Curtis Everett x f!reader (Arranged Marriage / Viking-ish AU)
Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine. All of my work is 18+ so read at your own risk x
Tags/warnings: angst, fluff, Curtis being emotionally constipated again (whoo!), wholesome moments, suggestive language
Summary: After your rejection the night before, you set about distracting yourself and setting a new boundary you're seriously trying to uphold.
Word count: 4.6k
Divider @/lunaridae
Navigation | Curtis Masterlist | Pick Your Fic
You don't remember when you fell asleep but when you blink awake, the morning sun is bright and birds chirp happily in the forest beyond the village; adding insult to injury from your rejection the night before.
Your eyes are puffy and crusted with salted dried tears, your nose is still mostly blocked and your poor body aches from being curled in on itself in for you to have some semblance of comfort as you cried to sleep.
You don't need to turn over to know that Curtis isn't next to you. Where there was once worry is now indifference; hollow, empty indifference.
A creeping feeling sets in your bones, begging you to stay in. To hide away from your new found family in shame. Curtis wouldn't care what you did either way, however, lying in bed wallowing wouldn't benefit you at all.
Rolling out of the empty bed, you climb to your feet and pour fresh water into the wash basin before splashing your face. The water is cold, soothing on your puffy eyelids and it helps to wake you up. You don't pay much heed to the dress you pick out, only that it's simple and after pulling on your shoes you step out into the morning light.
Doing a quick sweep to ensure Curtis isn't in your near vicinity, you walk to Tannya's hut. Perhaps sharing fables with Timmy as promised may lift your spirits.
Everyone is busy. There's hustle and bustle all around you but everyone stops to tell you good morning. You try to ask to help with whatever preparation they're doing but they all dismiss you with a smile, pointing in the direction of Tannya's hut. With a resigned sigh you make your way to Tannya's.
"Tannya?" You call out upon approach, spotting Timmy running by with a few of the other children. "Good morning Timmy."
You offer him a smile and he gives you a shy smile in return. You consider your spirits lifted immediately although the other children seem shy of your presence.
"Good morning chieftainess." He says with quiet excitement. "Have you come to tell me more stories?"
"If you'd like," You nod. "I'd have to ask your mother first and maybe ask the other children to join us."
Timmy nods and you catch the animated murmurs of the other children. Behind you, in Tannya's hut yu can hear muffled voices - Tannya's and Curtis' - and give the children an awkward smile. You can't make out what's being said but Tannya doesn't sound happy with Curtis about something.
Good. You think to yourself smugly. That makes two of us.
"Is my husband going to play with you today?" You ask nervously. If that was the case you may have to disappoint them - he wasn't the person you wanted to see at the moment.
"No." One of the children says with a sigh. "He said he was busy today."
You sigh with relief. "Oh, that's a shame."
Curtis appears suddenly from Tannya's and meets your gaze, grunting your name with a nod quick nod and disappearing into the village throng. Anger bubbles and you grind your teeth before you stop yourself - not today, you won't let him get to you today.
Tannya calls your name and waves you into her home, clearly disgruntled by whatever she had been discussing with your husband but you're smart enough to not ask about it.
"Morning," you say, standing awkwardly in her living room. It's a mimic of yours just slightly smaller and far more homely.
Tannya hums in response and picks up a garment covered in pins. It's a cotton blend of some kind and it matches your figure almost perfectly.
"Come into the bedroom and try this on." She says ushering you into her room. "I hope you don't mind that I took one of your old dresses for your measurements before we left your village."
"Oh." You blink, slightly impressed that Tannya was able to mimic your measurements in such a short time without needing you in person. "Wow."
She begins to help you untie your skirt layers and chuckles. "Don't say that just yet; it's only a basic pattern so I can make your second ceremony gown. Once we have these confirmed, I'll be able to make your gown to fit you perfectly."
Tannya sets to work, carefully cinching and pinning the garment once you're inside of it, making small talk over your preferred styles and colours, as well as a variety of domestic topics. When you mention you like a style that accentuates your figure but still has a little elegance to it, she holds up a hand and rushes out of the room, returning with more fabric to demonstrate how it falls and drapes and gathers; gaining more insight into what would make you the most beautiful blushing bride for the chieftain.
"I was speaking with the children earlier." You say nonchalantly, trying to talk about something other than your impending second ceremony. "I did promise them I'd tell them stories and go with them to play."
Whilst she attaches a makeshift flared train the your dress, she looks up at you with a smile.
"Soon you'll have little ones of your own to share stories with too," Tannya tells you excitedly and you force a smile. "Everyone is so excited to see what the chieftain's little ones will look like."
Your heart aches and you resist the urge to cry yet again, even though you're sure you have no tears left. The events from last night are still fresh and Curtis' rejection still stings.
"You mean cubs." You say quietly, and Tannya looks up confused for a second before you repeat yourself. "Bear cubs."
She dissolves into laughter and you join in despite the sadness you feel, wishing your husband actually liked you enough to touch you.
"Come, chieftainess." Tannya says getting to her feet. "Let's get you out of these rags and back into your clothes. We will watch the children play by the brook together."
You slip the shoulder of the makeshift dress down and then pause, fixing Tannya with a confused frown. "I need to prepare food before I go."
"For what? Dinner?" She raises an eyebrow at you and you realise she knows more about your predicament than you realised. "Let the boy starve."
The laugh that bubbles from your lips surprises the both of you and you cover your mouth with shy surprise before you meet her glimmering brown eyes and you both burst into laughter together.
"Sorry, sweetheart. Curtis spoke to me this morning and I didnt want to push you to tell me." Tannya sighs after a moment, grinning with a shake of her head. "I love that boy but he's a fool."
"Do you know you're the second person who has said that to me?" You confess, smiling despite your situation. You were glad to have befriended Tannya; you didn't feel entirely alone in your new home and now you knew you could be honest with her about what was happening in your marital home... or more accurately what wasn't happening.
Tannya snorts. "That doesn't surprise me. Don't get me wrong, Curtis is an amazing leader but he can be so dull when it comes to women."
"You're telling me." You chuckle and Tannya snorts again as she takes your dress from you and folds it neatly. For a moment, you can pretend there isn't any rejection from your husband and only mere stupidity.
"Besides," She adds, helping you back into your layered skirts. "Playing with the children will take your mind off of things. They're all excited to hear your stories and have you play their princess."
