Read & Write with Tooz

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.”

You hum and keep from leaning to the side. A car passes and footsteps scrape up the sidewalk. You hover the smoke in front of your lips, hunching forward as your fingers nice away without meaning too. You catch yourself and your eyes pop open.

A blurry figure approaches and you snort. You inhale the tobacco and puff it out as your vision clears just enough to make out the man in his tweed jacket and glasses. You pull the cigarette away and salute with your other hand.

"Rrray..." You slut. "Fine night."

"Rain let up." He shrugs as he stops at the bottom step, just three below where you sit on the stoop. "How's it goin' then?"

"Goin'," you drone and take one last drag before you butt out the ashy tip. "You sellin' or cashin' out?"

He tilts his head. "Not selling what you're on, dear." He grabs the railing as he lifts a foot onto the bottom stair. "Told ya, you needs get off that stuff."

You giggle. "Easy 'nough to say if you never tried it, Ray Ray." 

You reach up and latch onto the railing. You struggle to get yourself to your feet. You sway and stumble down one step. Raymond moves to catch you. You manage to stay upright and wave him off.

"Don't you worry for me," you point at him and sag. "I needa sleep. Thatsall."

You stick out your tongue and turn your back to him. You saunter up the stairs and stop at the door. You twist and look back at him.

"Comin' or gon' buzz up?" You prompt.

Raymond sighs and climbs the steps. "Coming." He answers as he hurried forward and grabs the door. "Listen, you ever get off them things, I'll get you some of my stock for free. Take the edge off." He crowds you as he pulls the grated door shut behind him. "Better 'n pharmaceuticals."

"Not strong enough," you scoff and turn up the staircase. "Tell Billy to open his damn windows. Tired of smelling that skunk.”

You lean on the railing as you climb and sway down the hallways to your door. You push through and close the door without any care for the dangling chain or lock. You yawn and smile at the numb ripple flowing through you. 

You fall onto the couch and moan. Your eyes roll back in cloudy content. You sink further and further away from reality, not thinking, not feeling. Just lost in oblivion.

💜

You roll over, arm numb from the weight of your body, and groan. Your shoulder aches at the socket and your head swims with the dregs of the pills. This is the part you hate. When you have to feel again. When you have to get up and face the world.

You throw your hand over your eyes and think of popping half a perc with your coffee. Those losers at the shop can be patient while you find their brand. Especially that idiot who expects you to remember which lites he prefers.

You sniff and rub your cheek hard. You wonder if Tonya got her new script yet. You really don’t want to pay Gregory double for his grandma’s sock. You flop your arm down on the bed and open your eyes.

Your heart floods with adrenaline. Bed? You don’t remember getting that far and this is much cushier than the stiff old futon on the floor. And the wooden trim around the ceiling isn’t dusty and faded like the old plaster of your flat.

Where the fuck are you?

Sitting up makes your head pound. You blink and look around at the dark wainscotting. Shit, did you somehow wander off and break into someone’s estate? You’ve done some zany shit on pills but mostly you just sleep.

You shake your head and it pulses again. You groan and rub your temples. You cradle your skull as you move slowly to the edge of the bed. You’re still in your loose pajama bottoms and baggy tee.

You stretch your neck and stand. You grab onto the orb at the top of the footboard’s post to keep from tipping. You scan the room again.

The windows have iron grating across the outside…

You turn and stagger to the door. The long curled handle doesn’t turn. You grip with both hands and jiggle. You crank down as hard as you can. Nothing.

You huff and let go. You cross the room, tripping on the edge of the carpet, and grab the window frame. You can slide it open but the metal cage doesn’t budge on the other side. The hell?

This can’t be real. You back up and stomp back to the door. You thump on it with your hand and holler, “Hey!” The echo shakes your brain. You cup your ears and whine.

You back up and sit on the bed, bending over your lap as you rock. Goddammit. You need out of this place. You need pills.

You stay like that, slowly leaning to the side as your eyelids droop. You’re weak. The thunder in your head travels down your spine.

A click makes you flinch. You turn your head and peek out from under your arm. You force yourself up to stare at the man that steps inside. It’s Raymond.

“Ray..” you murmur.

He stares at you, eyes pensive, disapproving behind his lenses. He tilts his head. You gape back at him, confused.

“You need to stop running away from the inevitable.” He says. “I told you to quit that junk.”

You blink again.

“Ray Ray, what do y’mean?” You gurgle.

“I walked straight into your place. You never knew. Not the first time.” He crosses his arms. “Coulda been someone a lot damn worse than me.”

You frown and shake your head. “What are you doing? Where am I?”

He tuts. “Cleaning you up.” He backs up and turns to the door. “You’re welcome.”

A surge of terror and rage strikes in you. You lunge up to your feet and towards him as he grabs the handle. He easily elbows you away and you fall to the floor with a thud. You cough and look up at him.

“You can’t do this!” You cry out.

He calmly opens the door. He stops inside the frame and looks back at you. You shakily sit up.

“And who’s goin’ to look for you, dear.”

He spins and slams the door at his back. The lock clicks. You growl and kick your heels into the floor.

Holy shit.

💜

Click.

You’re ready this time. The door opens and you jump. He’s ready too.

Raymond catches you by your jaw, squeezing until you’re still as he balances a plate in his other hand. You groan as his grip thrums in your neck and skull. He marches you back to the wooden chair at the desk.

“Sit.” He demands.

You whimper. It’s been hours since you had anything. Getting close to a day. His thumb pushes in behind your jaw until you obey.

“You need to eat.” He lets go and places down the plate of food. Mandarin slices peeled and divided, cottage cheese dressed with pepper and sesame, and baked chicken sliced with zucchini and broccoli.

You growl through your teeth. “I need some damn pills.”

He lets go and taps your cheek, enough to just sting.

“No. Eat.”

You touch your cheek and glare at him. “What’s wrong with ya? Why are ya–”

“Helping you?” He interrupts and points at the plate. “Eat.”

“Let me go–”

“You can eat or I can feed you.” He warns and shoves you..

You look down at the plate and curl your lip. There’s a plastic utensil; one end a spoon, the other a curved spork. You sigh and reach for it.

You hover it over the bland white heap.  You grip it tightly and act as if you might take a bite. Instead you twist and jump up, aiming the tines at his face. He catches you and knocks the utensil from your hand.

He grasps the back of your head and turns you back to the desk. He pinches your neck and forces you into the chair. He bends you over until your face is right over the plate.

“Act like an animal. Eat like one.” He smushes your face into the food. “I’m not leaving until the plate is clean.”

The cheese smears all over your face and a piece of broccoli nearly impales your nostril. You cough and grip the edge of the desk.

“You choose how this goes.” He snarls.

You wriggle and grunt. “Let me go. Ow! I’ll… eat.”

He pinches until you whine but relents. You sit up and he reaches into his pocket. He offers you a fabric kerchief. You rip it away from him and wipe your face.

You keep your head down, crumpling the cloth in your fist as you grab a mandarin wedge with your other hand. You put it in your mouth and bite down. You eat quietly. Your stomach churns at the smell of the broccoli. The taste only makes it worse.

You cover your mouth and your shoulders rack. He backs up and returns with the bin placed at the corner of the desk. He holds it patiently beside you. You turn and wretch into it.

“First few days will be bad. Week or so, you’ll feel better.” He pats your back and you stiffen. “Drink water. Stretch your legs when you can.”

“You’re an asshole.” You mutter into the bin.

“And you’re an addict.” He drones back smugly. “No one else’d do anything for ya.”

💜

“Hey, jerk! Hey, Hey!” You yell and stomp, stomping to hammer on the walls with your fist.

For hours, you laid in bed, restless and dizzy, until you just couldn’t stay still. Now you’re pissed. And sweating. Somehow soaked in sweat but freezing. You sniff through your clogged nose and hit the wall again.

“Lemmeouttttttt.” You shout so loud it makes your ears ache. “Lemme–”

You stop as your stomach clenches. Ugh. Not again. You hurry into the bathroom and panic. You don’t know what end it’s coming out of.

You end up sitting, curled over your knees, shaking and sniveling. When you’re done, you barely have the strength to get yourself off the bowl. You flush and wash your hands, shivering endlessly.

You’re light-headed. You stumble into the wall and turn your back to it. You slide down and hug your legs. You hang your head forward and close your eyes. You stay like that for a while, dazed and dull.

The scent of something sweet tickles your nose. You lift your head. You didn’t hear him. You’re embarrassed as Raymond lights three wicks of the candle and slides it back on the counter.

He turns to you. You stare dumbly. He picks you up and drags you to the tub. He sits you on the edge and grabs the top of your tee shirt.

“What’re you–”

“Told you to wash up, didn’t I?” He tears the cotton over your head. “You need to keep care of yourself.”

He exposes your chest and you quickly hug yourself. He tosses the shirt. You sway.

He takes your arms and you struggle to keep them closed. He shakes his head and forces them open and around his neck. He stands you up and pushes the elastic of your pajamas past your hips and ass. His palms graze your skin firmly.

It’s been days. He told you yesterday to take a bath. You ignored him, too anxious to do more than pace and ramble. What the fuck is this guy’s problem? Why is he doing this to you? Can’t he mind his damn business.

He leans you against the tub again. You lift your hand and he mirrors it with his own. He points at you.

“You do not want to do that.” He sneers.

You believe him. You drop your hand and look down. He bends over the porcelain and cranks on the faucet. He tests it with his thick fingers.

“Ray, why…”

“Does it matter why I’m helping you?” He stands up, his hands on his hips.

“I don’t want help. I want to be fucking high.”

“Ta!” He slaps your cheek lightly.

You recoil and cradle your cheek. You glower at him. His eyes bore into yours then drift down. You cower and cover your nudity.

“Get in.” He orders. “I don’t want to hurt you, otherwise I’d have left you as you were.”

“What do you care about me?” You scowl.

He’s quiet. He grabs your arm and forces you to turn. You lift your leg over the edge and he helps you down into the deep basin.

He stirs the water with his hand. You cross your arms and bend your legs. He stares into the clear ripples around his fingers. “You’ll feel better once you’re clean.” 

💜

“You’ve been good.” Raymond declares as he enters. You sit on the bed, exhausted. You can’t shake the fatigue. “You can choose your reward; chocolate, caramel, or cherry?”

You stare at him. “I don’t care. I don’t want it. I want to go.”

He clucks. “You’re doing so well, don’t make me rescind the offer.”

You sigh. “Caramel.”

“Good girl.”

Later, he brings you a salted caramel sundae with your dinner. You don’t admit it out loud, but it’s delicious. You could cry. It’s much better than what he’s been serving you; unseasoned protein and fruit.

“If you’re good tomorrow, you can choose your supper too.” He says as he puts the empty dishes on the tray.

True to his word, he lets you choose supper the next night. You ask for Nandos. He acquiesces, though he seems less than impressed by the meal as he watches you eat. He clears away the remnants and tells you to brush your teeth and clean your face.

You don’t do either of those things until he returns to make sure. You don’t need him shoving the brush halfway down your throat again. He supervises you until you’re dressed in the satin nightie he brought you.

He kisses your cheek with a good night and leaves you to your cage. You don’t sleep. You shut off the lamp beside the bed and stare up at the shadowy ceiling as the static silence fills your ears.

You toss and turn. Rolling one way then the other. You just can’t settle down.

Your hand goes to your cheek. Why did he do that?

Click. You tense but don’t let on that you heard it. Maybe you didn’t. It can’t be.

It is. You hear him approach the bed behind you. Feel his weight dip at the edge. He whispers your name and touches your arm.

“You can’t sleep.” He says.

