with you. Just another "You did great today, Andy!" Just another smile, just another brush of your hand against his as you both reach for the door at the same time—only for you to let him open it for you.

Did you?

Is this why you were tormenting him? Toying with him? Hell...was he that obvious?

He takes a deep breath, running his hand across his face. Every second without you feels like he's losing something. He is, truly and irrevocably, gone— far too gone to come back the same man.

It feels like a test, one he doesn't want to mess up; and so he waits.

---

You had been patient.

As patient as you could be, because you know good things await you.

Good things?

Well, Andy Barber's thick and strong fingers, Andy Barber's perfect, pouty mouth, and Andy Barber's cock—which you've seen bulging inside his pants when you whispered a good night, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He really wasn't subtle.

And hell, he was making your life miserable with each passing day.

Were you really not that obvious?

You wear lipsticks the colour you imagine would look best smeared up on his cock. You wear perfume you imagine would mingle the best with his, imprinting itself onto his shirts. You wear the heels you imagine would look best on his shoulders and wrapped round his waist.

All this, and all you get is a blush on his cheeks and a stammer in his otherwise eloquent words.

That, and the boner.

You get that too.

But you need more.

And you've given him plenty of time to get his head straight. Too bad you're running out of patience now.

It's his fault, really…

---

You saw him sitting at his desk, back hunched as he wrestled through the last of the day's work.

You saunter over to him, heels clacking on the hard wood floor, “Hey, Mr. Barber.”

His jaw clenched, hands tightening around the edge of the mahogany. You really were testing him tonight. And he could feel himself weakening with each rise and fall of your chest as you breathed in the same air as him.

“You here to tell me I did good today?” he snapped, a little too sharp—hiding behind a wall, taking whatever control he could.

He expected you to back down, get offended, leave him all alone.

But then you smiled—all slow and amused—and he realised it was never a test he could lose, for you had won before he even knew he was in it.

“No, Andy, you've been bad. So very bad for making me wait like this,” you tilted your head, your lips in a pout he so wanted to taste. “You know I want you, and I know you want me too. But. You. Have. Given. Me. Nothing.”

He was taken aback by your words. Shame and want unfurled in his chest. He had been a coward. He had been nothing but a pathetic, shameless coward— wanting you, yet not taking anything despite being offered everything on a silver fucking platter.

Fuck.

He was a loser. And now he was going to lose you, all because he didn't know how not to.

Hiding behind files and ego and excuses and giving you nothing but his nerves.

“I'm sorry…” his words were barely a whisper, but you heard them loud and clear because those were exactly the ones you were anticipating.

You take a step forward, your chest brushing his shoulder, and leaned in to place a kiss on his jaw. He shuddered, the soft touch of your lips like a bucket of ice water on his scorching body.

You took your time, savouring the scratch of his neatly trimmed beard—the one you always wanted to feel against your skin— and turned his chair to take a better look at the pretty eyes that haunted you.

“I need you to apologise, Andy.”

His eyes were an ocean, so deep and endless and oh so blue you could drown in them.

And drown you did.

Grabbing his jaw and smashing your lips against his, you could feel every bit of hesitance and shock slowly unravel away into desperation and need—till he melted in your hands.

He sighed into your mouth, a soft little sound that escaped against his better judgement and his hands moved to cup your face before he could stop them.

He couldn't believe this was happening. If felt like a dream. The dreams he replayed over and over again till they were all he could think about.

You nip at his lower lip, bringing his attention back to you— reminding him that this was, in fact, happening and nothing will stop this now.

Nothing will stop you now.

When you finally pulled apart, his eyes were closed, his hair a mess, and his lips swollen and so pretty a red it made your insides flutter, but the best sight was definitely the outline of his hard and heavy cock straining against his trousers.

“You taste so sweet, Andy… you gonna let me taste you proper now?”

You kneeled down in front of him, and the way his eyes widened told you this was going to be so much more fun than you imagined.

His thighs trembled as you slowly slid your hands over them, reaching your way up to his buckle.

The clank of the metal sliced through the air, causing a shiver to run across his spine. He stopped your fingers from finally undoing his zipper with shaky hands,

“I—If you do this, there's no going back. I'll be yours…”

You look up at him— the vulnerability and doubt that had draped itself over him—and your heart ached.

You kiss each of his knuckles, before placing one final kiss on to the centre of his palm. “You're already mine, Andy,” you say softly, “we’ve done our waiting.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed down his nerves. He nods, his eyes glistening with moisture; waiting for your next move.