Your heart warms at the thought and a nervous flush graces your cheeks. Your mind flits back to Curtis and watching him play with the children and the warmth subsides. Is Tannya just saying this for your benefit? Or is it genuine? You weren't nearly as strong or as big as your husband so you couldn't possibly handle all of the tackling he did. What if the children decided they didn't even like your company?
When you focus your thoughts again, you notice Tannya is looking at you with a quirked brow and you smile sheepishly.
"You're overthinkng." She tells you plainly, gripping your shoulders and shaking you gently. "You need time out of that hut and away from your thoughts and Curtis needs to think about his actions."
You bite back a smile and tears well in your eyes. The way Tannya and Gwillam treat Curtis like a petulant child gives you a sick satisfaction that you wished you could impart on Curtis himself.
"Thank you, Tannya." You sniff. "I needed to hear that."
Tannya's arms wrap around you in a soft yet firm motherly hug that pushes you over the edge. She says nothing for a few minutes, letting you cry out your stress and sorrow while soothing you with quiet reassurances and soft strokes to your hair. Her kindness makes you miss your dearly departed mother, your friends and your home. It hadn't even been a month since you had traipsed across unknown land with your new husband that you had met on your wedding day; and to not even have bedded your husband or have any other ounce of affection from him other than one dance and a kiss (and a thank you if you were being pedantic) had eaten at your psyche like a cancer.
Your crying was cathartic and after a few minutes Tannya pulled back and helped wipe your tears with a kind smile.
"Come on, chieftainess." She urges gently. "Let's take a walk."
The day out with the children and Tannya was better than you could have imagined. You were pulled in every direction, every which way, by a gaggle of excitable little monsters.
Tag, hide and seek, and a game about warriors, Princesses and monsters were your highlights. You managed to get a few moments of respite with Tannya to chat about a variety of things that weren't your husband and Tannya had complimented your acting abilities while you played one of the princesses in need of rescue.
By the time you were headed back into the village, hand in hand with Timmy and another one of the children, your heart felt lighter and your resolve a little stronger.
Another excellent thing about getting out of the confines of the village for a few hours, other than avoiding Curtis, was finding flowers and herbs from your home village as well as some new additions. You made mental notes of where to find them and planned to visit the brook the following morning to collect some; you hadn't yet learned about your new village's medicinal customs but it wouldn't hurt to make sure you were well stocked and prepared. You already had some lefter over salves and ointments you'd packed for your journey, including a lotion your best friend had given to you as a wedding gift you had yet to use.
For dinner, you had opted to make a simple vegetable soup and some bread, and were jotting notes of your findings into a small leather bound book when Curtis stepped through the doorway.
You look up briefly, pausing your scrawling for a few seconds, before continuing again. With your spare hand, you dip a slice of thick bread into the soup and carefully avoid dribbling it down your chin.
"Husband." You acknowledge him with cool indifference around your bread.
"Wife." Curtis looks at his empty bowl by the stove, then to you, eating quietly alone at the table.
"Where...?" He clears his throat and tries again, slightly louder. "Where's my food?"
"You can make your own bowl." You deadpan.
Curtis looks back at the pot and you cautiously look over at him. He looks a little lost for words, and for what to do, and you hate that you feel guilty for it. Yet theres a small part of you tbat feels smug.
There's the clinking of the ladle against the iron pot as Curtis dishes up his own bowl and the moment he sits down, you rise to your feet, taking your bowl and notebook with you.
Curtis pauses his eating, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Where are you going?"
"To bed." You deadpan again. "Goodnight."
You leave Curtis sat at the table, slightly shocked at your sudden change in demeanour, and head into the bedroom to finish eating. You wished being petty made you feel better, however, you found it only made you feel worse.
Curtis doesn't come to the bedroom at all that evening but you can hear him pottering in the living area for an hour or two before it goes silent. You don't know if he's left the hut or not and you try not to care as you force yourself to sleep.
The following morning, while it is a marked improvement to the morning prior, you still aren't in high spirits.
You crawl out of bed and dress quickly, adding a dash of rose water to your skin when you wash to make yourself feel pretty, and make a move to head out into the forest beyond the village to collect flowers from the brook. However, you're halted when you slam into the firm chest of your husband whilst you're attempting to exit, and he's trying to enter, the bedroom.
You let out a squeak of surprise and an apology but when you glance up, Curtis' gaze is as intense as the beet red rounds of his cheeks. For a moment, you think he's angry with you and consider stepping away, however, you find yourself drawn to the intensity like a moth to a flame and you stand your ground, looking at him patiently.
Curtis' eyes begin to dart everywhere except you before they settle on the floor as he juts a hand forwards, holding a small bouquet of flowers. The flowers are white and bell-like with thick green stems and a sweet aroma that clings to the air; you recognise them instantly as your favorite flowers and your heart thuds harder.
"I-" Curtis clamps his mouth shut. "These are for you. As... an apology."
"Oh..." You can feel your cheeks begin to warm now too. You weren't expecting this and you are completely disarmed. "Thank you Curtis. They're-"
"Your favourite." Curtis shifts awkwardly. "I asked Tannya if she knew."
"Yes but-"
"I was being... I don't know what I was being." He begins gruffly and because it's the first time he's opening up properly, you're hesitant to stop him but continue to look at his hands with building anxiety. "But I wanted to make it up to you."
"Curtis-"
"I know it's not enough. For now. I - I - um..." He swallows and his cheeks burn red-hot, blue eyes looking steadfast at the flowers in his hands. At any other time your stomach would have done backflips of joy. "I want us to eat dinner together and-"
"CURTIS DROP THE FLOWERS!" You blurt finally, anxiety becoming too much.
Curtis looks taken aback at your sudden outburst before looking like a kicked puppy and dejectedly dropping the flowers from his hand with a sigh.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why I thought that would wo-" Curtis pauses when you grab his hands hurriedly, twisting his palms upwards to inspect them. Sure enough, his hands are red raw and blisters are already forming.
"Oh, Curtis." You coo softly, running your thumb over the irritated skin with a featherlight touch. "Wait here."
You rush to a small trunk you set up by your side of the bed, undoing the leather belts and throwing it open. Rummaging between jars and herbs for a few seconds you finally find what you're looking for, holding it high to inspect your label with a satisfactory grin before hurrying back to Curtis, who looks dumbfounded by the ordeal.
You untie the cloth lid and scoop up cool salve onto your fingers, setting the jar down with your other hand before taking Curtis' upturned palms.
