I put nine acorns in a bag

Leon turns his stool around, setting his whiskey down next to a puddle of beer. He doesn’t need to watch what you’re doing, now. Next initiative; standby, wait for your exit.

He throws the last of his whiskey back, gesturing for a refill. It’ll do nothing to quell the writhing in his gut, but he’s learned to ignore it.

Fucking Black Jacket & Glasses.

Speak of the devil.

The man appears at Leon’s left, flagging down the bartender and ordering something fruity and strong. Leon side-eyes the guy, sour. He knows you can hold your own, but he doesn’t like the zero to sixty of it.

Going for blind drunk, huh? Working with some deficits?

The guy doesn’t order anything for himself. No card, no tab; he pays cash. He also doesn’t tip, folding a thick wad of small bills away before walking off. Leon snorts into his whiskey glass, the golden liquor thick and warm as it slides over his tongue.

What a catch.

He stays at the bar, hunched, a passive observer to the raucous, bustling life around him. He rations his whiskey, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the glass. Once, he catches your reflection in the mirror among the liquor shelves; your arms are up, dancing, Black Jacket & Glasses tight against your back.

He avoids the mirror.

Leon counts two more of the fruity, strong drinks leaving by BJ&G’s hand before he finally spots you heading for the door on the guy’s arm. You glance back, the usual acknowledgement. You’re leaning into Black Jacket’s side like you’re more than a few sheets gone, but your eyes are keen and alert when they meet Leon’s. You’re still in control.

Leon subtly raises his glass in a tiny ‘cheers’ gesture, only half looking your way.

You disappear into the night.

Leon looks down at his watch. He always stays for another fifteen, in case you come back.

He lifts his finger for another drink, shoulders low.

You’ve never come back.

His name is Jon, with no H. Lazy.

The hair at the crown of his head is thinning, but it’s just started, and it’s subtle. He missed a patch at the back of his jaw shaving, and he dances a little stiff, like he’s counting time or remembering choreography. To grind?

But it’s not nothing he’s working with while he grinds. So.

And he’s handsome enough. Athletic. Nice hands. You wish he had some scruff, a ticklish bristle to tease your neck while you were dancing, maybe some broader shoulders. But nobody’s perfect.

As soon as you’re out in the night air, he wraps his arm at your waist. It’s kind of tight. Not supportive, like he's just helping you walk after three (strong) drinks. No, it's a little bit… captive.

Like he expects you to run.

“I’m parked around back, baby.”

He steers you towards the dark alley that flanks the bar. There is parking at the back, but there’s also now a flag waving at the back of your mind.

It’s red.

“Ooo, hold on, hold on,” you say, and you keep it giggly. You stumble to a stop before the mouth of the alley, digging in your purse, making a show of it. “Shit. I think I left my card.” You didn’t.

His hand tightens at your waist, a little clench. Involuntary.

“It’s probably in there,” he says of your purse. “Come on, it’s dark out here. You can look in the car.”

He’s pressing you towards the alley with the bar of his arm. You keep your stance subtly wide, resisting.

“I think I left it on the bar,” you say, less giggly, more serious. “I shouldn't leave it, I’ll be right–“

You start to step out of his grasp and he redoubles it, crowding in close to mouth at your neck.

“Come on, baby. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

“Jon, just let me–“

He shoves you past the threshold of sodium light, into the heavy shadow of the alley, and follows.

Leon glances up when the bar door swings open. He straightens, watching you push through the crowd, reading your tension, noting the hair fallen loose over your forehead.

You touch the firm, comforting heat of his shoulder, stealing his drink and knocking it back. You’ve put him between you and the door and your eyes are on it, sharp.

His eyes are on your hand with his stolen glass.

Your knuckles are busted.

Leon barely has time to open his mouth before the door swings open again, spitting Black Jacket & Glasses back into the bar.

Black Jacket & Busted Nose. His glasses are broken, clutched in his hand, and he’s holding his stomach, hunched over.

There’s murder in his eyes.

“Oh, fuck.” Leon deftly wraps you around behind him, and the motion draws Jon’s attention. Leon stands up, walling you off entirely. He’s taller than Jon. Definitely broader.

“Looks like she said no, buttercup.”