You don’t react. He spreads himself behind you, his warmth swathing over you.

“Can’t either.” He slings his arm around you. You twitch.

He lays like that, right against you, for a while. Quite, breathing in the scent of your hair, exhaling out his thoughts. He nuzzles behind your ear.

“You’re doing better. Do you feel better?” His lips graze the rim of your ear. You don’t answer. His hand stretches along your stomach and he pulls himself even closer. “I’m proud of you.”

You bite down. His touch slowly crawls higher, tickling you through the thin satin. You shift.

“You’re almost ready.” He purrs. He presses his palm over your tit. You growl and catch his hand.

“Ray…” you whisper.

“Let me go!” You hiss as you push an elbow back. He grunts and shakes you so your neck jerks painfully. “Colin, what are you doing here?”

You grab his pinky and ring finger as you stamp a foot down blindly. He evades your attempts easily.

“What do you mean? It’s a paying gig. I’m doing my job, buttercup.” He snarls into your hair.

“Let go or I’ll scr–”

All at once, he lets go of you and slips and arm around your neck. You squeal and he crushes the noises from your throat. He covers your mouth with his hand and pulls you flush against him. He growls against your ear.

“Try now, buttercup. Go on, scream.” He sneers.

You quiver and slap his sides awkwardly, swinging your arms backwards. He scoffs and heaves you back, his arm tightening around your neck. You grab onto his sleeve as your heels scrape over the ground. He hauls you behind the stack of amps and hushes you.

“How would sissy feel about you stealing the thunder on her big day, huh?” He snarls. “You always gotta take what isn’t yours, huh? Allie had me and I was all you could touch yourself too–”

You slap his elbow and bicep helplessly.

“Then you run off with the British wank off.” He growls. His trails his nose up the brim of your ear then sinks his teeth in. Your eyes water and you tug on his jacket. “Always wasting my damn time.”

Your lip quivers as you dig your toes into the ground, trying to find some leverage against him. He’s too strong. His hand slips from your mouth but the vice of his arm keeps you quiet. You wheeze out pathetic whimpers as you try to scream for help.

His hand brushes down your arm and along your chest.

“You never wore anything like this for me.” He slithers.

You twitch and try to bat his hand away. He ignores you. The world narrows in, centering in on the moment, on your body and his. Despite the voices buzzing from just outside the canvas walls, the noise of bodies moving back and forth in a furious setup, you are adrift on this desolate island of his creation.

As his hand creeps lower, your panic rises. He pushes his fingertips into the softness of your stomach and feels along the front of your pelvis. He rubs himself against you with a groan and flicks his fingertips along the vee of your thigh.

“I’m done with you fucking with me.” He grits. “So pull up your fucking skirt and I’ll give you exactly what you were begging for.”

“Col–” You choke out. He squeezes his arm tight again.

“Do it or I’ll crush your fucking throat.” He snaps.

You shiver as tears prick along your eyelids. You can’t believe this is happening. Of all bands, it had to be his. You cringe and close your eyes as a memory flickers. You remember when your sister started planning, you gave her Colin’s information. It was more of a pandering gesture. You didn’t think she’d go for it…

“Now.” He grips your skirt and yanks. “Or I’ll show that British cuck of yours how much of a slut you are.”

You whine and shakily unlock your fingers. You can’t even remember fisting them. Little crescents burn in your skin from where your nails pressed. You feel along the satiny skirt, sweat dampening the stitches, and you bunch it in your hands. Your fingers crawl over the inches, gathering the length until it’s at your thighs.

He sighs and snakes his hands under the fabric. He pokes meanly at your clamped thighs and snarls again. “Open your fucking legs and stop acting like that doesn’t make you fucking giddy.”

You keep your eyes closed, hiding in the darkness as reality closes in. Your legs go limp and he pushes them apart. He forces your skirt higher as he kicks your feet wide. He traces the edge of your panties then shoves them aside. He pushes between your folds and snickers.

“Keep up the act. Your pussy says it all.” He rubs you as your insides clench. You just want him to stop.

You clasp down on his wrist and he yanks free.

“Don’t do that again or I’ll break a finger.” He warns.

He wipes his fingers on his pants and slides his hand behind you, feeling along the front of his pants. He wrestles with the buckle of his belt and huffs impatiently. He shifts his weight and shimmies his hips. His knuckles press against you as he grips himself above his fly and pumps himself.

“Come on, baby, arch that damn back.”

You bite down and do as he says. You tilt your hips and he bends his knees. Your blood turns icy as your skin scalds. He rubs along your ass and angles down to your cunt. You press against his thigh and squeak, “Please–”

“And thank you?” He taunts as he pushes into you bluntly.

His intrusion strangles you worse than his arm. Your body racks as your spine curves back. As he rams up, he brings you to your toes. You grab onto his arm and gasp. Your legs quake as he bottoms out with another jut of his hips.

He growls into your hair as he rears back and slams back in. He chuckles as he repeats the cruel motion and your knees buckle. You clasp onto his shoulder with your other hand, clinging to keep from collapsing entirely.

“Colin? Hey–” A voice calls as someone enters the tent.

He doesn’t stop. He hushes you as he keeps going, slowing so his motion long and torturous. Quiet.

“Dude,” footsteps walk along the other side of the amps. “Where the fuck did he go?”

His bandmate leaves and Colin rams into you again. He groans and falls into a full rut. He bites onto your ear again and curls his free arm up behind your head. Your eyes threaten to roll back as he puts more pressure on your neck, holding you in a choke lock as he pumps into you.

“Is that what you wanted, buttercup? All of me? Huh? Up in your guts?” He rasps. “You fucking bitch. Why’s it gotta be so– good.”

He hisses out the last word and shakes. He hums through his nose and his pace turns sporadic. He drones as he cums, thrusting into you over and over as your cunt squelches around his release. He exhales against your head and stills, buried deep inside of you.

“Buttercup–”

“Darling,” his growl is interrupted by a lilted tone. “Where’ve you gone? Darling?”

Colin releases his arm and catches your chin. He leans forward to press his cheek to yours. He tilts his pelvis until you’re quivering. You grasp his hip as you hold your breath.

“Darling…” Jonathan calls again as he paces around the other side of the amps.

He lingers then leaves at last. Your tears spill over but you bat away the onslaught with your lashes. Colin snickers and slides out of you, his cum trickling down your leg.

“Well, we both go things to do, don’t we?” He wipes his cock with the hem of your skirt. He turns and leans on the amps as he tucks himself away. You shudder and wipe your thighs with your palm. “Do you think he’ll smell me on you?”

You stare at him, mortified, shocked. You can’t believe he just did that. That you let him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you still want him.

You fix your panties and tug down your skirt. He tucks in his shirt and fixes his jacket. “How do I look, buttercup?”

You shake your head, speechless. You turn away, legs wobbly, and stumble through the tent, between the guitar cases and stack of drums. You push out the rear flap and hurry to the bathroom stalls near the stage. 

You lock yourself inside and bend over the portable toilet. You wretch into it, your insides knotted around each other. When you’re finally done, you rinse your mouth in the sink and dab away the trails left from your tears as best as you can.

You take a deep breath. You can’t hide forever. You step out into the sun and shield your eyes.

“Darling,” Jonathan strides up from your left. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry, I… I needed the bathroom.” You sniff.

“And the band? You figured it out?”

You stare at him. What do you say? He’ll know once they take the stage. 

“Darling, what’s the matter?” He strokes your cheek.

You look down. “It’s Colin…” you say. You feel the tension in his thumb. “He’s… It’s his band. I… I told them to get set up and…” You think of telling him, but you can’t. You don’t even know if you can say it out loud. That you could handle him knowing. Or what he might do. “I was hiding here from him.”

“Mm, I knew you were lying,” he drawls. “But thank you for telling me.”

You force a weak smile. “Yeah, I just… I don’t want you to be upset,” you say.

“Never. Never. Though I do wonder why your sister would hire him. Almost as if everything she does is a slight to you.” He tuts. “I do believe she is envious, darling.”

He softens as his hand trails along your chin and neck, and follows the line of your shoulder. He turns to sling his arm around you. “Come, let us go show her what she’s missing out on… him, too.”

💔

You refuse to look at the stage as Colin comes on. You sit in a daze as he makes some rehearsed speech about the happy day. All you can hear are his grunts in your ear, the pounding inside. You clutch your hands tightly together.

Jonathan lays his long fingers around your clasped ones. He pets your knuckle softly. “Would you honour me with a dance, darling?”

You flinch as he draws you back to the present. You look at him and your eyes sting. You exhale.

“I must confess, I’ve been waiting for it all night long.”

You nod dumbly and blink away the tears. You smile. You open your hand and turn it over. “Yes.”

He grins and takes your hand. He stands and draws you up with him. He leads you to the dance floor where a few other couples sway to the cover of an 80s ballad.

Jonathan angles you against him. He sets your hand on his chest and takes your other. His arm snakes around your waist and he sets his feet. You look down between you.

“Head up,” he intones. “Just follow my motion.”

He rocks you to the rhythm. He’s smooth in his movement, confident. You don’t belong with him. You’re not like him. And you did that… with Colin.

He turns you with the melody as he watches you intently. You wilt under his gaze. How can he look at you like that? You don’t deserve that.

“You’re beautiful, darling. Breath-taking.” He purrs.

“Thank you,” you curl your fingers around his lapel, as if you might fall if you don’t hang on.

He guides you close to the stage. As you pass, you glance over. Colin smirks around the lyrics he sings. You quickly look away.

“I’ve got you, darling.” Jonathan says. “Promise. Forever.”

You can’t help but smile. It’s bittersweet but it feels nice to be wanted. Genuinely wanted.

“You know I mean it, don’t you?” He leans in.

“Yes, I do.” You breathe.

He slows and bends until his lips touch yours. He kisses you with a hum. You feel like you’re going to combust.

He draws back and his eyes sparkle. He moves you again. “Shall I twirl you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you eke out.

“Just relax.” 

He lifts your arm and winds you around. You let him, feeling foolish, and he brings you back to him. His hand settles on your hip as he stands flush to you, crowding you as he sways with you. Almost lewdly so.

He brushes up your side and once more hooks his arm around your waist.

“Now a dip,” he smirks.

Before you can react, he dips you back. You let out a surprised noise and he stands you straight again. He seamlessly falls back into step with the music. You’re dizzy from more than the dancing.

The song slows as it nears the end and before the other can pick up, Jonathan stops you at the center of the floor. He takes a deep breath and latches onto your hand. He lowers himself onto one knee. Your heart drops.

“Darling, I can’t wait any longer.” He feels beneath his jacket with his other hand. “I’ve been infected tonight with marital bliss and I cannot think of sharing it with any but you.”

“Jonathan, please don’t do this.” You plead as you look around.

The next song doesn’t start. Those around you stop to watch as Jonathan pulls out a ring. He keeps your hand in his. Geri glares at you from beside her new husband and your parents. Your lip trembles. The ring slides onto your finger.

“Marry me, darling.” He begs.

It’s wrong. All of it is wrong. It’s sweet but not here. Not now.

“You bitch!” Geri storms across the dance floor and shoves you. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Jonathan keeps hold of you, saving you from falling over. He stands lithely and catches you against him. He moves to shield you from your sister.

“Do not touch her–”

“You’re a slime! At my wedding! You would do that! You and her need to leave!” She shrieks.

“Gladly.” He retorts.

“Fucking bitch!” She squeals. Jonathan turns to you and you watch as Geri’s bursts into tears and fans herself with her manicured fingers. “I can’t believe this fucking bitch of a sister of mine!”

“Come, darling.” Jonathan scoffs and leads you away. You’re all too happy to flee.