"This will sting." You warn him as you smear the salve onto his palms. Curtis stiffens and hisses as the salve creates a cool barrier over his blisters and when you peek up at him you notice that he's watching your hands tentatively work over his with that noticeable redness still glowing on the apples of his cheeks.
You fight off your own blush as your fingertips align with his before you drop your hands to wipe them unceremoniously into the skirt of your dress.
"They are my favourites," you begin shyly, the weight of his action and words finally catching up to you. "But they're poisonous. Causing blisters and skin irritation..."
You trail feeling breathless and can't seem to meet your husband's gaze. "I learned the hard way when I was a child and keep salve handy just in case someone makes the same mistake."
"Ah."
"Mm." You smile, toying with the white bell of one of the flowers on the floor with your foot, all your anger thawed. "Thank you, anyway."
Then, in an unspoken moment, you both glance up and catch eachother in your eyes. You nod and he nods back.
You both stand there, in your shared home, looking at one another's blushing faces and say nothing for a few moments more, air heavy with something that make your stomach swoop with butterflies.
"So," Curtis clears his throat. "As your flowers are one with our floor, how about we find some more? There's a river nearby that has a few."
You walked in tepid silence; not uncomfortable but not exactly pleasant, and you caught the narrow eyed look Tannya gave Curtis as you left the village and suppressed a smile.
The river wasn't far from the brook, and you could hear the pleasant whoosh of the water long before you approached. Curtis and you walked side by side, with only a small gap between you; often made wider when Curtis forgot to reign in his strides so that you could keep up.
Wildflowers had exploded along the patch of land by the river's edge, scattering brightly coloured petals to the wind like confetti. Other, smaller flowers sat closer to the shade of the tress; bluebells ringing with each breeze that passed them by. It was a beautiful scene to behold with the backdrop of a river, more forest and a mountain that reached the clouds perhaps hundreds of miles away.
"It's beautiful." You say, turning 360-degrees to take in everything you could. There's a mild chill, for a spring day and you shiver. Your new home is certainly colder than your village yet, it's awe-inspiring beauty makes it worth it.
Curtis nods, removing his bearskin cloak and draping it over your shoulders wordlessly. You're enveloped in warmth immediately, the cloak weighing down your shoulders, that delightful scent of inescapable conifer surrounding you. You glance up at Curtis as he fastens the cloak at your neck with forced concentration, your heart skipping.
"You looked cold." He mumbles, dropping his hands to his side.
He was so utterly confusing. Did your mother feeling like this with your father? Was this normal? You doubted it. You wished you could pry him open and peek inside to see what he was feeling, thinking, planning.
"Thank you." You murmur back before adding, "And I'm sorry for being petty about the dinner last night...It was unbecoming of me. Will you forgive me?"
Curtis seems uncomfortable now that you've apologised and shifts to look at his feet again. "Yes. Of course."
Silence again.
You clear your throat and nervously begin to babble to fill the silence. "I didn't tell you that yesterday Tannya took me out to the brook. I was forced to play princess."
You laugh awkwardly, looking out to the river and the forest beyond and wonder for a split second if you were to make a mad dash for freedom, would your husband even bother to follow you? You were supposed to be the bargaining chip for peace - but Curtis, despite his brutish reputation, had surprised you by being almost wholly uninterested in you. You'd wrongly assumed that he'd be all over you - You'd also wrongly hoped he would be too. Somehow, being in this state of limbo where you weren't sure of his intentions, was far worse.
When you look back to Curtis, he's mid-rise from being bent over, holding a small bunch of wildflowers in his hand. His cheeks grow red again when he catches you looking at him and looks to the flowers, then to you before handing them out for you to take. The poppies, agastache, buttercups and daisies make a a fire like bouquet that ignites something deep within your soul. Your heart swells ten times it's size and you're entirely overwhelmed with the realisation that your husband, the renowned warrior chieftain of the north, is shy.
"I saw." He says quietly. "You are, technically, a queen."
Your head reels and you opt to ignore the second half of his comment. "What do you mean you saw?"
Curtis rolls his shoulders with a frown. "I - erm - saw you leaving and trailed behind."
"Why?" You press firmly - he gave you and inch amd you would take a mile. You see it now - the reason why no one presses him is because of his looks; who would be fool enough to challenge a ferocious looking chieftain who is as tall as he is wide with muscle?
"Because I heard you crying." He says simply fixing you with a worried look. "And I wanted to make sure you were alright."
You blink at him. Then your lip twitches and you burst into laughter. Curtis looks so worried it makes you laugh harder.
"What's wrong? Why are you laughing?" He huffs, dark brows furrowed together.
"My husband eavesdropped on me because he couldn't ask me directly!" You giggle before fanning your face with a smile. Curtis' frown deepens, clearly angry with himself and you snort at him. "That's laughable, Curtis. The big and scary chieftain of the north is scared of his wife."
"Every man should be afraid of his wife." Curtis counters, the space between you both suddenly smaller. You sniff and wiped tears of joy from your face before sighing. "A man has to trust his wife not to kill him."
"Please don't tell me that's not what you're worried about." You begin, grinning ear to ear. No way could he be scared of you in that way.
"Perhaps," Curtis says but you catch a half smile. "After the way I've behaved, I don't think anyone would blame you."
"Mm. I dont doubt it." You agree playfully, head reeling from seeing your husband's face morph into a soft, almost happy visage.
The air is thick with tension, Curtis' eyes are on yours and even though you want to sink to your knees under his gaze, that beautiful, striking gaze; you stand tall. Challenging.
"So, what is your reason for not wanting to bed me?"
Curtis' smile vanishes as he sucks in a breath of surprise and ends up choking on his on spit. His cheeks begin to burn again and you giggle. You've now unlocked your new favourite past time; consequences come what may.
"Why do you want me to?" Curtis argues back, frowning again.
"Because you're my husband?" You blink at him confused.
"Hrm." Curtis grumbles, seemingly unconvinced.
"But," you say carefully, studying his body language for any signs of discomfort. "If you'd feel more comfortable waiting until our second ceremony, I'd be happy to wait."
Curtis considers your words for a moment and sighs. He looks to your face with a smile that knocks the wind from your lungs and you have to force your knees to keep from buckling. Curtis steps closer to you and cups your cheek gently, leaning close to bump his nose with yours, looking at you with soft blue eyes.