Jon’s apparently not firing on all cylinders, because he acts like he’s going to square up to Leon.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Your next problem, unless you walk away.”

“That bitch owes me for the drinks.”

“Ooh, keep talking,” Leon says, low and dangerous, just as you step out from behind him, pissed off.

“That’s not how it fucking works, jackass,” you say, putting extra sauce on the fricative. “Take the L and go, you creep.”

Jon smiles, condescending, and there’s blood on his teeth.

“I’m not leaving without my money, sweetheart.”

“Better start selling blowies in the bathroom, then, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re not getting anything from me.”

The confrontation’s drawn a small audience, because of course it has. You’re not being quiet. Some women nearby holler YEAH in dark delight, and some guy whistles.

Jon growls and lunges forward, but you’d read the intention and you’re already in motion.

You step back, pressing Leon up against the bar as you shove his empty barstool forward with your foot. Jon trips over it and goes tumbling gracelessly to the floor, tangled, and voices raise in surprise and curiosity as nearby patrons back quickly out of the way or crane to see what the commotion is.

The bartender’s not having it.

“HEY! Take that the fuck outside! Get out!”

You raise your hands in surrender, heading for the door and shouldering out into the night without looking back.

Leon eases away from the bartop. It leaves a harsh impression at the small of his back. He feels it less than the lingering weight of your body, your heat down his front.

When he steps outside, you’re not there.

Oh. No, you are, you’re just halfway down the sidewalk, doing your Fast Angry Walk.

“Hey,” you hear him say, but you don’t slow down. You’re seething.

“Fuck that guy.”

He catches up, keeping pace beside you. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“What did he–“

“Unlock the car.”

You’re standing at the Porsche parked on the curb, your hand on the passenger’s side handle. Leon pulls the key from his pocket and the lights flash; you get in and shut the door, firm, knocking your skull back against the headrest once. Frustrated.

Contained. You move your hand with the busted knuckles onto your lap. It’s throbbing, hot and stinging. You hide it under your other hand, loose.

Leon gets in on the driver’s side, another car swishing past on the road, uncomfortably close. He shuts out the night and bubbles you both into an intimate quiet.

He glances in the rearview.

“What did he try.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Let me see your hand.”

You think about refusing, continuing to play avoidance, but the adrenaline is waning and you don’t want to pick a fight. Not with Leon. You sigh through your nose and set your hand on his waiting palm.

His thumb is gentle, running parallel to the broken skin. Even in the low light you can see the dark beginnings of bruising.

You don’t regret it. You’d do it again. Harder.

“We should be icing this.”

“I’ll live.”

You both look up when you hear shouting down the street; Leon ducks to see by the rearview and you lean forward to check the side mirror, looking back towards the bar. Jon is out on the curb, arms waving, belligerent. He’s standing in a perfect rectangle of yellow light from the door of the bar, propped open by whoever threw him out. His broken glasses are on the sidewalk; he bends to swipe them up, still raging, but the yellow light narrows into nothing and then leaves him in the dark to yell at the disinterested brick facade, alone.

You sit back, shutting your eyes.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“What a waste of a night.”

You hear Leon’s clothes rustle; he’s checking his watch.

“Still early.”

You roll your head to look at him, his face in shadow save for a vague streetlight-orange highlight tracing his jaw, his nose, catching the shine on his lips.

You lift your busted hand.

"I should be icing this.”

Leon starts the car.

“Roger.”

So, everything’s gonna be a trial now.

It's your dominant hand you’d busted on that jackass’ face; it’s turning the simple task of unlocking your apartment door into an impossible puzzle of painful workarounds. You give up and try your non-dominant hand. You’ve almost got it, and then you fumble and drop the keys onto the coir mat.

“Come on.”

You hear a car door and then Leon’s coming up the steps behind you, taking them two at a time.

“Here.”

He unlocks the door and swings it open, leaving the keys hanging in the deadbolt. You grab them on your way past but leave the door wide open, heading for the kitchen. You thought it was a clear invitation but Leon isn’t following. You roll your eyes and call out to him.

“Mr. Chivalry. You got somewhere to be?”

You’re carefully arranging your busted hand flat on the countertop, weighing it down with an icepack, when he joins you in the kitchen. He’s left his coat in the foyer.