Pleased, you slowly drag his zipper down, and he raises his hips to get put of the constraints of his pants. The sight that greeted you— a wet spot on his boxers where he was leaking for you—made your pussy flutter.

“You crying for me baby?” You cooed, and he didn't know if you were talking to him or his cock, and frankly, he didn't care.

“Let me kiss those tears away, hmm?”

His cock jerked at the first swipe of your tongue against his still clothed bulge. His taste flooded your senses—musk and masculinity and something a little sweet.

“Shit—I’ve dreamed about you.” the words stumbled out of his mouth on their own accord.

“Yeah? What was I doing?” you got rid of the last piece of fabric separating you from him.

He had no answer. To think of saying everything out loud felt so wrong.

"I was loving you."

You smirk, "Really?" And with his cock was finally in your hands, you felt your mouth water.

He was beautiful. So thick and so long, a vein that throbbed visibly with each passing second, and the head of his cock blushing an angry red.

“Look at this, babyboy. All this f’me?”

He whined into his fist as you wrapped your lips around his head, slowly sucking and kissing and drinking in his leaky mess. You moaned at the taste on your tongue, and he swore he hadn't ever felt this good.

You took him in further, as much as you could, and wrapped your hands around the rest of his length. Stroking him in time with each bob of your head.

“Fuck—Aah!—” he made a strangling noise when you squeezed him harder, and you pulled him out of your mouth, just to throw a dazed smile his way.

“You like when I do this?” You squeezed him once more, and his hips lifted off the chair— his eyes closed shut as he drowned himself in pleasure.

“Yes, yes! Don't stop…” his words were breathy, pathetic.

You liked that.

You spit on his cock, watching the saliva drip down his length. A drop of precum dribbled out and you promptly licked it all up— greedy and insatiable for him.

Taking him back in your mouth, your tongue flattens against the underside to tease his vein, and your hands reach down to play with his balls.

Gentle, featherlight touches like whispers against his skin, that had his hands reaching out to grab the back of your head— fingers tangling in your hair—to push you deeper, till he reached the back of your throat and he could feel it tighten against him as you gagged on his length.

Your hands tugged at his balls harshly, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His breath picking up pace and his vision blackening out.

He was close.

So very close he could taste it.

“You gonna cum baby? Huh?” You continue playing with his throbbing cock with your hands, your gaze fixed on his —watching him fall apart. “Do it. Show me you're a good boy… cum for me, Andy.”

He came with a groan, his head thrown back, chest panting, legs trembling and cock twitching desperately. His cum paints your hands, hot and white and oh so much.

You continue stroking him through his orgasm, drawing out the pleasure for as long as he could take it. He was writhing on the chair now. Tears in his eyes and his body twitching involuntary, but he still didn't pry your hand off him. He was patiently taking what you were giving him.

And give and give you did.

After what seemed like an eternity, after he had nothing left to spend— pain taking over the pleasure—you take your hands off him.

Wiping your hands on his blazer, you stand up, taking one long moment just to look at the mess of a man in front of you.

He looked at you like he found salvation. Eyes hazy and unfocused but never empty.

“You did good today, Andy.”

And he swore those words never felt this good before.

  ---

It had been two months since that night in his office. Two months of him spending his nights with you in his arms, his mornings with you in his mind.

Two months of him carefully avoiding smiling around you at work. And it had been… entertaining, to say the least. But lately, you didn't really feel like entertaining him any longer.

So you do what you do best.

Wait.

And then corner him in his office.

“I want you to go tell everyone we're together.”

His head snapped up, panic filled up to the brim in his ocean blue eyes, “What? No, we can't do this. We work together and if—”

“Oh shut up! You know nobody cares around here.” You remind him, “Daisy from finance and James from security met through a client. A year later they invited HR to their wedding… I heard she gifted them rather generously.”

“I— Really?” He asked, his voice like that of a child that just got told it was okay to stay up a little late. “You want me to…marry you?”

You smile then. A little teasing. A little smug. A whole lot fond.

“We gotta wait some more, baby.”

  daddy barber nom nom nom 😌

Why is the pacing so weird? Don't hate me i wrote this over several days and my mind is a mess.

also, damn this post looks so good in the dark mode. I made the dividers nobody steal them. if you do I'll come to your home at night and watch you sleep.