"I would like that." Curtis says, thumbing your cheek. "I'll need your patience, wife, but know that I will try to be a better husband to you from today. I'm not used to having such attention."
It's possibly the most open and romantic he's ever been since you married him, save for your dance, and you hiccup a breath. "Is that why you've been so... so-"
You fight for a word that isn't offensive and Curtis chuckles.
"Stupid? Idiotic?" He offers with a smile. "Trust me, anything you say will be kinder than what Tannya called me the other day."
You start to laugh, remembering the angry hushed murmurs you'd heard while talking to Timmy, making note to thank Tannya for speaking in your defense.
"You made an effort to learn about me and yet I've not done the same." He admits before looking at his hands, now less red because of the salve but still blistered. "Except for picking your favourite poisonous flowers."
"You've made up for it." You reassure him, brandishing your new bouquet with a laugh.
"Not quite." Curtis chuckles, pressing a quick peck to your lips. "But I want to."
"Well then," you say trying not to swoon. "Dinner together tonight and sleep in our bed tonight, Curtis. I promise..." you clear your throat awkwardly. "I promise to hold you close and nothing more. I just want you near me."
"Whatever you want, my wife." Curtis murmurs. "I'll keep you warm tonight."
Heat rushes to your cheeks and, even though you know nothing will happen, the mere thought of it drives you mad with desire. However, you now have something to look forward to on your second ceremony night.
After spending more time picking some flowers for the bouquet, that you now insist should be a centrepiece on your living area table, you and Curtis head back to the village hand in hand. Curtis asks you questions about every piece of foliage and flower he sees, committing the non-poisonous varieties to memory, and in turn you ask him about every track or trail and whether or not you should worry about wild pigs whisking you away (which earns you a chuckle).
Upon your return, you spot Gilliam who gives Curtis a nod of approval and you a wink before Tannya rushes over to you with a grin.
"I have materials for you to choose from for your gown," She says excitedly and looks between you and Curtis before settling on your bouquet. She gives Curtis a teasing smile. "So you finally gained some sense."
"In my defense," Curtis smiles back. "The flowers you told me to pick were poisonous. I had to get something better."
Tannya snorts and you fight a blush as you smile. Curtis holds out his free hand to you and nods.
"Go and pick your gown's fabric. I'll take these back."
You nod back and hand him your bouquet. "Alright. I'll see you later."
You go to follow after Tannya but Curtis doesn't release your hand, tugging you backwards gently so you turn back to him.
"Wait," he murmurs. "You forgot something."
"Wha-"
Curtis kisses you softly and you think your going to melt, cheeks burning when you hear a few cheers from the villagers and a snicker from Tannya. When he pulls back, your face is as red as his and you're both still smiling stupidly as you part ways until the evening.
Part 2 End
-> Part 3
A/N: how do we rank Curtis in this one? 🤭 I was originally looking to make this chapter more angsty but I'm soft. I couldn't do it.
Characters/Pairings: soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x curvy Millennial female!reader
Word Count: 7.5k
Summary: You make a discovery you never anticipated during the rehearsal dinner - a dinner Andy disappears from with no explanation.
Content/Warnings: forced engagement; use of pet name (sweetheart); smut (brief mutual masturbation, unprotected vaginal intercourse); mafia themes
Author Note: I've been working on this chapter for a long time and thinking about it for even longer. I think there will be moments you love and hate, but it's certainly full of elements that are moving us into the next phase of their story.
Previous Part | Full Collection
There are eighty-six people in attendance at the rooftop restaurant, and you are only sure you know the names of maybe a third. The rest are here because of Andy—to witness or test alliances, play in the ongoing power games, weigh old debts or new risks. It’s the rehearsal dinner for one of Boston Mafia’s elite, so the guest list was meticulously refined for Andy’s part. Yours as well, but not with the same intent or stakes to be considered.
Andy doesn’t own Contessa—the restaurant atop The Newbury Hotel—but he does own the hotel, so it was seamless for your team to arrange this part of the wedding nuptials there. While you and Andy aren’t having a full society affair wedding with all the bells and whistles and three or four days of events and traditions, you do have few significant event pieces woven into the wedding weekend, this being one of them. No one had asked you what to include, but you were part of the overall conversations, and if there had been anything you truly wanted to refuse, you think you might have been able to say so. But your team knows you well enough to create elements you appreciate.
And, annoyingly, so does Andy.
The room is a riot of velvet and silk and black wool, the exact social armor you expect at a pre-wedding gathering of this sort. And yet you can tell this doesn’t scream mafia to the people who don’t know the predators they’re intermingling with. It’s all too reminiscent of how you dismissed the barely-hushed rumors of Andy Barber’s potential connections before he revealed he was one of the kings of organized crime in the city. And for the sake of your parents, your friends, your family, you’re relieved and hope they remain ignorant.
Tonight will be a monumental tell for the future and whether or not you can pass, or rather, who you have to be while passing. You scan the clusters of guests and realize you should have always been able to spot true mafia at ten paces, even when they’re disguised as board members and development officers and venture capitalists. There’s a particular gravity, neither ostentatious nor shy. Men in Brioni suits who know how to vanish into the background, women with hair so immaculate it could have been sculpted from silk.
Andy’s hand has been heavy at the small of your back most of the evening, and it’s somehow almost comforting, an anchor. Occasionally you feel his thumb graze the bare inch of spine between velvet and skin, a touch so subtle it’s only for you.
You look across the room and spot your parents lingering near a tray of passed champagne, your mother straightening the lapels of your father’s jacket with the hopeless affection of people who have been married long enough to know that preening is just another form of devotion. Your mother’s dress is a shade of navy so dark it reads black, and your father looks as if he was born inside a suit, so naturally does this one fit him.
Suddenly Thea is in front of you, plucking a glass of champagne off a passing tray and handing it over, flanked by your other two other bridesmaids. Thea gives you a once-over, and says, “You look like a goddess, a terrifyingly pretty one.” You mutter a thank you, and Thea rolls her eyes. “Please pretend you believe it, just a little bit. You’re a gorgeous bride-to-be whether you want to be or not.”
She’s the only one who knows about your hesitations, and even then you’ve only indulged a fraction.
She winks at Andy, linking her arm through yours. “I’m stealing your fiancé.”
He smirks. “At least you're conceding she’s mine.”
“You wish,” Thea replies, and with a toss of her hair of her shoulder, she leads you away.