Thank god. You didn’t want to be alone.

“I’m hungry and I’m not putting in the effort,” you tell him, bending over your phone on the counter and pulling up a delivery app. “What’s good one-handed food?”

“I could always spoon-feed you,” Leon says, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms. You throw him a look.

“Let’s save that for the nursing home.” You scroll past a menu photo that snags your attention; you scroll back up. “Ooo, fuck. We’re doing that.”

You put the order in and straighten up, lifting the icepack and checking your hand. It’s even more stiff than it was, cold and swollen. You eye the purpling bruises, the cracking scabs, the violent picture it all makes in the bright light of the kitchen, and remember the crunch of the would-be one-night-stand’s nose, the way it seemed to reverberate up your arm.

Leon’s mind seems to be on a similar track.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” he says.

“Yeah, you’re not an asshole,” you say, stashing the icepack and heading down the hall to your bedroom. You wanna get cozy before eating your weight in expensive takeout.

So then of course you can’t get a handle on the fucking zipper of your dress.

Leon’s quietly perusing the exploded gallery that is your fridge doors – photos, postcards, receipts, novelty magnets, save-the-dates, recipes, stupid doodles on post-it notes – when you come back out.

“I’m starting to regret my life of crime,” you tell him, and turn your back. “Help.”

His fingers brush your skin as he gets the zipper started. You keep your head tipped down, holding the front of the dress in place as the sides come apart and gape open at the back.

“Hey,” he says, and you feel his fingers press by your low shoulderblade. It burns and you flinch, turning your head like you can see anything without a mirror.

“What is that?”

He pushes the fabric aside, his thumb tracing a frame around something on your skin.

“That bastard forced you into the wall, didn’t he.”

“Goddamn it,” you mutter. You need a mirror.

He follows you to the bathroom, watching you twist to try to see your back, catching the tiny slump of your shoulders when you see it.

“Great.”

There’s a livid scrape the size of a matchbook where you’d caught the brick wall of the alleyway. It’s red and raw like rug burn.

Leon’s tone is tight, to match his jaw.

“Where’s your first aid?”

“Under the sink,” you say. You’re not going to argue, not going to insist you can do it yourself. It’d be a difficult spot to reach even with full mobility in both hands. You can let him take care of you.

You stand out of the way, still holding the front of your open dress, feeling a bit like a child watching someone else clean up your mess. First aid open on the sinktop, Leon rotates you gently, hands on your waist, to put your back in better lighting. You hear a foil packet tear open.

“It’s cold,” he warns you, and he’s right. You hiss when the antiseptic touches, stinging against your raw skin, but he soothes the wipe over it until the burning fades and all you can feel is the way he’s touching you. Careful, thorough.

Tender.

He rips open a card-sized bandage, places it methodically, smooths the adhesive edges down. You shiver, your skin raising goosebumps under his fingers.

“Okay,” he says, quiet. You open your eyes. When did you close them?

“You’re not gonna kiss it better?”

You go to throw him a smirk in the mirror, because you’re joking.

He must've missed it. He’s getting down on his knees.

Your pulse picks up.

“Leon,” you start to say, but you don’t know where to go with it. You were kidding. Maybe you don’t want to be. Don’t stop?

Don’t stop.

His hands are on your hips. There’s heat coiling low in your belly.

He kisses over the patch of the bandage. It’s not right. You can’t feel it.

“Lower,” you whisper.

His lips are warm and soft brushing your skin, his breath humid, his scruff a pleasant rasp that makes you shiver hard. Your breath tumbles from your open mouth.

He slips his hands under the open sides of your dress, palms dry against your naked skin, fingertips pressing in. He kisses over your spine, follows the low curve of your ribs, climbs to your shoulderblade, his mouth leaving wet impressions. You’re swaying, body warming, your heart thumping wildly.

“More,” you breathe.

He stands to mouth at your shoulder where it meets your neck, his hands sliding over your stomach under the dress, hugging you back against him.

You let go of the dress. He slides his hand up between your breasts, tips your head back. You receive his tongue with yours, meeting his kiss, and your body ignites.

God, you’re already soaked. You can feel the air of the bathroom cold against the wet fabric of your panties. You’re also feeling something else, pressed flush as you are against Leon’s front. You shift your hips, rubbing your ass against his fly, and he breathes hot into your mouth. You smile, grinding firmer on the hardening line of his cock.