Tagging my cutie patooties: @/stargazingfangirl18 @/sassandscribbles @singulartoast @epiphanyrogers @blobfishlol @angelryex @pinksplace

No one notices you as they focus on the large screens and give directives. You go through the cups marked by balance of sugar and dairy. Jensen takes three sugar and three cream, Everett takes his black with a shot of espresso, and Barnes takes his with a single dash of milk. You cycle through the menial tasks of doling out caffeine. The last is Fowler. Plain black. Simple.

He focuses on the screen as the hazy noise of music rises from the speakers. There's a silence among the agents as they intently observe what's going. You don't dare look. Your credentials allow you to do the coffee runs and grunt work. You don't see any you aren't seen.

"We need to get in there..." Everett growls.

"No shit," Barnes retorts.

The two men scowl at each other. Jensen inhales nervously and Fowler sits back as he notices the freshly renewed cup. You clean up the empties as the agents fester in frustration.

"The woman." Fowler says and pauses to lick away a droplet of coffee from his lip. "That's the in."

"And what do you propose? This isn't your Tinder profile--" Barnes chides.

Fowler scoffs. "Jealous?" He sets his cup down and taps the side. "That's not what I mean but you know it's probably the easiest way in..."

Everett rolls his eyes and the other men groan. Fowler arches a brow and looks around as you drop the empty cups into the bin. The hollow clatter draws his attention. His cheek dimples.

"Mace is too old. Walker likes them young, doesn't he? All the other agents look like moms or worse, widows."

"Charming," Jensen comments.

"More than you, pal. Tell us again how Willa shot you down." Fowler rebuffs. Jensen sinks down.

You head for the door and something taps the table.

Your name stops you short. You nearly let out a squeak. You didn't think any of them knew it. You typically respond to the call of "intern" or snapping fingers.

You turn slowly. "Sir, is it the coffee?"

"Come here." He ignores your offer for a second run.

You glance around, wilting beneath the gazes of seniority. You cross the room, playing mindlessly with the security badge clipped to your belt, and approach Fowler. He spins his finger as you near.

“Spin.” He stands.

You take a step back but obey. You face the other agents and squirm. Fowler grabs your blouse at the sides and pulls it taut around your middle. You look down as your eyes round.

“Huh?” You utter.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” He asks.

You blink and shrug. You’re so confused and embarrassed you can barely think of the number. “Twenty-three, sir.”

“Bout the same age as Walker’s plaything.”

“Fowler, what are you on about?” Barnes crosses his arms and leans back, leg swaying.

“I know I’m the only one who can pull it off,” Fowler steps up beside you and slings his arm around your waist. You chafe and clasp your wrist to keep from collapsing. His other hand comes up to slide off your glasses. “Pop in some contacts, get some gloss on those lips,” he pokes your mouth with the end of the your glasses’ arm, “short dress…”

“She’s a goddamn intern,” Everett argues.

“Which means she’ll be believable as the mindless bimbo on my arm.” Fowler chuckles.

“Um, sir…” you protest weakly.

“Relax, honey. It comes with a pay raise.” He squeezes your side. “Besides, you’re young. Live a little.”

“The director’s never going to bite,” Everett snorts.

“Really? Maybe if you ask but she likes me.” Fowler folds up your glasses and hooks them over his jacket pocket. His arm slowly drags from around you. “We need to get in and we’re not gonna waltz in smelling of fuzz. So… she’s our way. Get in with the girlfriend or whatever.”

You sniff and frown.

“She’s gonna blow it. Look at her.” Barnes shakes his head.

“I got time to train her up right,” Fowler grins as he grips his hips. “Boys, how many times have I got shit done? Whole lot more than any of you.”

“If you exclude Barcelona,” Everett sneers.

“And Capetown.” Barnes adds.

You look around. “Um…”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Leave it to me.” Fowler turns and taps the tip of your nose. “I’ll get your clearance… and a stylist.” He saunters back and sits down. He lifts his coffee and you wring your hands.

“Uh, sir, my glasses…” You eke out.

He smirks. “Get rid of them.” He slides them off his pocket and holds them out. You take them and nod. “Good girl.”

👄

As much as your reticence keeps you in the background, it can just as easily get you into trouble. Your passiveness is hardly a defense to someone like Fowler. When he says something, he has no question that it will be heard. When he makes a decision, there’s not a single doubt that it’s what will happen.