The entire evening is a kind of lucid dream. Greetings, handshakes, hugs, careful double-cheek kisses dispensed by those in attendance as you circulate the room. In reality there was no rehearsal for tomorrow’s ceremony, tonight it is merely a small gathering staged for … well, from what you gather, for the sake of it. For those closest to you, it’s to keep up the illusion that this is a wedding you want. For Andy’s world, it seems to be a necessary ritual to confirm the ranks of his order—his trusted soldiers and a handful of his choice allies.
You don’t register that your uncle Rob isn’t there until suddenly he is, and by then, the room has already begun the low-pressure phase transition from cocktails to dinner. The movement is organic—someone dims the lights, the waiters begin the subtle herding, and you are being gently, almost imperceptibly, shepherded toward the long, low banquet table at the far end of the room.
You are halfway to your seat, with Thea close behind and Andy once again at your side, when the double glass doors at the restaurant’s entrance hiss open and Rob strides in, in a full three-piece suit and with the off-kilter swagger of someone who seems to have truly rushed directly from the airport. He gives you a nod and a warm smile, though even at this distance you note it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You wave him over, ignoring the subtle tightening of Andy’s hand on your hip. Rob moves quickly across the room to you, and immediately drops a palm on your shoulder, squeezing—warmth, family, genuine affection. “Am I horrifically late or just fashionably disruptive?” he asks, and before you answer, he’s already deflecting. “You look tired but good. He treating you right?”
Your uncle’s gaze bores into yours for a half-second, searching for something reassuring. You nod and give him a smile. He softens, but only infinitesimally.
“Uncle Rob, this is—”
“Andy Barber,” he supplies, and his gaze flicks to your fiancé, settling there a half-beat too long, cataloging him. You don’t know what’s transpired between them, but you sense something clearly has as there’s a palpable undercurrent, like two strong magnets meeting, neither yielding.
Uncle Rob gives Andy a stiff nod, but Andy merely meets the moment with an open hand. You sense the silent exchange—neutral ground, white flag for tonight, or maybe just a kind of mutual agreement not to detonate inside a room full of witnesses.
It feels strange, but it’s only another line on the list of things that aren’t normal for this entire affair. The exchange goes unnoticed by nearly everyone else since all in attendance are finding their seats, and Uncle Rob falls in among them and takes his assigned seat by your parents.
The food is dazzling, course after course in small, perfect compositions. You try to taste things, to remember flavors, but you are more conscious of the shifting dynamics around you. You are aware of Andy’s hand ever present—on your knee, tracing patterns on your arm, once just lightly gripping your wrist as if keeping you tethered to the table, to himself. You wonder if it’s meant to keep you under control, but the gesture genuinely feels more like reassurance than possession tonight.
Flanked by Andy on your left and Thea on your right, both seem engaged in a subtle contest to out-maneuver each other in their attempts to manage you. Sometimes it’s by steering the conversation, sometimes by way of silently passing you the better part of a shared dish, with Thea by gambling how much she can make you laugh given the current company and whether the moment is suitable for choking on your wine. You’re not sure if you resent this orchestration or if it’s a balm. Maybe both.
At intervals, you glance over at Uncle Rob. The smile he flashes the room is the same as ever, but his eyes seem to rove the room, always taking stock, never fully at rest. He watches Andy most of all, the way a hunter watches a rival predator—admiring and calculating, never blinking outright. At one point, your eyes meet and Rob lifts his glass in a toast, not quite a salute, but you feel the force of the message: he’s here, for you, and he’s not leaving until he’s sure you’re safe. He’s always been more protective of you than anyone else in the family, but this seems more intense, even for him.
Halfway through the meal, Andy excuses himself to confer with two men in dark suits who materialize at the edge of the room, and you find yourself, for the first time all evening, feeling alone at the lack of him. Thea leans in. “You doing okay?” she whispers, but with a smile on her face so it reads as idle gossip.
“It feels like someone else’s wedding,” you mutter back. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
She gives you a look that is both knowing and impossibly gentle. “If you want to run, just say the word. I have five hundred dollars in cash and a getaway Prius, and that’s enough to get us at least to New Hampshire before anyone notices.”
You snort-laugh, a little louder than you meant to, and feel lightheaded for an instant. There is some relief in naming it, even as a joke, even though you don’t question she’s serious about the Prius and the cash.
There is a moment, a half-second, a single synaptic twitch, in which you consider the offer or vanishing into an Uber for Logan Airport. But the urge passes. You already jetted away once and came back.
And that coming back was your choice.
It doesn’t make sense to escape again now.
The rest of dinner passes in a spiral of rich food and laughter that from most people seems to be unforced. Andy returns, all courteous apologies, and places his warm palm on your back again as if plugging back into a vital organ. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, his voice pitched only for you. “I’ll need to disappear for a bit after dessert. Business.” He says it lightly, but the tension is a wire behind each syllable. You nod, and at the same moment he gives your leg a squeeze under the table, as if to say: Don’t worry, I’ll be back. For you. Always that emphasis.
When the meal ends, the room doesn’t thin so much as it condenses. People abandon their seats in favor of looser, more volatile clusterings near the bar or moving out onto the balcony. You sense the shape of the next hours—a kind of shadow afterparty, drinks and ritual toasts and the swerve toward dysfunction that all close social gatherings eventually take. Andy fields a last volley of congratulations, then gives you a look that says thirty seconds, and moves toward a private door near the kitchen, shadowed by his men. You watch him go, feeling again the negative space at your side.
It’s at this point that your uncle finds you again.
“You sure about this?” he murmurs, like you’re trading nuclear secrets instead of making polite familial small talk at your rehearsal dinner. “Not too late to call it off.”
You set your jaw, then, because the answer is yes. Or as close to yes as you’ll ever have. If there’s a question curled up in the base of your spine, it’s quieter now—not gone, but quelled by Rob’s questioning.
You find yourself saying, “I’ve made my decision.”
Uncle Rob’s expression is unreadable, then softens just enough to let a sliver of affection through. “Your folks are damn proud. Just so you know. You do know that, right?”
You give half a shrug and a nod.
“And you know that you can always come to me, for anything.”
“Even ashes and body disposal?” you ask, letting a smirk break through the anxiety. He huffs a laugh, but you can see he’s not disarmed by it, not really.
“Especially that,” he says. But then, gentler, yet more serious, he says, “You ever want out, you just say so. Don’t matter what anyone else wants, least of all him. You come to me. You hear?”
You nod, only then realizing, “You know who he is.”