A whistle sounds over the speakers. “Wow, and I thought I’d seen everything.” Colin chortles.

The hush breaks and the guests begin to whisper. You ignore their gazes as Jonathan drags you past them. Once you’re beyond the tables and tents, you pull free and cover your face. He stops and pulls you into an embrace.

“Oh, fawn, do not cry.” He rocks you. “How horrid that your family can never be happy for you.”

Your body is all contorted as the tab hangs halfway open. How on earth does anyone wear this? You spin, breathless, and hang your arms in defeat. You yelp as you face the sole witness to your struggle. 

"Jonathan..." you gasp. "Oh--" 

"I should've offered help sooner but... I was rather enjoying how you stick your bottom out." He pushes away from the door frame. "Come. Let me help." 

You chew your cheek and meet him halfway. You turn and put your back to him. He drags his fingertips up your hips and waist. He tugs the zipper up and the dress pinches just slightly. 

"Perfect." He purrs. "Certainly, I expect it will come down a lot easier." 

"Jonathan," you turn to him and lightly slap his arm. "Let's just get through today." 

"Oh, I've the end in mind as well. I cannot wait to get you out of that dress, as delectable as you look in it--" 

"Jonathan," you repeat. "I need to focus--" 

"You will be just fine. I dare say, as beautiful as you are, you might steal a few looks from the bride." He grins. 

"And I wouldn't hear the end of it," you pout. "Please. The only way I get through this is by not being noticed. The less my family are aware of me, the better." 

"How could they not? Look at you." He brushes his hands up your arms. "How high can I get that skirt?" 

You grab his hands and giggle. "Really?" 

"You've got me incorrigible. It's simply not my fault," he snickers and bends to kiss your forehead. 

"Mhmm," you hum. 

"Just look at yourself and see," he spins you and his hands grip your shoulders firmly. He walks you to the long oval mirror in the corner of the room. "This dress was made for you." 

You blanch at how the boning enhances your shape. Your chest threatens to overflow as the straps tug slightly. You are ready to split the seams. 

"It's... wow." You turn slightly. Your ass looks huge. "It's not really what I'd typically wear." 

"You should show off. You have the body for it," he assures. 

You shy away and face him. You get a look at his attire. A nice lamb grey jacket and paisley tie. As always, he is effortlessly refined. His hair even is combed so that every curl at the end of his blond strands lays perfect. Oof. This still doesn't feel real. Or at least that you don't deserve it. 

"My sister wouldn't like to hear you say that." You chide and touch his lapel. "Here you are talking about me and look at you." 

"Well, I've got to keep up with you." 

"Shucks," you say sarcastically. "Really though. Can't be late. Not today." 

He leans in and snakes his hands down around your ass. "Are you very certain?" 

"Yes," you squeal and hit his chest with your palms. "Now, please. The longer we wait, the more I feel like I'm going to puke." 

"Hmph," he chuckles. "I can only imagine what a mess of nerves you'll be on our wedding day. Perhaps, I might be too." 

You sway as you move your hands to his arms. You gently nudge him away and he lets go of your ass. He tilts his head. 

"Jonathan." You say. 

"Beg my pardon? What have I done now?" 

"Wedding," you breathe. "It's early for that." 

"Sometimes you just know," he winks. "But yes, yes, let's focus on the day at hand." He releases you completely. "My lady, your chariot awaits." 

❤️‍🩹

You stand at the front of the church with your sisters. You squirm as your champagne dress is just a tone lighter than theirs, and tighter, and lower cut. You do your best to smile through the discomfort. It isn’t your day. Thankfully. 

You can’t imagine this for yourself. All the attention on just you. The pomp, the ceremony. The music, the vaulted ceilings, the guests. So, so many guests. Something small would be just fine for you. Not that you’re planning one of your own. Maybe none at all. Just a signature on paper... 

One day. Not soon. Definitely not. 

The music changes suddenly and the groomsmen chatter, nudging Colton as he looks to the open doors. Everyone is craning and twisting to see. You lift your head as you try to spot your sister.

Her veil is long and covers her face. Your father has his arm hooked through hers as she makes the deliberate, rhythmic advance down the aisle. It’s gruellingly slow. You couldn’t make it halfway before you’d be rushing down.

There’s oohs and aahs and even some sniffles. Vicky dabs her nose as she quivers out a sob. It must be the hormones.

You glance around at the pews. Everyone is enraptured by Geri. All but a single pair of eyes. You gulp as you meet Jonathan’s persistent and unbending gaze. His blue irises shine even from so far away. For a moment, you're breathless.

You make yourself look at your sister again as she gets to the front. Your dad whispers something to her as he hands her off. She climbs the single step and turns to face her soon-to-be husband. Colton lifts her veil, struggling through the length of it.

Finally, your sister is unveiled from the ghostly sheath. Another gasp goes over the crowd. You can’t see more than the back of her veil and dress but you’re certain she’s gorgeous. You’re happy for her, you really are. This is what she’s always wanted. You envy that, if only because you’ve never truly known what you want.

You smile and your eyes wander back out to the audience. They sit but even as they do, one seems to tower over the rest. Jonathan watches you intently. Your cheeks burn as you think about earlier. What he suggested. No. He’s only being cheesy. You’ve only just got together.

❤️‍🩹

The reception is outside. It makes sense. The summer is in that stage when the breeze is still cool enough to undercut the sun’s beams. It’s a beautiful day, scented with pollen and the smell of the catering.

You follow the other guests into the plaza. The venue is open-air with tents and tables draped in shades of ivory and champagne. White roses, baby’s breath, and glass center pieces cap off the elegant aesthetic. It’s all so precise. That’s Geri for you. You know she planned it down to the smallest of details.

Jonathan guides you as if he knows this place well. Wherever he goes, he carries this sense of certainty. He has his hand behind you, resting on the small of your back. Next to him, you feel both special and insignificant.

“Doesn’t your sister look lovely?” Your mother squawks as she approaches. “Ugh, my baby.”

She dabs her eyes as your father pats her shoulder.

“A wonderful wedding,” Jonathan answers.

“Oh, John, we are so happy you could make it,” she preens at him.

You glance at him. You’ve never heard anyone call him that. It doesn’t suit him.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he assures.

Your name slices through the air. You turn to greet your sister as she storms toward you in a cloud of white. You force a smile.

“Geri,” you say. “You are gorgeous–”

“Save it!” She snaps. “What is this?”

You frown. She stops in front of you and pinches the strap of your dress. You look down.

“Um–”

“This is not the dress I chose. And look how pale it is. It may as well be white.” She sneers.

“You said champagne–”

“I cannot believe you. Actually, I can,” she growls.

Jonathan clears his throat. “She followed the dress code provided. I’m certain, had she been included in the fitting, she would have known better what you intended.”

Geri bobs her head like a snake and turns her glare on him. “Excuse you, mate.” She spits the last word. “We’ve only just met so maybe you should butt out–”

“Oh, a lovely bride you are. Gracious, glowing.” He remarks brusquely. “It truly is the happiest day of your life, isn’t it?”

He smiles. He is cool and unfazed but his words are dry and cutting. You peek at your sister in dread.

“Ugh, you’re right. I don’t care about her. This is my day.” She growls.

“Geri, I’m sorry,” you say.

“Save it!” She flicks her fingers at you. “If you’re really sorry, you’ll help.”

“Sure, I’ll help. What do you need?” You offer.

Jonathan’s hand wraps around your arm. You ignore him.

“Hm. If you really mean it. The band will be here soon. They need to set up. You can show them where to go.” She puts her hand on her hip, gesturing at you with her bouquet. “Do you think you can handle that?”

“I think so,” you eke out.

She blinks and her lip curls. She blows out and wipes the anger from her face. “I have guests. Just don’t get in my way.”

She swirls and nearly trips as her mountainous skirts tangle in her legs. She nearly tips over before your mother helps. Geri stomps then struts away. You stand, defeated.

Your mother sighs. “Please, just don’t antagonise her.”

You look at her and wince. Somehow, it’s always your fault. Your mother grabs your father and tugs him after her as she follows Geri.

“You shouldn’t help her,” Jonathan says bluntly.

You turn to him. “I… she’s my sister.”

“She doesn’t act it,” he rubs your arm. “It’s her wedding. Certainly she can attend to the music herself.”

“Jonathan,” you touch his hand and gently move it off your arm. “Please. I know… I know Geri can be a lot but it’s better to just do what she wants.”

“You mean roll over?”

“Jonathan, it’s family–”

“A family that does nothing but disuse you,” he insists. “I would not blame you should you wish to leave this moment. Even if it would be a waste of that dress.”

You give a small smile. You squeeze his hand. “You’re sweet, Jonathan. And that’s all I need right now.” You let him go. “I’m just going to get it sorted and then we’ll just hide out at a table.”

“No, we will not,” he counters. “I fully intend on saving a song for you. Or maybe a dozen.”

“You mean… I can’t dance.”

“I can.” He winks. “You only need only let me lead.” He bites his lip and hums. “You are rather good at that.”

You raise your brows at him. He snickers. You shake your head and back away. “Promise, I’ll find you. Pretty sure they just need to go on that stage over there.”

You turn to see the stage set up across the green.

“Naturally,” he agrees. “I could come with you.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’ll be faster if I just do it.” You wave him off. “Really.”

“Mm, fine. I shall find our seats…. And perhaps some drinks.” He steps closer and bends to kiss you. You peck his lips but he presses his lips more firmly. He wants more.

You rub his chest and part. You look him in the eye. “Later. Promise.”

You drop your hand and spin on your heel. You hurry away without looking back. The sooner this is done, the sooner the dancing can start and your sister can forget about you. Everyone can. Jonathan might not have the worst idea. You can leave before dessert.

You enter the tent beside the stage. There’s guitar cases and wires, amps, half a drum kit. Bodies move back and forth as techs sort through various sized microphones. It’s a circus in there.

Behind the tent, there’s an open van with another amp inside. You look around, searching for anyone who isn’t too busy for you. You dodge out of a tech’s way and your hip knocks against something hard. You turn and catch the guitar case before it can tip.

Your thumb presses against a faded sticker. You recognise it. You know it well. You saw it many a time over Colin’s shoulder.

You lean the hard case against the one beside it and let it go. You step back on your heel as your heart leaps. You collide with something warm behind you.

Your silence says more than any response could. The driver chuckles and opens the door. He pulls down the stool even as you protest it isn’t needed. He helps you inside by your elbow and you thank him.

“Be calm, lady, and I will have us to Mr. Clement’s by midday.” He avows.

“As you will have us. Take the road safety, is all I would bid, sir.” You settle into the bench and stack your hands in your lap.

The Lady Duchess, Diana Sombrette, would speak to Giles in a bolder tone, with impatience in her teeth. As she does all who do her bidding and even those who do not. She has little patience or pity for those who cannot meet her measure.

You cannot resent your place very much. It keeps you a palette to sleep and food in your belly. As meagre as both may be, they are preferable to none. You also cannot gripe for a task outside the castle walls, as oppressive as they are.

Giles takes his seat at the front of the carriage and puts the horses to trot. You rock with the motion of the axle. Mister Clement is not much more amiable than the Duchess. You do not relish even a brief rapport with the tailor.

The driver whistles and the willowy tune puts you at ease. You lean over to see past the curtains to the rows of trees and a cluster of brush beyond. The shadows of creatures unknown pass between the trunks and crack twigs and fallen branches beneath their paws.

The forests are a mysterious place. Treacherous. The noble claim right to them as their hunting and game grounds, while other less regarded figures trespass, hidden in caves and ravines as they plot against the proclaimed keepers. You shiver and try not to think of those tales, instead catching the white tail of a hare as it retreats from the clatter of the carriage.