It all goes by in a terrible whirlwind that leaves you breathless. You’re disoriented as you find yourself in a hotel room staring at a dress with too many straps. You cross your arms tightly as you chew your lip.

A soft noise brings your eyes up to the mirror to your right. Past the reflection of your new haircut and perfectly glowy face, you watch Fowler strap on his shoulder holster. Your nerves roil in your chest and you fidget. You look back to the dress and touch the glimmery fabric.

“Just follow my lead,” he says, for what would be the dozenth time. “We’ve gone over this.”

“Yes, sir.” You bring your thumb up to bite.

“No. No, sirs. I’m Tate and you’re Arielle. Remember the briefing.” He commands.

You flinch and look at him. “Sorry, I’m… I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. I got you.” He assures as he slides his gun into his holster.

You look down again. You pick up the dress and hide in the bathroom. You change into the tight fit and face your reflection. You look ridiculous. All you can see is cleavage and thigh.

“Arielle, honey,” Fowler calls to you as the low hum of music comes from the suite. “Can’t hide all night.”

You sigh and close your eyes. You gather what courage you have and go back out. Fowler has his jacket on as he skips the track on his phone. A slow R&B groove plays as you sit and pull on the too high shoes.

“Come on,” He beckons to you.

“What?” You stare at him. “I can’t dance.”

““Why don’t you try it and see what happens. Gotta make it believable.”

“Er… I don’t know.” You struggle to stand but gain your balance. Despite practicing in heels for weeks, you’re still unsteady.

“Don’t know how to dance? Jeez, honey, you’re too damn young not to do anything.” He nears and grabs your hand. He pulls you against him. “Just feel the music.

“Sir– Tate.” You babble.

“Like this.” He grips your hip and presses your pelvis into him, guiding your arm over his other shoulder. “Close, sway with me.” 

You could melt as his warmth clouds around you and the scent of his cologne fills your nose. You mimic him as best you can, falling into the rhythm. He squeezes your hip, fingers stretching onto the cushion of your rear. He growls and inhales along your hair. His nose traces your forehead.

“Like that, good girl.” He coaxes as he moves you with him. “Pull your hand down, touch my chest.” He directs. You obey and feel his muscle through the layers. His collar is undone and shows off the top of his muscled chest. “Is that so hard?” He asks.

“Um… no, it’s… it’s okay,” you say.

“Well…” He moves his hand across the back of your skirt. “I know I am.”

He chuckles and kisses your forehead. You wince and push on his chest. Does he mean what you think? He snickers and squeezes your ass before he lets go.

“Gotta get used to it, honey,” he rubs his fingertips with his thumb. “Gonna have to play this out. Make it believable.”

“I know, I’m trying…”

I could see Bryce's omega coming from a wealthy background/having connections. Maybe marrying him off is a way to keep him out of trouble after he gets caught up in some shady stuff. His grandfather is having none of it, and is ready to write Bryce out of his will if he doesn't settle down and agree to this.

Okay super AU for this one butttt what if Steve's sassy omega actually kind of fake adopts smol!Steve 🥹 Maybe he's a new hire at the omega clinic where she works, and because of his small size and health issues, he gets picked on a lot by some of the alphas and betas, and well, our girl ain't having none of that.

Far enough. Deep enough.

You shiver and grip the metal beneath you. Just one push and it all goes away. You sniff, head so full it hurts, and breathe out through your lips. You can taste the river water.

One push.

One.

You can do it.

For once in your life, do something. A simple fall, a short end. That's all that's ahead of you. There's nothing else left for you. There never was anything for you. You never did anything.

So do this and be done with it. You close your eyes. You feel the rivets in the metal. You roll your shoulders.

"Well then." You say and push off.

Before you can plunge through nothingness and into the depths, a snag jars you. You dangle from some unseen obstacle, whimpering at the wrench that has your spine and neck ringing. You flail like a cat and look up at the unexpected safe fall.

The man is hunched and shadowed like a gargoyle on a stone building. You kick your legs and grab his hand, prying at in bendable fingers with a sob. "What are you doing?"

He says nothing. With no effort at all, he hauls you back onto the metal. You kick and smack at his grip. He ignores you.

"Let me go!" You plead. "I just want to go."

Not a word. Not a look. You couldn't see it in the shadow of the bridge if there was.

"Let me go." You beg weakly as you grasp wrists.