He nods and knocks his glass lightly against yours. “I’m only a phone call away. Fuck the protocols.”
You don’t know exactly what his ties to Andy’s underworld are, or how long he and Andy may have known each other, but some unexplained parts of Uncle Rob’s past make a whole lot more sense if he’s involved with the mafia. You imagine the more you trace back, the more certain absences and behaviors could ultimately be explained.
You don’t allow yourself to ask the next rush questions assembling in your mind. Instead, you clink glasses with Rob again, and when Thea reappears at your side, he makes an excuse and fades back into the crowd. You watch him go, feeling heavier and lighter at once.
“You want air?” Thea asks, as if the answer could ever be no.
Out on the balcony, you stand at the stone parapet for a while, each of your with a glass in hand, the city shining beneath you. Over the railing, half the Back Bay looks like a jewelry case, all neat squares and gold filigree light.
Thea tips her chin out into the dark. “So what’s it like standing up here, knowing you’re about to be a married woman?”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a nervous tickle in your chest. “About the same as it is being an unmarried one, only with more witnesses.”
You expect her to laugh, but instead she fixes you with a sly, assessing stare. “He scares me a little, you know,” she says, so matter-of-fact it undercuts any drama. “Not for anything he’s said or done. More in the way those security guys all treat him like he’s royalty. Which, I guess, he basically is, right? Mafia royalty?”
You hesitate, glass at your lips. Did you ever say it to her? You don’t think you did, because you went to Stockholm on the heels of signing the pre-nup which included the NDA elements… You race back through every conversation, every running-on-fumes phone call, and there’s nothing you can recall that would have spelled it out. But your silence lingers half a second too long.
Thea’s face splits in a grin that’s bright and wolfish at the edges. “I KNEW it,” she crows, as if you’ve just confirmed a conspiracy theory about the moon landing. “Oh my god. I knew it. I KNEW IT! Don’t even try to deny it.”
You gawk. “What are—how did—”
You try to look innocent, but Thea is already cackling, delighted with herself, her elbows resting on the parapet like a triumphant detective. “Please,” she says, waving her hand at the party inside, “He’s waaaaaaaaay too rich, I’ve read way too many mafia romance novels, and you had a security detail when you visited me in Stockholm using his private jet. I was 99% sure, and your hesitation there hesitation gave me the last percent.”
You consider protesting, but technically you’ve broken nothing in the contract, and the fact that your best friend knows—that anyone knows—feels like an instant balm.
You clamp a hand on Thea’s wrist. “Promise me you won’t say a word. Seriously. Not to a soul. I mean it. Not a joke, not even a whisper or a meme reference.” There’s an urgency in your voice, and Thea, reading the shift instantly, sobers.
The brightness in her eyes dims by an iota, the seriousness of your tone cutting through the fizz of her delight. She nods, solemnly, and you know that as cavalier as she can sometimes be, she doesn’t question the gravity of your insistence. “I won’t,” she vows, putting her hand over yours.
In the shared silence, you feel her searching your face for something she doesn’t want to say. You let the air prickle between you, each steadying the other just by being present, until Thea finally asks, “Does he make you happy?”
You don’t answer, not at first. You stare into the bright helix of city lights and let the question slide down your spine and settle into your gut. You want to say yes, or even no, anything definitive, but instead you just tell her, “He makes me feel alive,” and hope she hears the ambiguity for what it is.
She nods, lips pressed together. “I’m still not sure why you’re doing this, but I will admit that even though I still have questions, one of those questions is not how much that man cares for you.”
Thea fixes you with a look so curious and gentle it makes you want to squirm out of your skin. “It doesn’t look like any love story I’d picture for you,” she says. “It’s not the type people write poems about or that you see on Pinterest boards. I don’t even know that it’s love, but it’s definitely fierce, and runs deep.”
“Thea,” your voice is a little choked.
“He looks at you like you’re the last thing on earth he thinks is worth burning for.” She shrugs and takes another sip of her champagne. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s true.”
You’re grateful, even if you can’t manage the words to say so outright. Thea is one of the few souls you trust without hesitation in this world. You study her face in the city-dark, finding closeness there that reminds you, with a pang, of who you were before all this.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you say. You mean it harder than it sounds.
Thea bumps shoulders with you. “I’d literally stand in front of a bullet for you.” She glances toward a distant rooftop bar, probably scouting for snipers. “Metaphorically, but also probably literally.”
You stay there together a little longer, the gentle thrum of summer and the humid glow from the party behind you, breathing easier for the reminder that not all loves are fairy tales, that some are knife-edges, and open secrets, and best friendships.
Shep slides out the glass door with the hush of someone practiced in not disturbing an armed perimeter. He doesn’t interrupt, just drifts into the range of your awareness and waits. When you finally realize on a conscious level that he’s there, turning your head and giving him a small, tight-lipped smile, he says, “Time to make our exit, if you’re ready.”
There’s a quiet emphasis on the word “our,” and you realize how long you must’ve been out here.
“Where’s Andy?” You look over his shoulder, expecting to see him somewhere in the glow and tangle of the party, looming, waiting for you expectantly, but he’s not there. You’re surprised at how keenly you feel his absence. Then you ask Shep, “He’s not coming back tonight, is he?”
Shep shakes his head, a single, precise movement. “He wanted me to see you home. Mark’s already downstairs.” He hesitates, then softens with a half-smile, reading some of your reluctance to leave. “You can have ten more minutes if you want them.”
You take the ten.
It’s enough time for Thea to finish her glass and for you to make the rounds of the party, saying goodnight to your circles of friends and family who were invited to be part of tonight.
Your mother is waiting for you near the coat check, her dark eyes shining, twin tears perilously close to the edge. She pulls you in for a fierce, almost painful hug, her perfume sealing around you like a memory from childhood. “You’re my treasure,” she says into your ear so hard you forget to breathe for a second. She pulls away, fixing your hair with a trembling hand. “Just tell me he’s as good as he looks. That’s all I ask.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and you bob your head, not trusting yourself to say anything more.
Outside, the night air is a slab of heat. Shep guides you to the waiting Range Rover with a balanced mix of deference and I’m still your bodyguard. Mark already has the curbside door open, and you buckle yourself in, feeling the exhaustion of the night releasing through your limbs. You lean your head back against the headrest and close your eyes. As complicated as your feelings are around Andy, his absence gnaws at you in a way you didn’t expect. Especially tonight.