You laze in the soft canter of the horses, barely noticing as they slow. It’s only as the uneven melody of the driver’s lips quiets that you break from your trance. You sit up as the rustle of branches and leaves fills the silence Giles grunts.

“What is the meaning of–”

Thunk! Something hits the side of the carriage and you wince as you notice the piercing point lodged through the upper corner. The arrow head stares you down as you clutch your hands over your heart. It cannot be!

“We have no conflict with you, sir,” a voice proclaims. “But with the lady within.”

“The lady… no, no, yer mistaken,” Giles insists.

“Are we? Is that not the duchess’ sigil upon those wheels? Hm? Painted by those hands she enslaves for her selfish needs.” The voice accuses again.

“They are, but the lady is back at the castle.” Giles insists.

“So you steer an empty carriage? How ridiculous.”

“I am on the duchess’ mission. I needn’t explain to you lot of scoundrels–”

Another startling thump lurches the carriage. The blade of a knife pokes through the other side of the wall. You gulp.

“We don’t wan’ harm you, fellow. You are only as we are. Crushed beneath the greed of that vile duchess.” The man continues. “We only ask that you step down and surrender your cargo.”

“I cannot do that–”

“We would not like to hurt you, but will if needed.” The voice sinks in warning. “We permit you one last chance.”

“I am done with you vermin!” Giles sneers and the reins snap. The horses jolt forward and the carriage bounces. The wheels turn one spin before they catch and something cracks. You fly from the bench and hit the parallel one before heaping onto the floor.

Giles cries out as you hear his body hit the dirt. You heave out a tight breath and gasp. Your body is paralysed as you struggle to breathe through the pain in your ribs.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” a grittier voice cuts through the chaos without and you hear a terrible slice and groan.

Footsteps clamour around the carriage as you rock and fight to sit up. When you find the strength to, the door opens from the other side. You cry out and kick your heels down, pushing yourself back. The door behind you swings out and you’re seized, hauled out into the open air.

“We’ve got her!” The men proclaim.

There’s a cheer from the dozen other bodies closing in on you. Your eyes flit back and forth as panic swirls in your vision. Your gaze clings to the body on the ground. Poor Giles is face down, a puddle of blood spreading through the dirt. Your stomach drops and your legs buckle.

 Several of the men part to let through a man in a wool cap and tattered grey clothing. He holds an axe as he walks with unbreakable pride in his shoulders. Your tremble as the edge of the tool glistens scarlet.

He stares you down as you wilt and wriggle against the two men clinging to your arms. He sighs and blinks slowly. He keeps his eyes closed.

“It is not her.” He hisses.

“It has to be! She was within. There is no other–”

“The driver was honest.” The man opens his eyes, irises icy blue. “I know the duchess. And she would never wear an apron of the sort.” He grips his hips. “She must suspect our plot.”

The men exchange looks and grumble.

“What do we do?” Another asks; the one who spoke to Giles earlier. “Let her go?”

“No. We cannot. It would only give the duchess more suspicion.” The man in the grey wool, the one you assume to be their leader, grits. “We keep her. Use her. She will know the duchess and her life. Perhaps she will afford us our next chance.”

“Hm, suppose that makes sense.” The other man responds thoughtfully.

“No one…” the leader raises his finger and comes forward. “Is to touch her.” He growls as he approaches you and waves off the men beside you. “I will get the information we need.”

🪓

The man walks you between the trees on a short length of rope. One end is wound around your wrists, the other in his grip as he tugs you along. The other men walk in pairs, whispering, watching the trees as they make cautious progress.

You keep your head down and stare at your thumbs. Your skirt catches on thorns and brambles and your soft-soled shoes slip on roots and moss. Several times the man yanks you as you slow to avoid falling.

He leads you down a steep ridged decline and at the bottom, you find a sight that strikes you. Tents set up on the flat of the ravine, a few women peeking out from the flaps with feral eyes. One emerges and sheaths a long dagger at her waist.

“Edgar,” she greets the man who did most of the talking back at the carriage. She rushes toward him then slows as she sees you next to the other man. She frowns. “What’s happened?”

“It wasn’t the duchess.” He says grimly as he squeezes the woman’s arm.

“Then…?” The woman prompts.

“We’ll figure it out,” the man at the other end of the rope snips and pulls you forward.

He drags you past the other women as they emerge; a few with children on their hips or behind their skirts. The man tugs you forward and grabs the back of your neck. He forces your head under the tent flap of the structure at the very rear of the settlement.

He points to the ground. “Sit.”

You obey. He gets down on his knees and winds the loose end of the robe around your ankles. You watch him without a word.

“You are the duchess’ sheep.” He accuses as he stands.

You lower your head. His soles scuff the ground. He grabs the waterskin slung around his torso and loosens the top. He drinks and hums. He tightens the tie on it and paces around.

“Maid.” He states.

“Yes.” You murmur.

“Close to her then.” He mulls as he brings his hand up to his chin. You peek up at the movement and find his cold eyes on you. You quickly drop your head again. “She’s lost a driver. Won’t want to lose you too.”

You chew your cheek. You’re not certain for that. The duchess dismissed Talula for bringing the wrong wine and the stable boy for kicking up dirt as she passed.

He walks a small circle, stops, then squats down in front of you. He rests his forearms on his knees.

“Look at me.” He snarls.

You look up as you shiver. “Sir.”

“Tell me everything.”

You scrunch up your nose in confusion.

“Tell me about what the duchess does in a day. Tell me when she pisses, when she eats, when she sleeps. Tell me everything you know.” He reaches to his belt and frees the axe, pointing it at your nose. “Believe me when I tell you, I can smell a lie before it’s told.”

You gulp. “I understand,” you wisp out. “I… I will be honest.”

He turns the axe and presses it to your chest. “Good woman.”

🪓

You sleep on the ground, as you have for nights past. You don’t count them. Knowing won’t help you. You shiver in the corner, wrists and ankles bound so you can only lay in a ball.

You groan as you shift. There is no comfort to be had; not waking, not sleeping. Two times a day, the bonds are loosed so you may go into the trees to relieve yourself. A woman called Ursula watches you with her blade out. Then you are led back. You are fed a handful of nuts and sometimes burnt barley.

There is no use in complaint. You are afraid but there is nothing this man could do or say to assuage that. You told him all you could but he did not seem happy for it; if that is an emotion he would know. Since, he has said little. You haven’t either.

“Curtis,” a whisper comes from without.

That’s his name. You’ve heard a few say it. He sniffs and rolls over on his bedroom. He sits up, axe already in hand. You watch his shadow.

“Ed,” he greets the man through the flap. The soft dwindling dusk pores through the small gap.

“Today. The horsemen ready.”

Curtis grunts.

“There is a feast. The duchess will go. Along with the rest of those heathens.” Edgar explains in a coarse hush.

Curtis nods. “Six men.”

“Six?” Edgar sounds surprised.

“More than enough,” Curtis assures and drops the flap back.

He turns and goes back to his bedroom. He doesn’t lay down. He lights a stub of tallow with the scratch of flint. He pulls out a whetstone and works on the edge of his axe, the shink of his sharpening making you twitch.

“You’ll come too.” He says bluntly. “I’m certain your mistress misses her sheep.”

🪓

A different man holds the rope. You perch at the foot of the trees as you watch the line of men snake through the brush and hide in the ditch at the edge of the beaten road. You’re exhausted, so much so that even your adrenaline can’t keep your head from nodding. The endless coursing of fear has drained you of all strength and hope.

Your eyes droop and your head wobbles until you hear it. A noise so distant it could have been as simple as a bird flapping through the leaves. But then it keeps going. The steady grind of wheels grows closer and closer, pebbles pouncing beneath the wooden frames, dirt mulching louder than it should.

The man next to you tenses. You look down at the ditch. You cannot see the men as they hide beneath a criss cross of overgrown weeds and vines. They are clever. It must be how they surprised Giles before. 

And left him dead.

The horses’ hooves thunder nearer and the call of a bird goes up. All at once, you realise the squawk came from the throat of a man. Guards appear first. The duchess must have heeded the previous carriage’s fate. The bandits are methodic in their attack. Their arrows aimed in the gap above halberd or exposed beneath the under arm.

The soldiers wail and fall from their saddles, their horses stampeding forward. That is until they notice the large rocks across the road, arranged there by the attackers. They rear and kick up, neighing in fear.

The bandits hurl up ropes tipped with iron hooks as the carriage comes into sight. Two stand and shoot their arrows that embed in the wood.

The driver panics and rolls off the bench. You know him; his name is Rhys. He stumbles over the side of the carriage as the horses keep running. The bandits tie the ropes to trees and the carriage lurches to a halt entirely. The roof splits from the tension of its bounds. You clutch your damp skirts and stare foggily as the scene plays out.

“Come, your time is now.” The man wrenches you up as the bandits hurry onto the road, checking the men writhing on the ground. If they are not dead, the bandits make sure of it.

There’s a shriek from within the carriage. 

“Around, around!” Edgar hollers.

Two of the men hurry around as the door on the opposite side opens, swaying the vehicle. There is another fearful shout. You’ve never heard the duchess so terrified.

The man jerks you down the incline and through the ditch. Diana continues her struggle as she is restrained by Edgar. Curtis stands before her calmly as you’re dragged up onto the road.

“You!” She snarls as her green eyes flash. “I should’ve known it was you, you vile rat.”

“Shhhh,” Curtis hushes her as he raises his axe to his lips and walks forward.

The duchess retracts against Edgar and whines. “Who are you, scoundrel?”

He hushes her again and pushes the blunt top of the axe to her mouth. “I’ve come to make a barter. A generous one as what you’ve taken cannot be repaid.”

“What do you–”

“If I must quiet you again, I will have your tongue in my purse.” He warns. The duchess’ scoffs as her face contorts in fear. “Now, my terms are not imbalance. You will have your maid returned to you. You may even keep your horses and your carriage. But that will be all.” He turns the blade slowly in front of her face. “And you will ride and ride and ride until you cannot any further. But you will not come back here.”

Her nostrils flare and her lip curls.

“And you will not return. Ever. If I see your face again, I will do worse than what your men did to my people.” He sneers. “I will burn you alive but you will not die of it. You will live with it. For days, weeks, possibly months… and your flesh will rot away and you still will not know of the pain you’ve caused me and mine.” He declares, his hand shaking on his axe. “And we will claim what we need. The castle, the kitchens, the barrels you hoard, the rooms kept empty for your pride.” He pushes the axe against her chest. “Am I understood?”

The duchess rolls her eyes. “Kill the maid, see if I care.”

Curtis’ eyes narrow. His lashes dip down and he bows his head. He backs up and signals.

“Grab the pitch.” He commands.

“Pitch?” Diana squeals. “You cannot– you must unhand me– the King will have your heads.”

“Not if I have his first.” Curtis retorts. “But I’ll settle for yours.”

He spins and approaches another man with a pail in hand. He trades his axe for it and looks into it. He carries it to the duchess. It’s steaming.

“You have your men go out and fight your battles so you would not know what pitch smells like. You would not know how it covers the flesh of a man and slowly suffocates him. How he can remain alive for such a time and suffer and suffer.” He tilts his head. “But you will learn. Slowly.”

He raises the bucket as Edgar forces the Duchess to her knees. She cries out and claws at his hands. Curtis holds the pail over her.

“You will not want it to get in your eyes. For what is worse than burning from the outside in, being blind as you do.” He slowly tips the bucket and you close your eyes. The duchess screeches as you hear a sizzle so sickly you fall to your knees. You cover your face with your bound hands and shudder. In her fate, you only see your own.