“What’s that on my six?”

His fingers slip into the creases under your asscheeks, squeezing you, lifting as he rocks against you.

“It’s at least a ten,” he says, voice smoky and right by your ear.

“Damn right.” The roll of his body is hypnotizing, but he’s still wearing far too many clothes. You reach back, tugging his shirt from his waistband, and he lets you go so you can turn, helping him take it all the way off. He wraps it around his wrists, belting it under your ass, keeping you trapped. Like you want to go anywhere.

“Fuck, look at you,” he says, low.

“You’re one to talk.” The jingle of his belt echoes, your fingers deft as you open it, open his jeans, pushing the sides wide. You run your hand over his shaft, already straining the front of his boxer briefs, and he watches your face with half-lidded eyes, lips parted. You lean in, brushing his lips with your own, stealing his groan when you dip your hand under his waistband and squeeze him, so hot and full and satin-soft.

His hands are back on your ass, twin handfuls pulling and squeezing as he kisses you, and you laugh into his mouth.

“Can I interest you in something?”

You feel his teeth, nipping at your lips.

“Bend over the counter,” he tells you.

“Fuck.” Yeah, you’ll do that.

He smooths his hands down your back, going wide to avoid the bandage, and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs. You step out of them, kicking them to one side, and feel his hands on your thighs, widening your stance. He kisses the rise of your ass, gently squeezing the flesh in his teeth, and travels lower.

“Hips back.”

You give a breathy moan at the first touch of his mouth to your drenched pussy. He kisses you there, firming his tongue to tease your clit, laving back through your folds and sucking light, releasing with a pop. You cry out when he turns his head, breaching you with his tongue, humming, fucking you with it before easing back, breathing out hot against you. You feel his teeth scraping your ass cheek again.

“Fuck, you taste sweet."

“You’re gonna spoil your dinner,” you gasp out, almost delirious. You moan when he rubs through your dripping slick with his fingers, slowly pushing one inside you. You rock back against it, fucking yourself on it, greedy.

“God. More, Leon. Stand up.”

His second finger stretches you; your hips stutter, breath hitching, then you press back and take him to the knuckles, groaning.

“Fuck.” He’s thrusting shallowly into your grip, your good hand tight around his cock, his waistband shoved down under his balls. You look back over your shoulder, watching the flushed pink head of his dick as it pushes through the tight circle of your fist, his tip leaking. You rub your thumb through it and he drops his head back, the luxuriant roll of his body almost too much for you to watch, his belt buckle clinking, cold against the back of your thigh.

“Jesus, Leon.”

You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he gasps, looking down at you, chest flushed pink, eyes completely blown.

That’s too much.

His back hits the wall; you’re shoving his clothes down his legs and off, his belt smacking the baseboard when you fling his pants away. You grab his shoulders and he hauls you up onto his waist; you belt your legs around him, your hips shifting as you try to catch the head of his cock where you desperately want it to go. He adjusts his grip on you, reaching down to line himself up, and you both gasp as he breaches you.

He lets you sink down on him, easing you, careful, pushing up with shallow thrusts. You take all of him, every throbbing inch until you’re flush against his pelvis. He stays there, letting you adjust.

You stir your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, looking down at him.

“I think you’re fired,” you tell him, a little shaky. He just looks at you, studying you, half his brain too blissed out to function.

“You’re a terrible wingman,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“How is anyone supposed to compete?” You rock your hips, biting off a groan as his cock strokes along your walls. He can reach deep, thick and hot inside you. “Fuck. You’re not supposed to ruin me for anyone else.”

“Oops,” he says without a shade of remorse, and snaps his hips in a short, deep thrust. You cry out, bouncing with it, and he does it again. And again.

“Oh my god, Leon, ruin me,” you whimper.

Your ass hits the cold sink countertop, Leon leaning forward to brace as he starts fucking you in earnest, your legs falling wide from his hips. He gathers them back in, blunt fingernails scraping down your thighs, and you press your hand to the mirror behind your head, body rocked by every thrust, the countertop unyielding against your tailbone. You can’t find it in you to care.