When you walk into the mansion, the silence is as sharp as a slap. You expected it, or something like it, and yet standing in the cavernous hush of the marble entry, clutching your tiny evening bag, you’re overtaken by an urge to slam the door hard enough to wake the dead. You don’t, though. You click it shut, toe off your heels and hook them on your fingers, and walk barefoot through the dark to your rooms upstairs.
Andy’s absence is complete and total—no jacket left half-flung on the banister, no ghost of movement or glass of half-drunk bourbon left somewhere. You resist the urge to immediately check your phone, because you want to feel the ache fully, let it sharpen until it outcompetes the dull, unanswerable questions that have circled every day since you said yes, but especially tonight.
You go to the bathroom and take a long, methodical shower. You take your time as you finish getting ready for bed, drifting through the mechanical rituals of skincare and pajamas and teeth-brushing, but you take no comfort in the delicate, orchid-scented candle you light, or the feel of the silk on your skin.
You check your phone, eventually. There’s a text from him, timestamped an hour ago.
ANDY: I’ll be late, don’t wait up.
You want to scream. You want to hurl the phone at the wall or at least send an angry string of messages to force some reaction from him, but you don’t. You sit at the end of the bed with your phone in your palm, glaring at the glow as if it can blink first. Don’t wait up, as if this is remotely normal. You know he’s got business, but he’s never missed an evening with you, never let you go to sleep without him there, touching you, fucking you, just being with you. And now he’s gone the night before your wedding?
You thumb your phone off, toss it face-down onto the bed, and stand for a moment in the hush. You are lit by moonlight coming by moonlight coming in a narrow spill through the vast window, alone with the hum and pop of baseboard heat, a ghost in your own life. You want to be sated by this, to have the sudden expanse and absence feel like relief, but instead it gathers pressure inside your chest. Under the thin silk of your robe, your skin feels hypersensitive, almost electrical, and the wet ends of your hair drip cold water down your spine.
You don’t want to admit how badly you want him here—how quickly your anger at his text has curdled into a more woeful, sticky missing. It chafes to need him.
You try to zone out streaming something on TV, but nothing cuts through to capture enough of your attention in the absence. You’re so used to the energy of Andy’s presence—the kinetic hum of him near you, whether he’s angry or amused or simply radiating power from the next room—that the void he leaves behind is almost audible.
Eventually you are able to at least focus on reading, legs tucked up under you on the settee.
You must have fallen asleep, because the next sensation is not the passage of time but abrupt displacement.
You’re in mid-dream when you sense the shift, the weightless suck of gravity before the realization: someone is lifting you. You twist, half-awake, to find Andy’s arms locked under your knees and back, carrying you with the unthinking efficiency of someone who has probably hauled bodies at some point. You mutter something into his shirt, a syllable heavy with sleep and protest, and he just keeps moving, your head lolling against his chest, too groggy to fight him off at first.
Then you thrash, not gently. You elbow at his chest, catch his ribs with a knee, and hiss, “Put me down.” You mean it. You’re not just startled—you’re still feeling that lingering anger—and Andy, to his credit, sets you down with more care than you expected. You sway and nearly lose your balance, but he catches your wrist, keeping you upright.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice absurdly gentle, and that somehow pricks worse for all its reasonableness.
You rip your hand away. “Don’t do that. Don’t just—pick me up.”
He studies you, searching your face with an unreadable patience. “You were sleeping,” he says.
You steady yourself and glare up at him, refusing to let your fatigue soften the edge of your voice. “You missed the whole rest of the night, Andy. Where were you?”
Although his expression remains the same, the tension around his eyes tightens. “You know I’m not going to tell you that.”
You scoff. “How do I know that?”
Maybe it’s the sleep, maybe it’s the hunger you’ve been stifling, but it lands with a new kind of sharpness, how Andy answers a question only by hollowing out the possibility you’ll ever ask again. But you refuse to fold into that silence tonight.
“I want you to tell me,” you say.
Andy closes the gap between you with a slow step, his gaze not leaving your face. “Tomorrow’s our wedding,” he says, low and thick in his throat, a softness that isn’t practice so much as exhaustion. His hand goes to your shoulder, thumb pressing the knot between bone and tendon, and you flinch at the intimacy of it, at how easily he can make you want to forgive him. You step back, and he lets you, his arms falling to his sides in a slow, theatrical surrender.
“Don’t do that,” you say again, voice thin this time. You hate the tremor more than you hated his absence.
He tilts his head, studying you in the low light. “You’re angry.”
He smiles, weary but pleased. “You’re angry because you missed me.” He says it not as an accusation, but a simple, delighted observation, like he’s just solved a riddle in your presence. “You care.”
You make a sound, a cross between a snort and a huff, and turn your head before he can get a better look at your face. “I’m angry because you’ve insisted on all of this—me, the wedding, pulling me into your life—and then you desert me the night before we’re supposed to get married? Leave me during the rehearsal dinner? And all I get is a ‘don’t wait up’ text?”
You hate that your voice rises, hate the heat behind your eyes. Andy comes closer, and you want to slap him and also want him to hold you. You flex your jaw, force your gaze to stay away.
He listens. He lets you say it all, and when it’s out of your mouth, tumbling and ugly, he says, “I know. But there are things I can’t and won’t tell you. I can’t ever expose you to certain things. I won’t allow them near you.” His voice is all iron and velvet. “I’m protecting you, even if it doesn’t look or feel like it.”
He lets the pause hang, then takes a slight step closer—close enough that you nearly shiver at the radius of his heat.
There are things I won’t shield you from, either. You told me to never lie, so I won’t pretend I’m made another way. But I will always come back.” He says it softly, neither a threat nor a comfort.
After a lengthy moment of silence, you tell him, “I don’t want another night like this. I don’t want to ever be stranded in the dark.”
He considers it. Not with a smirk or a challenge, but real intent, a resolution hardening. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I’m not good enough,” he says, and it is the flattest, most relentless admission. “But I am what you’re marrying.”
You should laugh. You almost do, at the incredulity, the audacity, the unfairness of his answer, of this entire situation, but then he reaches out, just a single knuckle under your chin, and you’re suddenly taking in a shaky breath.
You hold his eyes for a full count, your body picking up the stutter of your pulse, anger and want running convergent through your system. You want to turn away, to break the connection, but you can’t.
“Then show me. Make it better,” you say, and your voice is a command, not a plea.