🪓

The pressure drains from your hands. You open your eyes as the burning smell stains your tongue and soul. You shake as you blink away the shock and stare at your loose wrists. A hand with black trimmed nails winds up the rope.

You look at Curtis as the men move behind him, inspecting the carriage, reining in the horses.

“Is it my turn?” You ask.

His brows tweak and his lashes flutter. “Your…” he begins.

You look at the axe on his belt. He hooks the rope beside it. “What good is your death?” He growls. “Cruel enough she would throw you to us wolves.”

He stands and claps his hands on his jacket.

“What… what do I do?” You ask as you look around.

“Did I say you were free?” He challenges. You stay on your knees. “You know our faces, our names, where we eat and sleep. You cannot go but you don’t have to die.”

He spins away and calls to Edgar. The other men continue to strip down the carriage and search the purses of the soldiers in the dirt. You look over it all. You don’t want to die but you don’t know if you want to live either.

🪓

You walk with the bandits back to camp. Ahead of you, Curtis leads the way, at the rear, Edgar keeps the line moving. As you get to the decline, you lower yourself to make your way down. Your foot slips and you slide over the jutting rocks and roots that make the footholds.

You’re caught by your sleeve. You plant your foot and look up as Curtis clings to you. He steadies you then lets go. You continue down as he trails you.

Ursula greets her husband, Neil, and Edgar finds his wife, Joan, and their daughter, Gwen. The other men disperse to return to their tents. There are two missing. The ones who were bid to take the duchess back to her castle. You can still hear her senseless whimpers.

You peer around. You don’t know what to do. You don’t belong here. You go to the smoking pit and sit in the dirt. You stare at the embers.

You stay like that for a while. Ursula appears with her mussed and pot in hand. You quickly look away.

“My husband says you will stay with us.” She hangs the pot over the pit and stokes it.

“I guess.” You agree weakly.

She nods and hums. “There are some women, you might have seen them. The sisters Martin. They were nuns but… we were all once someone else. They might have space in their tent.”

“I thank you.” You say.

“Hm. If you give me your name, you can share the soup.” She offers.

You look at her. You recite the name that doesn’t feel like yours.

She feeds you as you stay where you are. Others come to warm their food and fill their bellies. You are a ghost among them. Children chase each other between that fire and the next.

Dusk sets in and you shiver. You should get up and find those nuns. You can’t.

The moon shimmers down as the fire dwindles. You lower your head and bend over your knees.

“You cannot sleep here. There are real wolves.” Curtis startles you as his shadow blocks out the moonlight. You look up at him. “My tent remains… open to you.”

“That is kind.” You say.

You rub your hands together and blow into them. You hug your bent knees, tucking your fingers under them. He sighs and circles the pit.

“I’m not asking.” He says.

You swallow. You take a deep breath. You can’t move, not right away. He waits. You shift onto your knees and press your hands to the dirt. You stand stiffly.

He approaches and you shy away. He catches your wrist. You quiver but do not draw away. He walks you away from the fire and between the tents.

Your eyes wander and as you pass Ursula’s tent, you spy her by a torch propped out of the dirt. She watches you and lifts her chin in acknowledgement. Curtis drags you to his tent and pushes you under the flap.

It’s different. There are blankets piled over soft mounds. You have seen that embroidery before. These come from the Duchess’ inventory.

“You need purpose. I took that from you.” He says as he slides his axe free from his belt. He places it on a pillow. He stands straight and undoes his belt completely. He locks it inside the hide chest next to the heap of bedding. “So, I have thought on it. You will have new purpose.”

He stands again and undoes the wooden buttons on his jacket. You stand and rock near the tent flap. He peels off the jacket and folds it over the chest. He tugs the back of his tunic and strips it off too, revealing the dark hair that trims his torso.

When he straightens again, he pauses to look at you. He crosses the small space and grabs the braided end of your belt. He unknots it as he stares at you. You watch the apple of his throat.

“It is cold in the night.” He tosses the belt away and pinches the slack fabric of your dress. “But you are warm and I’ve not been in some years.” His hands stretch around your waist. “Do you see your purpose now?”

Your lip trembles and you squirm.

“Back,” he commands gently. You doubt he is the same way with his men.

The dog obeys but keeps her nose slightly over the back of the seat. You try not to be obvious as you observe the path of the vehicle. The gates that open before the bumper and the uniformed men guarding them.

Then there’s the house. A mansion. Not the boxy crumbling facade of the colony barracks but a lavish exterior with lush hedges shaped and trimmed and ornaments in the vein of Roman art. It’s like a dream, something that no longer exists, but you know it can only be a nightmare.

The Legate undoes his seatbelt as the vehicle draws to a stop. You look over but not at him. His door opens from the outside and he’s greeted by a man with an optio’s badge. The soldier keeps his eyes averted as The Legate does not move.

“Her first. She is a lady.” He insists.

The man’s eyes flick to you and his gaze narrows before retreating. “Apologies, Noble Legate–”

“What was that?” Legate Augustus seizes the man’s jaw with his large hand. “What was that look you gave her?”

“Noble Legate, I did not–”

“No, I saw it. I did not miss the way your brow moved. How you judged. Her? You do not know her.” He squeezes so that the man squirms. “I do not ask you to judge. I command you to obey without thought.”

You quickly look down and stare at your hands as you grip them together even tighter. Lupa lets out a low growl behind you. The Legate’s weight leaves the car and the man grunts, his body hitting the ground with a thump.

“Optio, you have earned a new assignment. I hear the drought land requires further oversight.”

“Noble Legate,” the man pleads.

“Do not make me send you to the south.” The Legate warns and the man grunts again, the impact of something blunt forcing his breath from his chest.

The door closes and a shadow moves around the vehicle. The door on your side opens and you wince. You bring your clasped hands up.

“Noble Legate,” you see the sigil on the ring on his hairy knuckle. “Forgive my inaction.”

“Do not. You do not require my forgiveness.” He reaches to undo your seatbelt. “Come.”

He offers his hand. You don’t hesitate, even as your mind and body fracture in fear. You put your hand in his and he helps you step down.

“Bos,” he booms as he signals with his other hand.

Another man appears. Another optio, this one with a ribbon next to his badge. He opens the hatch to let out Lupa. The dog comes to your side sniffs your loose hand.

“I’ve had a long day. As you have.” The Legate waves you forward, clinging to you as he falls into step. “Rest is in order.”

“As you bid, Noble Legate. I will heed.” You can barely speak. Lupa licks your palm.

“She senses your unease. I unsettle you.” He says.

You swallow. “Noble Legate, I only… abide my rank.”

“Forget that.” He demands. “If you were still a pleb, you would remain in the colony.”

His words confuse you. If that is not what you are, then what are you? What is his intent? You know better than to think it could be anything good.

“Understood, Noble Legate.”

He exhales as you approach a set of curved steps that stretch before a set of double doors. Immunes stand at the top and open the door as the Legate guides you upward. He squeezes your hand.

“I have told you what to call me.” He says.

You trip over your toes. You steady yourself as he turns to catch your other shoulder. You stare at his jacket.

“And I’ve told you to look at me,” he warns.

Your brain is on fire. Every instinct is wailing in alert. You have to listen but you can’t. It’s all wrong.

You slowly lift your head and look at him. “I apologise… Au… gust.”

His head tilts and his blue eyes linger on yours. He lets go of your shoulder and gently brushes his knuckles along your chin. “That is good.”

He slowly angles his hand around to cup your chin. You tremble and he once more squeezes your hand. “I have not hurt you and do not mean to. No need to be afraid.” He drops his hand but keeps yours in his other. “Lupa likes you. I can rarely deny her what she wants.”

He turns and drags you along. You don’t let yourself fall behind. Lupa is close, rubbing her head into her head. You pet her, if only to calm yourself.

The Legate leads you up the centre staircase which divides two curving arms around the edge of the foyer. Everything about this place is a startling contrast to the colony’s desolate degradation. It makes you sick to your stomach.

He leads you up to the second floor and along a hallway. Lupa slips ahead of you as you turn the corner and stops at a set of doors at the very end. When you catch up, The Legate opens the right door. He lets go of your hand and trails his touch up your arm, nudging you inside.

The room is as immaculate as the rest of this place. Above the large mouth of a marble fireplace is a portrait of the man behind you. Stoic, stern, all-seeing. The furniture is polished and perfect. The carpet ivory with a deep crimson pattern.

The walls are lined with tall arched windows, one a set of glass doors that open out onto a stone balcony. Across from the fireplace is another door; thick, white wood. You assume there must be a bedroom or something behind it.

The Legate shuts the door and strides around the room. Lupa sits on your feet as you hug yourself and sway. You glance over at the sharp and sudden clink of glass. Legate Augustus pours amber liquor from a decanter into crystal glasses. He puts the cap in place and sets down the square bodied vessel.

“Come and drink. It will help you.” He says. “Lupa can sense your energy.”

You swallow. “Yes, Noble– August.” You correct yourself and cross the room. He holds out a glass and you reach for it. He doesn’t let go right away, clinging to it until you look at him in the face. “Thank you.” You say.

The dog is at your other side, your hand in her fur as each time you draw away, she circles back for more. She's comforting but nothing can dissipate the anxiety, the fear, this man inspires. You notice how the soldier, decanus, immunes, even centurion, salute then shy away. You remain unseen as the men only see him; only care about him.

“I suppose an introduction would be redundant.” He says.

“Noble Legate.” You bow your head deeper.

He hums. “The hours were not lost. My men have inspected this place, top to bottom. A habit they tend to slack on.”

You remain quiet. You know better than to speak without purpose or permission. Besides, what can you say to him that would ever mean anything?

“So… that was my day,” he puts his large hands behind him. “And you were away? At market again?”

You hesitate. You cannot ignore a question but you find it difficult to find your voice. “Noble Legate, my assignment was the drought land.”

He hums again. He mulls your answer.

“Doing what, exactly?”

Your hand shakes and Lupa licks it. You swallow and exhale slowly. “Digging. Bunds.” You eke out the words crisply. “Noble Legate.”

He sighs and brings his arms forward, crossing them over his chest. He walks on. His shoes are dusty but you can tell they aren’t well-worn. Not like your peeling soles.

“We are having a conversation. August is acceptable.” He states.

“Noble…” your voice drifts off. You wouldn’t dare say his name. You match his stride and languish in silence.

“And you?”

You bite down. You don’t know what he means.

“What is your name?” He asks.

Your heart pumps fast. You remember it but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like something you made up. You don’t own anything, not even a name. You have a number and a pair of boots.

“8E15.” You recite.

He sniffs. “Not that. Your real name. The one from before.”

Before? Before was long ago. You were sixteen when the world changed. Now, you’re not sure. You’re older and just as scared. You just know how to control it. How to keep it inside. 

Subconsciously, your hand travels to your lower stomach, that place where hot metal seared. Then you pull away and hang your arms stiffly again. Lupa once more nuzzles into your hand.

“8E15–”

“Name. Not number.” He insists bluntly.

You trip at the tenor of his voice. He’s quick to catch you. You gasp and wrench away from him. He lets you go and you raise your hands in fright. You tremble as you show your palms and drop to your knees.

“Forgive me. I was not expecting–” You choke on your plea. Begging never got you anywhere. You put your palms up and extend your arms. Don’t whine, just take the punishment.

Nothing happens. You stare at the dirt and wait. The Legate stands across from you and his dog pokes her head up between your arms and licks your cheeks.

“Lupa,” he calls her.

He grabs your wrist and tugs. You stand. He pulls you right in front of him, the dog still between you.

“I want your name.” He says.