He flicks away your struggles and grabs your throat. You gasp. He squeezes until you can't breathe. Maybe he can still give you that escape.

You let your hands fall away. He tightens his hold until your throat burns and your head pounds. He lets you go and you fall back limp on your back, one leg dangling over the edge. He clucks.

Your vision pulses and your ears ring. He moves around you. He brings your hands together then your feet. You shiver and try to pull them apart. You can't.

"Why?" You croak.

The silence stirs with the noise of the water and the groan of the metal under his weight. He moves over you, feeling your pockets and clothing. He stops, his hand on your shoulder. His voice grates through the night as something dry and coarse fills your mouth.

“You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”

💓

You sink into a haze. Shock, dread, resignation. You wonder if maybe you did make it to the water and this is some twisted after life…

What else could it be? No one knew. No one cared. You didn’t tell anyone what you meant to do. Didn’t even write it in your diary. You just made up your mind. You just wanted it over.

Your lashes flutter as your eyes zero in. It’s all too real to be the last flashes of your synapses clinging to consciousness. The room is dim but vivid. Shadows gather in the mortar between thick cinder bricks; the air is still and frigid, and the chair beneath you is hard and unforgiving.

Your finger twitches and the tendon in your wrist strains. Your arms are trapped, your ankles too. Metal binds you to the wooden frame of the chair, another around your neck and forehead.

You shift futilely. What sick fate is this? Is it irony? You were so ready to give it all up that someone else stole your life away?

A sudden crackle makes you flinch. A light radiates in your vision and static fills a square screen. You blink, unable to move your head against the metal binding. You gulp as the black and grey speckles ache in your vision.

The monochrome dots blip away and white lines run up a black screen, a low click each time they reach the top of the screen. They ripple, the waves growing more intense until a vision fills the frame.

The silhouette of a bride in her veil kissing her groom appears beneath the classical wedding overture. A sterile voice says a single word as the image lingers. “Longing.” The couple begin to dance, feed each other cake, and the husband carries his wife over the threshold.

“Tidy.” The voice says.

The scene changes. A jacket being hung. Bristles dragging on tile. A tub full of bubbles surrounded by candles. The camera pans in on the spinning laundry through the window of a machine, making your dizzy.

“One.”

A man’s face flashes; blue eyes, sharp jawline, dark hair.

“Dawn.”

The morning beams warmly through windows, illuminating another pair of silhouettes before the scene switches to a garden and a trickling birdbath. The stir of water tickles in your ears and sends a cool flow down your spine.

“Apron.”

Thick hands tie the strings of an apron against a checkered dress, slowly looping and winding the bow, laying out the tails perfectly.

“His.”

The man’s eyes blink and disappear.

“Obey.”

A belt is pulled from the loops of a pair of trousers and bent in the same large hand, slapping the palm with an echoing noise.

“Bed.”

Pillows drop onto a bed, blankets are dragged down to the end, petals flutter onto the floor at the base of the frame.

“Only.”

The man again, arms outstretched.

“Home.”

The vision of a house, unmoving, standing on the screen, bold, so still it must be a picture. It stays there as the audio cuts out. The silence scrapes in your ear until you squirm then all at once it evaporates.

A whisper slowly rises from the speakers; “home, home, home, home.” The voice gets louder and louder and louder; until your eyes water and your ear drums thrum. Then, silence again. And darkness.

You sit in the void, shaking. You close your eyes and shudder. Then hear the television flick on again.

“Longing.”

💓

She’s soft, pliant as he leads her into the light. She shies away and he coaxes her further. She leans on him. She doesn’t notice that his arm doesn’t belong to him.

He takes her into the large bathroom and sits her on the small bench with the drawers in the bottom. Her clothes are dingy with the stale remnants of the river’s mist. That day on the bridge only remains in the soiled fabric.

As he tries to pull away, she grabs onto him. Her lashes flick wide. Bucky knows that look. He used to see it in the mirror. That glassy distance. On her, it’s not so bad.

“Doll, I’m just gonna get you washed up.”

She stares at him and nods, her hands slipping down his forearm. The sensation is like cool rain on a hot day, or sunshine after a grey winter. He smiles. Her lips tremble then she does the same.

“Yes, honey.” She lowers her hands to her lap and stares ahead.

He begins. He cuts off her clothes. She does react. Not even as he pauses to admire those parts of her that make him salivate.

When he is done with that, he fills the large basin of the tub. He goes to her but thinks twice of getting her up just yet. He undresses then goes to her.