Leon reins it back for a stretch, going slow and deep, dipping his head to kiss the swell of your breast, drag the flat of his tongue over your nipple, circling it, sucking. You keen, digging your heel into the small of his back, sighing as he sucks lightly on your other nipple, scraping his bristly cheek along the skin of your chest to bury his face in the side of your neck, bracing his arms on the countertop again. The sound of skin slapping skin picks up, echoing around the bathroom, obscene.

“Since I'm not on payroll,” he starts conversationally, against your shoulder.

“You volunteered,” you say, breathless.

“I hated it,” Leon says.

“What?”

“Playing wingman.”

You push him back so you can stare at him. “You never said–“

“Yeah. Cuz I'm a quitter,” he says, gruff. “And I'd love to let you down.”

He pulls you up, down off the countertop, slipping out of you. He bends you over, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, lining up and pushing back in slow. He brings your leg up, the side of your knee against the countertop. You sigh, then moan loud when every new thrust starts slapping his balls against you.

“Oh, fuck, Leon!”

He grips your ass, his breathing harsher, fucking into you hard and fast. You feel the coil start to build, your toes curling, canting your hips just so, pushing yourself back against every thrust.

“God, like that,” you whine, face pinched in desperation as you near the edge.

“That’s it, shit – I can feel you,” he says, and then his fingers are circling your clit and you cry out, clutching at his arm. “Come on, sweetheart, I got you.”

And that’s you gone.

You crash down into a white-out orgasm that has you jerking and writhing beneath him, groaning brokenly, grasping at the countertop, grasping at him. He curses around your name, drapes himself over your back and fucks you through it, slow and rocking, then manages only a few more rapid thrusts before he’s bottoming out and pulsing inside you with a guttural moan, hot cum coating your walls that still convulse with aftershocks.

You both slide down onto the bathroom rug, gelatinous and spent. Leon slips out and you feel his cum following, trickling out onto your thigh, but it’s not on the rug so it’s not worth moving about.

Neither of you so much as twitch when the doorbell rings.

“Food’s here,” you say, eyes closed.

Behind you, Leon hums and drapes his arm over you.

“Don’t get up all at once.”

“Thanks, I won’t.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Shower?”

“Seems excessive,” you say, your eyes still closed. They flare open when Leon drags lazy fingers through the mess spilling out of you, smearing it up onto your stomach.

“You’re a monster.”

He smiles and pulls you to lie on your back, bending to kiss you slow and deep, fingers dipping inside you, gathering more of his cum. He paints it onto your thigh in little circles and swirls, languid and ticklish, and you can’t even be mad. The shower’s right there.

You pull his hand from between your legs and press it flat to his own chest, dragging it down.

“Better start the water. Our food’s gonna get up and walk away.”

The hot water stings your busted knuckles.

You hold your hand clear, smiling quietly while Leon massages shampoo into your hair and then tips your head back against his shoulder to rinse. You sigh when he runs his slippery, soapy hands all over your body, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your mouth.

You turn in his arms, push his wet hair back from his eyes, run your hands down his face. The pad of your thumb fits perfectly at the corner of his mouth; you run it along his bottom lip.

“Can I be honest?”

“Probably unwise.” You can see his eyes tracing arbitrary paths between your freckles; over your cheeks, nose, forehead.

“You’ve always been my metric,” you tell him, quiet. “I was always looking for someone like you.”

His gaze settles on yours, a pinch forming between his brows.

“And where was I?”

“Out of my league.”

He snorts. “You've gotta be shitting me.”

“Don’t give me that.”

He holds your chin, tips your face up to kiss you.

“Couldn't read me for shit, could you.”

“That's not fair, you're trained to be unreadable.”

“Guess I played myself.”

You study him, searching his eyes.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I told you.”

“No, I mean, when the door was wide open,” you say. “When I broached the subject of a wingman. Could’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

“It wasn’t right,” he says. “You were looking for fun.”

Your brow creases. “What are you looking for?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then,

“Keeps,” he admits, quiet.

Your heart does something probably medically suspect in your chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You kiss him, winding your arms around his neck, loose.

You’re smiling.

“Good.”

On AO3

Well this was a bolt-out-of-the-blue two-day rabid writing experience,, Fs in the chat for my other WIPs 😔

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