You stare at the dog’s fur. You can’t. You can feel the familiar thing in the back of your mind but you can’t latch on.

“I don’t know. They call me by my number.” You quaver out. “Noble Legate, call me what you will.”

He lets you go and pushes back his jacket to grip his hips. You shrink down. He clicks his tongue.

“If you will not tell me your name, you will look at me.” He commands.

Your hands ball up to fists and you pin them to your sides. Your shoulders rise with tension and your knees wobble. If you look at a decanus in the face, they use the club. An Optio might even use a knife for the offense.

But to disobey, someone as powerful as the Legate, would be far worse. You must. He has given an order. Even if it feels wrong, you have no choice.

You lift your chin as your eyes stay downward. You hold your breath and force your gaze up. You see him; dark hair, a curl over his forehead, a thick straight mustache, dark stubbles; a thick neck beneath his high collar and broad shoulders that speak the power behind his title. A quick flick of your irises before you give in to instinct and look down again.

His finger taps on his belt then he drops his hands. Lupa turns and sits, resting her head against your stomach as she stares up at you. Her tail sweeps the ground as it wags incessantly.

“She won’t let me go without you.” He says.

You don’t move. What does he mean?

He leans in and reaches for you. He takes your hand and moves your stiff arm. He puts your hand on the dog. He guides you to pet her then lets go. You scratch behind her ear as she groans in delight.

“We will retrieve your possessions and you will be removed from the camp roster.” He says.

You focus on the dog. His words are too frightening to fathom. You’ve seen people leave one of two ways; for the pits where they will die or dead in the back of a truck.

“You do not ask why? Or where you will go?” He challenges.

“No, Noble Legate. I obey.” You recite, that twinge that comes each time you surrender still flickering in your gut.

“Take me to your quarters. It is late already.” He commands.

“Yes, Noble Legate.”

He growls in his throat. “Lupa, back up. Come.”

The dog relents and stands at his heels. You feel him watching, waiting. You turn back and lead him through the camp. The soldiers watch and greet him with proper salutes and stances. Others like you scatter and hide before they can meet rebuke.

You stop at your block. Legate Augustus examines the bricks.

“Inside.” He prompts.

You’re surprised. You didn’t think he meant so far. You take him inside, the decanus at the door addressing him with respect.

“Upstairs. The second floor, Noble Legate.” You dare not walk ahead of him.

“You first.” He insists.

“Yes, Noble Legate.” You utter.

You go upstairs, innately aware of him behind you. You take him down the corridor to your shared quarters. He follows you inside. Those in their cots nearly tip them as they quickly get to their knees and bow their heads.

You don’t have much. You would have said so but it’s best not to say more than he asks. You open your locker and take out your can of peanuts, a sleeve with only three crackers, a head scarf, and the needle stuck into the remaining length of leather cord.

You turn back to the legate. He startles you as his large hands cradles yours. He takes the canister of peanuts and shakes it. He makes a gritty noise and gives it back.

“That all?” He asks.

It’s more than some have.

“Yes, Noble Legate.”

He drops his hands. Lupa sniffs around the room as the other occupants cower away from her. You grip your things tight.

“Let’s go.”

The Legate turns and strides to the door, not a single glance to his audience. You follow and peek over. Your cot mate stares at you in concern. You’ve never seen an ounce of emotion from them before. That unsettles you more.

You go with the legate back outside. Lupa stays close to you. He takes you through the camp to the gates. The large black vehicles wait in a line, centurions and immunes milling around restlessly until they see the Legate.

“Past time we leave,” he addresses a centurion in their red jacket.

The centurion walks with him to one of the boxy SUVs and opens the back door. Before you can react, the Legate turns and grabs your arm. He as good as lifts you and puts you inside. He quickly spins to stop Lupa from following.

“Ah, you know better,” he tuts and points her away.

The centurion approaches. Lupa growls but her master commands her to go with him. The hatch behind you opens and she hops inside, poking her head over the seat to sniff you. The Legate climbs in. He closes the door and pushes down a button. A screen rises between the back and front seats.

“You had a long day. You may rest. It will be a long drive.” He says flatly.

Your eye flits over at the movement of his hand. He grips above his knee, his middle finger dragging up and down. You shove what you can in your pockets and keep the canister in your lap. You close your eyes.

The moonlight shifts and you back up, looking to the sky as the clouds gloss over the few stars peering down on the city.

“Don’t be scared.” The voice coaxes and you feel something behind you.

You swing around. Your heart clogs your throat as you grip your purse. “Who’s there?”

A skittering noise comes from the left. You don’t look, you just run. You hurl yourself forward, pumping your arms, and all at once, run into a wall. It’s not hard but soft and stringy. You panic and claw at the unexpected barrier as the webbing wraps around your hands and wrists.

What is this? What’s happening?

“I don’t want to be alone either.” The man says again. You struggle to turn your head as the cording wraps around your neck. You see a pair of symmetrical shapes; rounded at the bottom and point near the top.

Strands of silver shine through the evening mist as the… thing crawls down the wall. You shake against your confines as they slowly coat your body. You look down and trace the stream of webby bounds to what that creature is.

Not a thing, a man. He stands and shakes his hand. The winding web stops. He nears you and pets the back of your head. You whine.

“What are you?”

He hushes you and turns to touch your lips. That same substance spreads across them, sealing them. You murmur helplessly as you see only the edge of his black and silver mask.

What happened to the red and blue? What happened to New York’s hero? This isn’t him. He wouldn’t do this.

His timbre rolls through you and adds to the tremour in your muscles. You bite your lip and lean back into the stack of pillows as he drags his fingertips along your wet folds. You quiver again.

"I only need you to keep it up, darling." He reaches behind him and reveals the long, flesh coloured you. You gasp. There's a slight curve in it. Is it...

"Made especially for you, my love." He turns the toy then pulls it down to compare to himself. His cock is upright in his naked lap as he sits with your legs bent over his. "For when I am away. I cannot have you missing me."

You moan as your body tingles. You're overwhelmed by his tending and the thought of him making that for you. You're dizzy in the haze of lingering pleasure.

"But I am always one to ensure quality. We must ensure that it is adequate to your needs." He guides the silicone tip along your folds, rubbing it back and forth to wet it. His dick twitches visibly. You hum.

He prods at your entrance and slips into your walls easily. You arch your back and feet as you squeeze the toy. He tickles your thigh with his fingers.

"Keep those eyes on me, darling," he girds we he pushes the toy in to it's limit.

You flick your eyes up to meet his and bite your lip. He teased as he pulls the toy back. He slides it back in and you drone.

You sit on the floor as 8KH1 sleeps on the cot. The morning rises slowly from the tepid night. You count out five nuts from the tin and eat them slow. You don't know your assignment for the day, you never do. It will be grueling whatever it is.

It doesn’t matter. You can barely remember what you did yesterday, let alone week ago. Yet, your last day at the market sticks. The thief, dog, the Legate. You dream about it. More and more, it feels like that’s all it was.

You pick at the sole of your boot where it once more separates from the rest. You traded a can of sour beets for a needle and leather cord to fix it. It only held for a month. Now you're hungry and your shoe is too.

The first bell rings. A horrible refashioned metal thing from a school house. There’s one in the hallway outside the cramped room you share with a dozen others. And others mounted on walls across the colony. There’s even one on the pole that marks the centre of the court yard.

8KH1 rolls off the cot. They pull on their sock-like cap and tuck in their ratty ends. You lock up your peanuts in the small locker with your number on it. You each get one. Enough to fit your boots at most, but those stay on your feet. You’d never get enough to fill it up anyhow.

You file out with the rest. Roll call. The Decanus soldiers with their silver buttons count the bodies standing in slumping blocks of eight by eight. Each block is called up and designated to their daily tasks.

It’s not market day for the quadrant. You’ll be headed to the drought land to dig bunds for rain water. If it ever rains. The work is tedious but better than staying in camp and tending to the rusting pipes under block 58S.

You shuffle into the back of a truck with the rest of your block. There are no seats. You stand, crammed into the canvas covered bed, and try not to tip into the person beside, behind, or in front of you.

You face the back, just able to see between the shoulders ahead of you and through the rustling flaps. A rumble of engine sound from ahead of the truck's bumper. A convoy comes into sight. Black tactical vehicles on high axles and heavily treaded tires. They disappear into a cloud of dust.

“See that?” Someone whispers. They’re hushed. Despite this someone else answers.

“What?”

Another shush.

“That looked like…”

“Sigil…” Another whispers.

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not getting lashes for you.” The shusher hisses.

You stare out at the sun beaten road. Those vehicles were headed for 814; or so it looked like. Why? They didn’t look like a work sentry or even a delivery.

Soon enough, you forget them. You get to a strip in the drought land and disembark with a long shovel. You’ll dig a half circle pit along the peaks of the dried out earth. Crushing work that already has your back achy.

You work with M5PL, a squat older man turning red from the heat. You throw the dirt out of the pit as you carve out the crumbly dirt. It blows back at you, sticking to the sweat on your face and soaking through your clothing.

You dig until the air cools. It would be easier work to start in the evening but by then, you’re rounded up and put on the truck. M5PL cries out as he tries to climb up over the bumper. He clutches his chest and falls back, landing flat on the ground. He gets a kick from a Decanus. When he just writhes and whines, the step over him and close the short door to the bed of the truck.

“Vultures will take him where he needs to go.” They march around the truck and the doors creak loudly.

M5PL twitches as the truck takes off. You look down at the shadows around your feet. One day, it’ll be you. Not if, when. He isn’t the first, they’ll never be the last.

Back at the camp, the truck honks at the gates. It’s unusual. Usually, the sentries will open them on sight.

“Business?” A raspy voice demands.

“The fuck you mean,” the Decanus in the driver’s seat huffs. “We’re stationed here.”

“Watch your tone.” The other man retorts. “Can you read?”

“The hell kinda question–”

“Use your eyes, dick,” the snarl crackles in the man’s throat.

“Centurion?” The driver sputters.

“Good boy. Get inside before I have you boarded.”

The truck lurches forward as you hear the doors parting on their immense hinges. Those around you exchange looks but don’t dare speak. What is a centurion doing in 814?

You traipse out with the rest. You lean on the truck until you get the feeling back in your feet and lift your knees as you try to get the tightness out. You grip your hips as your lower back knots up. You turn in your shovel and collect your ration card.

“Half?” Another snorts. “Half a ration?”

“Did you say something, pleb?” The decanus barks.

No response. You all tuck away the orange half-ration ticket and shuffle away. You keep your head down and pull up your jacket to hide a yawn. You drop your hands and nearly cry out as something cold meets your palm. You learned long ago not to react.

You turn as the sniffing wet nose brushes your jacket’s hem. The same black and white dog nuzzles the bottom of your stomach. You show your palms and watch helplessly. Other pass by, side stepping the beast nervously.

“Hey, go on. Get to your quarters.” The decanus stomps over. “The hell are you up to?” The dog turns around and growls at the man. He stops and scowls. “You shouldn’t fuck with that dog. It’s–”

“Lupa,” the name rolls through the air, followed by a whistle.

The decanus turns and presses his fist to his heart. He lowers his head as the Legate approaches. That explains the centurion, yet doesn’t. Why are they here?

You get to your knees and the dog, Lupa, circles you. She sits beside you as her owner approaches and rests her snout on your shoulder. You stare at the ground and rest your fists above your knees.

“Decanus. Dismissed. Go away.” The Legate snips. The Decanus flees without hesitation.

“8E15.” The Legate recites your number.

You dip your head even lower. You can’t speak. Any plebian that speaks out of turn won’t always be able to ever again.

“You can stand.” He permits.