He brings her in the tub with him. He can take his time. He doesn’t have to hurry. He leans her against him and sighs. She’s stiff and squirmy. He runs his hands up her sides.

“Doll, relax. I got you.”

He feels her obey. She slackens against his chest and lets her head rest on his shoulder. He strokes her stomach.

“Good.” He praises as he draws little swirls on her skin.

This is all he wanted. To feel someone close. To have someone who can never go away. To not have to be afraid.

Ivy greets you as you pass by her pulling weeds from her garden. You wave, one hand still on your walker, and say good morning.  You continue on, leaning into the metal frame as you roll the wheels over the cracks.

You turn onto the main street and focus on the wooden sign jutting out from the center. You noticed a few weeks ago when it went up. The banner announcing the grand opening has since been disposed of. You avoided the furour of the exciting premier, knowing you would only get jostled, even lost, in the chaos.

Now you feel good enough to make it down. Not without real purpose. You desperately need to do a shop after procrastinating for far too long. 

You pause and wait for Len to pass in his dusty white truck. He gives a beep and a wave. Sometimes, he’ll drive you back home if he catches you on the way. He’s one of the nice ones; one of those who see you. Then there are those who pretend they don’t.

You cross and push your wheels over the curb. You can feel the inflammation in your hips already. You make slow progress along the crooked sidewalk. It dips at points and in places the grass along the edge is higher than the pavement.

You slow as you get close to the bakery and admire the handpainted calligraphy on the sign; Brooklyn’s Best Bakery. You stop in front of the windows and look at the baskets of buns and rolls on display. You can smell it all as the door opens after a customer.

You press on as a couple approaches. The man holds the door for the woman and follows her through. You try to catch the door after them and it hits your walker and knocks you back. The bell jangles above.

You wrench your walker away and let the door close. It’s not the first time it’s happened. You thought they would’ve seen you hurrying to get in after them. Of course, you can’t expect everyone to hold the door but you weren’t that far behind.

You angle and open the door, using your back to keep it open. You push on it and pull your walker close, turning it through the door. You grunt as you lift the wheels over the high step that leads inside.

As you roll through, the door swings shut and spurs you forward. You hit a shelf with the wheel and steady yourself. You check to make sure you didn’t knock anything over.

To your surprise and disappointment, there’s a line. Oh well, you have to wait. Other people exist too.

You join the line and turn your walker to sit on the seat, your bag dangling from the handle. You rub your hips and lean to the side. The last x-ray showed degeneration at the base of your spine and in your tailbone, a little in your hips.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice comes through.

You sit up but can’t see past the couple in front of you. The woman points to the croissants in the display as the man’s hand rests on her lower back. He doesn’t seem to be listening as he reads the chalkboard sign above the counter.

“‘Scuse me,” the same voice grits and several bodies shuffle apart in the queue. “Hey, you.”

You blink and look over, startled. You peek back, thinking maybe you didn’t see the mess you made after all.

 You twist back as a man approaches in an apron. The red fabric is dusted with flour and other ingredients. He’s tall, his shoulders broad, and a dark beard trims his jaw. He wears a short sleeve shirt over a tank top, exposing tattoos on his chest and arms.

“You,” he points at the man ahead of you. “That wasn’t very polite.”

“Huh?” The man ahead of you snorts. You think his name is Donny or… Dustin?

“You dropped the door on another customer.” The man crosses his arms.

“Who?” Wait, his name is Devin, replies hotly.

“This lady right here,” the man in the apron points at you. “I’m sure you saw her.”

“Dude, I didn’t see her–.”

“How do you know you didn’t drop it on her if you didn’t see her?” The man’s forearms bulge.

“It was an accident.”

“So now you did see her?”

“No. I… look, uh,” Devin turns. “I’m sorry, really.” As he looks down at you, you stand, feeling smaller than ever. “I didn’t see you and if the door hit you–”

“It did.” The aproned man insists.

“I didn’t see you and I’m sorry I hit you with the door.” Devin scoffs and looks at the man. “Happy?”

“Not really,” the man retorts. “Get your food and get out.”

Devin huffs again and shakes his head. He mumbles as the woman beside him shifts away.

“Excuse me?” The man in the apron drops his arms. “You wanna say something, make sure I can hear you.”

“I said you’re a fucking tight ass.” Devin retorts.