You shake and lean forward slowly. You lift yourself on your knees, set one foot at a time, and stand. You keep your head down.

The dog circles you again then presses her head against your hip as she sits close. She prods your hand with your nose. You let her.

“And you may pet her. She doesn’t always ask so nicely.” He girds.

You open your hand and turn it out. You pet the dog cautiously. The Legate inches closer.

“My men have been searching all day.” He states.

You flinch.

“The Optio told me himself you didn’t exist. I should have his left eye.”

You gulp and instinctively look up in shock, just as quickly dropping your gaze again.

“You see, the E looks like an F.” He stops in front of you and points to your jacket, almost touching you. “But I knew you were real.” Lupa rubs her face on your hand. “She’s been restless for you.”

You scratch Lupa’s ear.

“Will you walk with her?” He pushes his shoulders wide. “And me?”

You stare at Lupa as he licks your hand. It’s not a question, not from him, it’s a command.

He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.

However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.

Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.

The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.

You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.

But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?

Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.

Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.

You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.

Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.

The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.

“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”

“Booking’s under my name, darling.”

“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”

“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look. 

“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”

He doesn’t say anything. 

“You know it isn’t.” 

“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”

You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”

“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”

“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.

The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.

Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.

“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”

You jerk back. “Weeks?!”

Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.

With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.

Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.

The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.

“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”

You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”

She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”

Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No. 

Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park. 

“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”

“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”

Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”

“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”

It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.

“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”

You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.

You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.

Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.

But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.

Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.

This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.

“I will be,” you murmur.

“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”

“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”

“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”

A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”

“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”

Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.

“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Then you’re left in the silence once more.

There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.

You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.

Still, things have always happened within your control.

This situation right here is out of your control.

It’s fazing you.

You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.

No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.

You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.

Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.

They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.

There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.

You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.

Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.

It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.

“Need some help?”

A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.

Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–

He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.

Fuck, he’s hot.

He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.

High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously. 

But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.

“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”

“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”

God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.

“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”

“Four.”

You cock an eyebrow.

“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”

I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.

What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.

(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)

“And who are you again?”

The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”

“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”

“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”

Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”

“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”

Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”

If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.

“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”

The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”

“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.

His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you. 

With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you. 

“Thanks,” you mutter.

Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t. 

You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind. 

He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”

The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair. 

Seriously, frustratingly hot.

You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”

The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you. 

“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”

Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?

“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”

“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.

Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”

You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear. 

“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper. 

You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”

His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”

“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”

“You don’t know me, princess.”

Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”

“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.

That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.

“Stalker much?”

“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”

You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.

Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.

A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams. 

After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you). 

Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from. 

“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”

“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.

The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.

By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her. 

“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”

Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”

“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”

For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail. 

“Maybe later.”

He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.

You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?” 

Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses. 

That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.

He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.

“Really? You’re going to town in that?”

You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”

Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.

“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”

He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves. 

“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.

“It looks nice.”

It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay. 

Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”

“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”

“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”

Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”

And you’re not sure what to say to that. 

But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile. 

The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news. 

She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?

While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones. 

One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.

Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them. 

It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile. 

When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”

“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”

“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”

Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”

His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.

So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.

If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.

“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”

Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.

“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”

Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.

Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”

Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.

Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—

You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.

What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.

“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”

You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”

“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”

Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.” 

“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.” 

You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you. 

“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”

You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here. 

“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish. 

You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.

That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”

Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.

You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him. 

He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have. 

“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”

You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles. 

Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time. 

“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.

It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this. 

The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece. 

Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.

You quickly school your expression. 

You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.

“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.

“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”

When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”

“I’m fine,” you grit out again. 

“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?” 

“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth. 

Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”

A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”

His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”

The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.

Fear. 

Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?

Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it. 

Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose. 

A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s whatever,” you mutter.

“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”

You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you. 

In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.” 

Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears. 

Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home. 

You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you. 

“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”

“Let me go, Bucky.”

“How are you going to head home?”

“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.

Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”

You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”

That stops you, your movements halting. 

“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”

“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”

“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”

“Oh, so you think you know me now?”

“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.” 

“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”

“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time. 

Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.

“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.

Your blood runs cold.

You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.

The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”

Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron. 

“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”

Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch. 

You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives. 

However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”

“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap. 

His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”

“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”

“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”

Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch. 

Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips. 

“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”

“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”

His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”

His eyes melt, if only a fraction. 

You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”

“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”

“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”

With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again. 

It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.

Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter. 

“Shit, sorry,” you wince. 

“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart. 

His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead. 

Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house. 

His hand is still on yours. 

You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping. 

“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs. 

“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?” 

You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.” 

He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling. 

“I guess,” you mutter.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”

With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”

You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”

That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.” 

“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.

“Actually, you designated me court jester.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now. 

“Find it funny, do you?”

“A little bit.”

“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”

Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.” 

“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”

Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”

You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours. 

“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.” 

All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need. 

This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate. 

Not with Bucky of all people. 

However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another? 

“Too much too soon?” He asks gently. 

“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”

Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”

Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you. 

“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn. 

Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears. 

Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity. 

The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle. 

The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home. 

However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less. 

He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away. 

As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move. 

Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye. 

Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today. 

You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.

“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams. 

“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.

“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”

You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”

“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.

With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”

Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”

The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”

You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.

Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”

“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”

“Good.”

Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”

“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”

Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”

“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.

“You are, sir.”

“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”

You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.

Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.

Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.

“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.

You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”

He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”

“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.

Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.

“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.

You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”

“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.

“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”

At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”

You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”

“You were a spoiled princess after all.”

Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”

“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”

“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.

Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”

“That kind of sucks.”

“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”

While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.

“How much have y’all raised so far?”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”

But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?

“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”

“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.

You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”

“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”

“I just have to convince my dad.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.

“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”

“This is different.”

“This is going to attract unwanted press.”

“This is the kind of press we want.”

The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.

“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.

“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”

You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”

Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.

These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.

Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.

Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.

“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”

You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”

He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”

“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.

“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”

A pout forms on your lips. “But—”

“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”

“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.

He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”

You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”

Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.

“Smile.”

You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”

“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”

Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.

His eyes don’t leave you once.

Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”

With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.

Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.

With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.

“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”

The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”

You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”

“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”

“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”

“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”

“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”

Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that. 

“What’s with that sound?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”

“I don’t like that boy.”

You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”

“That’s also true.”

“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”

It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”

“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”

Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.

But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.

However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.

“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”

Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”

“Anytime, darling.”

Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).

People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.

Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.

You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.

“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”

You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.

Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”

John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.

“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.

On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.

“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.

You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.

“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.

“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.

“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.

“If you say so.”

However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.

“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.

“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.

“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”

Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”

“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”

His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”

“And this isn’t?”

His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”

“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”

His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”

“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”

“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”

“High compliment coming from you.”

You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.

“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.

However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.

Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”

It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.

Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.

“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”

The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.

I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.

The echo of his words have your ears burning.

By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.

“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.

“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”

His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”

You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”

“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.

Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”

“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”

You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”

Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.

“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”

“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”

“Noted, appreciated.”

You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”

“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”

It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.

“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.

“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”

You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”

“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”

“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”

“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”

That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”

Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.

“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”

You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”

He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”

“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”

You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”

The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.

“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”

You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”

As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”

Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”

“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”

“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”

You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”

“Then you guys can be uncool together.”

“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.

“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”

“You’ve never met him.”

She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”

Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”

“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”

“Rude.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” you grin.

“Have fun, kiddo.”

You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.

By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.

“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”

“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”

“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.

Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”

“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”

“Packed and ready to roll.”

You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”

He only chuckles.

“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”

“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”

“Still living under my roof, darling.”

“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”

“But—”

Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.

“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”

“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.

“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.

The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary. 

Out here, it just… exists.

Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.

“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.

Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.

The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.

Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”

“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”

“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”

Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”

Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.

“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”

Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”

“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”

Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.

“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.

Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.

“The water’s fantastic.”

“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”

“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”

“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”

Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”

“Think I’ll take my chances.”

“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”

That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.

“Wait, you’re really—”

“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.

You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.

“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”

Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”

“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”

The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.

He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.

You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.

Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.

You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.

He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.

“What?” You try to play off.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.

“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.

“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”

Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”

Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”

“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.

He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.

His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.

“This okay?” He whispers.

You only manage a nod.

“You’re gorgeous, princess.”

The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.

He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”

“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.

A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”

“Why don’t you try?”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.

“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”

“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.

“Good answer,” you grin.

He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.

But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.

“Bucky, come on,” you whine.

“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.

“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”

Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”

Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.

His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”

An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.

“Language, princess.”

A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”

“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”

You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.

“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”

“‘S for you,” you choke out.

“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”

Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.

“Gettin’ shy on me?”

“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.

“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”

Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.

“Come on, Buck.”

“What is it?” He feigns confusion.

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”

“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.

It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—

“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”

Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”

“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”

Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.

But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.

When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.

Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.

“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”

The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.

“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”

His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.

“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”

“God, Bucky, please.”

“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”

“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.

“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”

Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”

He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.

“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”

Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.

“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”

He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.

“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”

“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”

“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.

“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”

Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.

You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”

“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.

“Please, Buck.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”

“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”

You give a small nod. “I trust you.”

“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”

“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”

Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.

He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.

“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.

“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”

“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”

His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”

Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.

For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.

A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.

Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.

And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.

You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.

“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.

His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.

Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.” 

He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open. 

“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”

“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies. 

You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.

The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.

“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”

That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him. 

“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”

Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”

Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.

“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”

Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”

“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.

Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you. 

The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching. 

“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling. 

“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”

He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.

It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.

“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.

“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.

Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.

“Are you okay? Was I too—”

“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.” 

He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest. 

As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—

“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”

Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”

You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts. 

It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation. 

Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway. 

And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised. 

For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.

He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him. 

In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave. 

The thought hurts more than you expect. 

However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.

“What?”

“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”

That’s never a good sign. 

You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—

“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.

Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.

Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.

“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean. 

“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”

“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”

“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”

What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up— 

Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.

You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs. 

But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.

“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”

You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister. 

You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner. 

It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.

Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.

Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.

He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion. 

“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.

“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”

You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all. 

“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”

It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?” 

“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”

Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart. 

“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”

“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”

You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”

“That’s not on you—”

“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”

“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”

“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.” 

It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place. 

“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.” 

He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it. 

On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further. 

As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems. 

“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side. 

“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”

She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”

“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”

Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”

Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat. 

Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car. 

Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge. 

It’s better this way.

The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter. 

“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”

That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”

“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.

“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”

“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.” 

You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”

“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”

The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest. 

But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life. 

When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it. 

When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far. 

The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security. 

It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction. 

“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”

“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”

“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”

“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”

John… isn’t he the—

“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”

“Fucker,” you spit out venomously. 

“Tell me about it.”

“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”

“An email would’ve sufficed too.”

“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”

Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”

“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”

Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”

He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”

“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.

“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”

“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.

“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.” 

Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, we live in different places.”

“Planes exist.”

“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”

The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”

A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”

“I’m one of them. Next question.”

“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”

“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”

He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper. 

“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”

“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly. 

“Always will, princess.”

+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @/singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @shoutingcardinal @theyluvreynira27 @sunnliqht @victoriuhmm @obsidianwidow @micnicmabel

You feel so stupid. You knew the bathing suit wouldn’t hold up. You just didn’t speak up for yourself, too embarrassed to point out the mismatch between the style and your body. There’s nothing wrong with your body despite the pressures of LA, you just know how to dress it.

You grab a towel and wrap it around yourself. You face your reflection and quietly pep yourself up. This is Venice, it’s exciting. It was just a little blip, that’s all.

The knock at the door is quicker than your courage. “Hey, sweetheart, everything okay?”

You cringe. “Sure. I was just…” Your voice trails off and you flick back the lock below the handle. You slowly open the door. “Um… I didn’t get water all over, did I?”

“Nah,” he shrugs. He has a towel around his neck, his torso peek out all muscled and perfect. “All good. I was just thinking about time.” His eyes skim up and down. Or maybe it’s all in your head. “Dinner?”

“Right, uh… Yeah. Pasta…”

“Well, it’s Italy, right?” He winks. “I was gonna pick out something to wear… hoped to get a second opinion…”

“Oh, right. Sure, uh… I’m not really a fashion person.” You step out cautiously, hugging the towel.

“Really? You always look so good.” He praises.

You scoff. “You’ve mostly seen me at work in my apron.”

“Ha, guess I didn’t really think about it. But still, we should coordinate, huh?” He gestures you past him.

“Okay. I can… try.”

You follow him into the large main bedroom with the doors that open onto the veranda. You notice his bags and yours. He must have moved them. He hangs his towel over the back of a chair and goes to the closet to slide it open; his clothes are all hung up. And yours…

When did all this happen?

“So… green?” He pulls out an olive satin button up with short sleeves. “Too green? Does it make me look yellow?”

You focus on the material as he holds it against him.

“I like it.” You say.

“What about this?” He switches it out for a similar style in lavender with little flowers embroidered into it. “Does it bring out my eyes?”

You hug the towel and rock. “You have really blue eyes.”

His cheek dimples.

“Maybe something simpler. Just white?” He trades for a linen white shirt.

“Um, they’re all nice.” You smile.

“Okay, I’m gonna go with simple.” He puts the shirt aside and picks out some greyish purple slacks. “What about you?”

He turns and moves some hangers. Your cotton tees and jean shorts don’t really go. “Oh, well, I don’t think I have anything fancy…” You touch the floral print cotton, the only thing that looks halfway okay.

“What if I told you I had a surprise?” He rests his hand on the bar.

“Oh…”

“Well, my assistant already went to the boutique, so…”

You cringe.

“What’s that face?” He teases.

“I just… feel like I owe you. That’s… all.”

“Nah, I told you. It’s my pleasure.”

“Mhm,” you twiddle your fingers. “Right, uh…” You fall into silence as you once more slip back to earlier and the pool. You grip the top of the towel tightly.

“Hey, really, it’s nothing. No thank’s needed.” He reaches behind his clothes. “I told her you look good in red. It was a guess.”

He pulls out a satin wrap dress with thin straps. The skirt splits like the petals of a tulip. It’s a gorgeous colour and a gorgeous cut but you’d never choose it yourself.

“Wow, that’s… pretty.”

“Prettier on, I’m sure,” he grins as he holds it out. “Well, I did make a reservation and I can’t go with pool hair, huh?”

“Um, I guess not,” you take the hanger. “Thank you, it’s… too nice.”

-

The boat glides over the water. Instead of the autobus, Nick opted for one of the smaller gondolas. It’s a cozy fit as you sit next to him and the driver pushes through with his single paddle. A flicker of light catches your eye and you crane to see behind you.

“You forget something?” Nick asks, his arm behind yours, his hand nestled just beside your thigh, on the edge of his.

“No, no, I just…” you let your eyes graze along the sky. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Not too bad when you get a chance to appreciate it.” he says.

You hold back a sigh. You do appreciate it, all of it. More than you can say and yet it seems even saying so wouldn't be enough.

The water stirs softly around the boat, voices carry from others aboard their vessels, and the breeze flows by. A tickle on your forearm makes you jump. You look at Nick as the boat reacts to your movement.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod. “Just taking it all in.”

His fingertips brush down and graze your hand. His touch lingers then he pulls away. The gondola nears the steps built into the side of the canal.

The driver helps you out and Nick follows. He gently nudges your back as you step up to the street and points you down the cobblestone. You approach the front of a restaurant built onto the canal front.

He lets you through first. The hostess inside gives you lazy look then all at once, snaps up to attention. She approaches you frantically.

“Mr. Fowler,” she greets. “I heard you were back in the country.”

He steps up next to you, his hand at the small of your back. “Work.” He says. “I have a table.”

“Yes, sir, it's waiting.”

She turns and quickly beckons him after her. He urged you ahead of him. You can feel how the satin hem tickles your thighs with each move.

The hostess guides you through the ambient restaurant with its dimmed lights and pulsing candelabras. You weave between tables to one set up on an open archway looking out onto the water. A canopy of flowers is strung over the arch and tea lights are set around and over the table.

Nick pulls out a chair for you. You sit. The setup is beautiful. Too beautiful. Nick takes the seat across from you.

“Georgio said he sent out for the wine?” He prompts the hostess.

“We have it all ready, Mr. Fowler.” She assures.

You grab another crate. You quickly count the inventory. Not a piece short or it will be on you. You place it on the table and it’s once more dragged across. Celer signals with a fist then a V between his index and middle finger. There’s a stir as the crowd shifts around Optio Ursus, the commander of the quadrant.

The green ration card is passed back and forth. Two soldiers, Immunes with their blue epaulettes their jackets  stand behind the man on the other side of the table. His eyes flick back and forth nervously. The number sewn into his canvas jacket is faded. Your own isn’t in much better shape. Like you, they don’t have a name. Just a number.

“Counterfeit,” Ursus proclaims sternly. “Arrest this fraud. This thief.”

You back up and watch the nervous still break into chaos. The Immunes seize the man and he hollers. “It’s not. It’s real, it’s real!”

“Insect!” Ursus pulls the club from his belt and swings across the table, striking the maan in his temple. “I did not permit you to speak.” The Optio wags his club. “Upstart peasants. Do you know the consequence for thievery?”

You do. You’ve seen it. The woman you trade out your cot with every other night bears that mark. She is not permitted on placements outside the colony. She must stay and make due trading scrap.

The Immuness wrestle the man as he struggles dizzily against them. A crate of loaves is dumped uncaringly onto the ground, flipped to pin his arm to as he begs and sobs.

“It is real. It was allotted by Optio Aquila.” He snivels. “Please, please.”

“Be quiet or your tongue shall be lopped off too!” Ursus snarls and slings his club from his belt, feeling around until he grips the dagger there. “You’ll want to be still lest I cut the whole arm.”

The Optio snickers as those around gape or pretend not to see. Most stare at their feet. The Immunes keep the man trapped.

Ursus lifts his arm. There is a murmur before he can descend. He pauses and looks toward the snakish roil in the crowd. More blue epaulettes appear and Immuness divide the crowd. A pathway clears for a man in a long black jacket, his collar high and stiff, his boots leather and shining. A chain dangles across the open front of his coat, two large sapphires pinned to his lapels.

Those with numbers on their chests, get to their knees. You too. You’ve never been in the presence of a Legate but you know one on sight. The sapphires, the clothing, the posture. It’s plain even before Ursus greets him by name.

“Legate Augustus.” His voice nearly quavers. “When did you arrive? I was not informed you’d be attending the market.”

“And why should I tend to the masses?” The Legate’s deep voice sends a chill through you despite the dusty warmth of the pending noon. “As any man of the people might.”

“Certainly, Legate, I do not question your purpose. Only I am surprised at your presence.” Ursus panders.

“And what is this scene you make? I see wasted bread and terrified people.” The Legate rebukes. “This is not the order I read of in your report.”

“Legate, this man is a thief. It is him who has brought chaos–”

“So you would raise a furor? Startle those come for their rations?” The Legate interjects. “Criminals are to be detained and tried. Not beaten and mauled as animals.”

You stare at the ground. The tension in the air is suffocating. His words are not so noble as he pretends. Every person there has witnessed or perpetrated the contrary. A hand severed is far from the worst of atrocities in the colonies.

“Take this man to be heard by a praetor and determine if he will wear the thieves mark.” The legate commands. “Ursus, you will balance this loss from your own ledger.”

Your eyes peek up through your lashes as the Legate gets to a knee and gathers up the overturned stock. He piles it in and lifts it easily, shoving it at Ursus. “People, to your feet, to work.”

At once, you rise with the others on assignment. You fall back into action as those in line move up and hand over their green tickets. Your stomach growls again. You’ll get a full loaf for the assignment but not until the day is done.

As you turn again and place a crate out, you’re surprised by the gleam of light that singes your vision. You stare down the camera lens, shocked. The man behind it holds down the shutter and you hide in your work, back to the photographer.

You notice him move to the other side of the stall and aim his lens again. You peek over briefly. The legate shakes hands with Celer. It must be some sort of act. They are staging those in line, giving them commands.

An Immunes grabs the crate in your hands. You cling to it then let go. They put it back on the stack and seize your arm. They turn you then shove you back.

“Not her.”

They march away and grab another woman, P0L14. They examine her and drag her over. They pull you out of the way and put her by the stack of crates. Another camera emerges from the crowd.

Ceres smacks your shoulder. “To work.” You look at him then the Immunes and P0L14. “Go work on the truck, dumb woman.”

You evade his hand a second time and hurry off towards the cargo lot. You help unload the heads of cabbage and hand them off for inspection. The work is slow as heads crane to observe the market scene.

“... Augustus…” a whisper repeats across lips.

“...telling more lies…” one dares to suggest.

You keep your head down. You put cabbages into crates; rotting and slightly less rotting. One hits the corner and rolls over the edge of the table. Darn it.

You bend down to retrieve it but before you can, it moves. A set of fangs sink into the leafy ball. You hold out your hands but hesitate to wrestle the cabbage away from the large dog. Their fur is longer and fluffy, pointed ears, a black head and white around its stomach, legs, and chest. Their eyes are dark and menacing.

A head of cabbage could cost you yours. You go to grab it and the dog dodges away. No! You crawl under the table and stagger to your feet on the other side to follow them. You rush by several other workers and behind one of the canvas covered trucks.

“Hey, hey, doggy,” you call after the dog. You squint to get a good look. “Hey, girl. Please, can I have that back?”

You reach out, palm up, and walk forward cautiously as the dog stops and stares at you.

“You don’t want that. It’s bitter and grimy.” You plead with her, knowing she can’t understand. “Please…”

The dog drops the cabbage and rushes back toward you. You freeze in panic and watch wide-eyed as she charges. You close your eyes and brace for your demise.

The coolness in your hand makes you squeak. You look nervously through the slits of your eyelid. The dog nuzzles your hand then rubs her face into your palm.

“Oh, you… want pets?” You feel along her soft fur. She can’t be feral. She’s too well fed and groomed. You scratch behind her ear and she leans into your hand.

You offer your other and she lets you pet her with both. That knot around your heart slowly loosens. You can’t remember the last time you met anyone or anything friendly. The corners of your lips curve up, just a little.

“That’s it, girl. You’re a good girl. I wish I could give you something. Even that rotten cabbage.” You coo at her.

“Lupa.” A deep voice booms over you.

You turn as your expression falls back to neutral. It’s him. Legate Augustus. You get only a glimpse before you drop your eyes and get down to your knees. As you lower yourself, the dog licks your cheek and tries to sit in your lap, much too big to do so. She knocks you over onto your but and you land on your back in the dirt.

“Lupa,” the Legate calls again as he stomps up to you. Your heart is pounding. “Off.” The dog relents. “Sit.”

The dog obeys. You push yourself up and the Legate offers his hand. You stare at his thick fingers. Only for a second then you once more make yourself familiar with the dirt.

“Noble Legate,” you get up to your knees on your own and cower, hands on your thighs as you grip tight.

He rescinds his hand slowly, his shadow sighing beside you. You feel his gaze but don’t dare look up to check if he really is watching. You only look as far as his boots.

“She doesn’t usually make friends.” He says. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive.” He backs up and snaps his fingers. “Lupa, to me.”