“Common decency is being a tight ass? Well then, you can just go.” The man grabs Devin by his hoodie and drags him between a set of shelves.

There isn’t much of a struggle as the cafe employee is much stronger, even if he’s not as heavy as Devin’s rounder build. He shoves the door open and hurls Devin through. He claps his hands then turns back.

“You’re more than welcome to stay and order,” he says to the woman as he approaches. “And whatever you’re getting,” the man stops by you. “It’s on the house.”

“What? No. It’s… okay.” You babble dumbly, surprised at being addressed.

“Not okay. Not in my joint.” He sneers.

“Um, okay, uh, thank you, sir. You really didn’t have to–”

“I did,” he says and offers his hand. “Steve Rogers. It’s my place, my rules.”

You lean back on your walker, keeping your hand on one side and shake his hand. He squeezes and you nearly dissemble in his grip. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and utter your name out of courtesy.

His cheek dimples as he nods. “Pretty. I’m almost finished a batch of strawberry turnovers. That’s my recommendation.” He lets go.

A tiny, quiet mew. 

Perking up, you tentatively moved further down the hall, further away from the party and deeper into the opulent manor belonging to the party host, who was a complete stranger to you and probably just as terrible as Curtis. 

A few more yards and half a dozen quiet meows later, you stepped into what looked like a child’s room. Just across the floor, clambering out of a plush cat bed, was a tiny white kitten who only meowed louder when it saw you. 

“Oh my gosh!” You breathed, a genuine smile splitting your lips as you rushed across the large room and sank to your knees without care. 

Why should you care if the expensive, fancy gown Curtis had picked out for you was now pooling on the floor? Or that the sweet little ball of excitement hopping toward you would likely get fur all over it? 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you had seen a kitten, let alone played with one. Probably not since you were a child, and in this moment, you felt as innocent and carefree as one as you cooed at the furry baby and lifted it between your hands to get a better look at it. 

“Aren’t you just the cutest thing?” You gushed as the kitten continued to wiggle and chirp some more under your full attention. 

Giggling, you cradled it against your chest, giving it gentle scritches atop its head. When it started to purr–much louder than you expected from such a tiny creature–you outright laughed for the first time in you couldn’t remember how long. 

Soon, you were giggling and cooing up a storm–completely uninhibited in a way you hadn’t been in so, so long–as the kitten squirmed from your hold and began to jump and pounce along the folds of your dress that you used as a makeshift toy to entertain it. 

And that’s how Curtis found you minutes later. 

Sat on the floor, your gown spread around you as you giggled and played with the kitten, completely oblivious to his presence and the way he watched you for a few long moments, mesmerized. 

Because in all the months that you had been with him, Curtis had never heard you giggle or laugh. He had never seen you smile so freely and without reserve. He had never heard you talk in a silly baby voice or see you be so gentle with such a vulnerable creature. 

It was like you had escaped the dark shadows of his world–the mob underbelly–and returned to your rightful place, one that allowed your light to shine–and that light, it was such a rare commodity in Curtis’ world.

It allowed him to witness a new side to you, which only made him want to possess you more ardently than ever before. It made Curtis want to greedily claim you and covet that pure light of yours all for himself, like a dragon hoarding a precious treasure.

Without realizing it, he took a step toward you, his weight making the floor creak and alerting you to his presence. 

Your head snapped up, and as soon as you saw him, your smile dropped. The joy that had lit your face was instantly snuffed out as you protectively cradled the kitten against your chest and stared at Curtis in fear. 

“Please, I’m sorry—“ you started, but he cut you off with a wave of his hand. 

“Relax, pretty prize.” Curtis kept his steps slow and even as he moved closer. “Seems like you snuck away and found the best company at this thing.”

You were stunned–and wary–as Curtis crouched beside you and reached out his big hand. It was a protective instinct that you didn’t have time to think better of or suppress, recoiling from him and taking the kitten with you. 

But Curtis just seemed amused as he watched you, his eyes gleaming as his lips twitched and he murmured, “You think I’d hurt it?”

“Can you blame me?” you replied without thinking, your own eyes widening as you cursed having touched even a sip of alcohol if this was the result–being dangerously bold with someone who could truly make you pay for it. 

Smirking, Curtis held your gaze as he once again reached out, clocking the way you stiffened but didn’t recoil this time as he used one long, lone finger to gently pet along the kitten’s head. 

You deflated with a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as the kitten began another round of loud purrs, and it seemed as if you thankfully hadn’t stoked Curtis’ ire by hiding away in here and then practically sassing him due to your less than sober state.

All too soon, Curtis was lifting the sleeping kitten from your hold, grinning as you pouted at him but didn’t object as he moved to place the kitten in its bed. Your lips tilted into an almost smile as you watched the kitten turn in circles a few times before eventually curling up and falling into a peaceful, sound sleep. 

You were so busy watching the kitten, you didn’t realize Curtis was just as avidly watching you. Not until he stroked your cheek just as softly as he had petted the kitten just moments ago, and you turned to him to find his darker-than-normal gaze intently fixed on you.

“Sometimes I forget how sweet you are,” he husked, his knuckles gently drawing down the length of your throat and making you shiver. 

It was instant the way your body perked up in awareness—throbbing with a shameful interest and need—as Curtis continued to gently touch you. Until you were squirming and avoiding his gaze, wishing that he didn’t have such a primal effect on you always. 

After everything. 

“You look very pretty tonight,” he murmured, gently stroking beneath your chin before tilting your shy gaze up to meet his. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. 

Your eyes started to fall away again, but Curtis’ touch shifted, until he was gently gripping the front of your neck and holding your head aloft. 

Your gasp was sharp and startled—scared—as you met his gaze. “Please,” you trembled. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Oh, I don’t want to hurt you,” Curtis hummed. “I want to make you feel good.”

You were startled for an entirely different reason now as Curtis swiftly rose to his feet, gripping your hand to take you along with him. A moment later, you were down the hall in a spare bedroom, pressed up against the closed door as Curtis kissed you so hungrily, there was no other word for it than ravished.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the reprieve from prying eyes and gossip that had greeted you at the start of the night–or maybe it was just your traitorous body finally luring your frazzled mind to the dark side–but when Curtis’ hand began to descend your body, when it worked its way beneath the long folds of your skirt, then between your thighs, you welcomed his sinful touch. 

You begged for it. 

“Please,” you gasped, your head falling back as Curtis’ lips blazed a hot trail of kisses down your throat.

“You’ve got me aching, I’m so hard for you,” Curtis gristled against your neck, giving a nip sharp enough to make you whine in need before his tongue soothed over your skin. 

You were so wet by the time Curtis sank into you, that he bottomed out in one slow, deep thrust that had you both moaning as his forehead dropped to yours. You panted and squirmed as your pussy fluttered and clamped around him, earning another throaty groan from Curtis before he started to move inside of you. 

He kept his promise and didn’t hurt you, but your coupling was quick and rough–desperatre. Your bodies rutted against one another, your moans smothered against each other's lips until you were cumming with a sharp cry of delight and clinging to Curtis’ broad shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring you to this moment. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, burying himself as deep inside your cunt as he could before giving shallow ruts as he came and pumped you full of his seed. 

You shivered as the warmth of his pleasure bloomed inside of you, making your pussy flutter all over again as you sank back against the door, completely boneless and dazed to boot.

And–as Curtis had promised–feeling good. 

So good that you didn’t want this moment to end, and when Curtis went to pull away, you clung to him, giving sleepy blinks and a discontent pout that made his lips twitch and his eyes dance at you. 

“Come on, pretty prize, this party’s a bust, and I’d much rather get you home where I can eat your sweet, needy cunt at my leisure.”

Laughing as he felt you clench in response to his words, Curtis finally pulled away. He took a moment to put himself back together again, then another moment to do the same for you. 

When he glanced up, Curtis found you watching him with a furrow between your brow. Whether it was due to his rare, gentle caretaking, or your own contentment in this moment, he wasn’t sure, but regardless, he caught your chin with his fingers and leaned in to kiss you slowly. 

You made a soft, sweet sound of surprise against his lips that had Curtis smirking as he pulled away, and when you swayed after him–mindlessly chasing his retreat–a deep rumble of satisfaction vibrated his chest as he touched his lips to your forehead and hummed, “You’re so fucking sweet.”

Then, much like you had started the evening, you ended it nearly the same way–with Curtis’ thick arm curled around your waist. Only this time, he was leading you from the room–and the party altogether–shouldering most of your weight as you struggled to walk on your jelly-like legs, uncaring of the numerous gazes and judgemental whispers that accompanied your departure.  

He’s such a mindfuck 😩 But also: I’m so here for it. 

NEXT PART

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