You let him guide your face up. His thumb travels a gentle path down your jaw. He leans in, pressing his words, and his mouth, against your skin. “You want more than this? I will never give you less.” The last of it is a murmur, not a vow, but it lives in the hollow between you, nudging the edge of promise.
He kisses you behind the ear, slow and intentional, and your whole body contracts around the point of contact. You hate how even this controlled display of contrition draws you in. Were you less tired, were it not the night before your wedding, you may have pushed him away. But he knows exactly how to pull on the string that unravels you, and you can’t leave it at that, so you cup his face and press your mouth against his, not sweet or apologetic but with a frustrated need to bite, to mark. He lets you, opens willingly, tongue flicking yours, and the pressure he uses to guide you toward the bed is insistent. You pull him with you, backwards, the two of you bumping knees, bumping hips, his hands already finding the tie at your robe and making short work of it.
He pulls it from your shoulders, lets it float to the carpet with exaggerated gentleness that’s belied by the urgency of his mouth and hands. You take brief satisfaction in yanking at his shirt buttons, two of them tumbling somewhere onto the bedding, but Andy just shrugs out of the rest and lets it fall to the floor.
He is, as you’ve come to expect, taller and heavier than you in the moments that matter. He pins you beneath him, stretching your arms above your head, taking his time as if you both aren’t aching with a violent need. He kisses you with a patience that does not match the tension in his body, hands working down your ribs, touching and teasing the places he’s learned draw your responses.
You let him press you down, let him grind against you, clothed below the waist but with a bare chest and a punishing grip as he presses one of your thighs up and open for him. Your silk nightgown is tangled above your hips, ruined for decency, and the sheets under you bunch as you wrap your leg around him.
You are not even sure when you stop resisting—the anger, the loneliness—maybe when he murmurs, “I’m here,” into the shell of your ear, or maybe it’s before that, at the familiar drag of his teeth across your shoulder. You want to snarl at him, but you can only gasp and tear one of your hands away so you can grab for his waistband, the zipper, too impatient for finesse.
The button resists for half a second before you hear the pop. Andy’s hips cant, the gesture half involuntary. He is, unlike you, a master at not showing his hunger—unless he wants you to see it, and tonight he must, because the restraint rubs your skin raw in a way that’s almost a dare. You dig your heel into the mattress, lift your pelvis to grind into the urgency that’s thickening between your bodies. He lets you, but barely; his hand catches your thigh, squeezes, and you wonder if there will be marks tomorrow. You hope so.
He pulls back, and you make a desperate, wordless noise—appalled at the empty space, the abrupt loss of him. Andy grins, a glint of teeth in the dark, and then he’s dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed, eyes black and bottomless. “Patience,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “I want you naked for me. Completely.”
You’re tempted to resist him, to force him to earn the reveal, but you want the heat and the gaze and—more than anything—the feeling of him unraveling for you. So you tug the nightgown up and off, shimmying as best you can.
Andy reaches out to assist, dragging your panties off in a single, practiced movement, leaving you splayed open and vulnerable in the spill of moonlight, the air cold and sharp against your skin.
He stands, shucking his pants and boxers with ease. His cock is already hard, and he takes himself in hand, stroking slow, almost lazy, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his forearm tightens, every line of his body at the edge of restraint. He stands there for a moment, head tipped, just watching you with that focus, just this side of feral. It should alarm you. It should, maybe, make you recoil, the ferocity in him, so unlike the men you’ve known before. It’s a look that should have scared you from the beginning—but no one has wanted you the way he wants you, and you’ve grown addicted to how Andy’s hunger works.
You want to wipe that look of composure from his face, and you know exactly how to do it. You arch your back, knees falling apart, and bring your fingers to your cunt—slow, deliberate. Andy’s mouth parts the barest inch, but he doesn’t move to stop you. You circle your clit with two fingers, the slide easy and slick, and moan just loud enough that you know he’ll hear it for days. He watches, lips parted, and the tension in his neck sings.
“Is this what you want?” you ask.
You don’t wait for an answer. You drag a slick, purposeful circle with your fingertip, then roll your hips up again, forcing his attention onto the precise spot you want it. Your other hand moves to your breast, pinching a nipple until the ache flashes through your belly. You moan again, longer, keeping your eyes pinned to his as though you can draw out his release through sheer insistence.
Andy comes closer, his hand sliding up your calf, kneading the inside of your knee with enough pressure to make you gasp and lose the rhythm of your own touch. He takes your wrist in his, slows your movements, and brings your fingers to his mouth. He licks them, savoring your taste, then sucks the tips into the heat of him, eyes trained on yours the whole time. “You want to make me lose control?” he murmurs. “You’re close, sweetheart.”
You shudder, half from his voice and half from the pleasure needling up your legs. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“Flip over,” he says, and you obey. Not because you care to perform for him, but because this is the only language you speak fluently with each other.
You turn, face pillowed in moonlight, the curve of your ass arched and on display. The sheets are cool under your cheek. Andy’s hands find your hips, not rough but absolute, his palms broad and braced. He kneads you for a long moment, a brief, silent exhibition of ownership, before running his thumb down the seam of you, spreading you open with the same clinical certainty he uses to carve out secrets.
He fucks you in one smooth, relentless motion, every inch filling you until your body feels engineered for the shape of him. You groan from the fullness, and he groans being sheathed inside your cunt. He leans forward, curling over you, and presses a kiss into your neck.
He holds you there, pressed hard against the mattress, your knees bracing apart as his cock drives into you with a steadiness that’s almost brutal but never crosses over into pain. You have only ever known men in this position to get greedy, to lose their pacing almost immediately, but Andy’s rhythm is a ruthless metronome, each thrust a little deeper, a little harder, calibrated to keep you right at the edge.
His weight is a gravity you loathe and crave; you let him press you into the bed and hold you there. You’re still angry, still trembling, but everything is blurred with your arousal, your hunger, the lines so tangled you can barely see the difference.
You try to deny him your pleasure out of spite, but it’s a losing proposition—Andy finds the angle he wants, rocks into you so that you choke on a half-sob, and holds there until you scratch at the sheets, half-crazed. The sound you make is ugly and desperate, and the only thing worse is how much you want him to hear it, to be stoked by it, to see what he does to you. He seems to sense this, his voice a gravel scrape against your shoulder blade. “Take it, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you want it.”
His thumb finds your clit, presses in tight, and for a few strokes you somehow resist, but then your hips buck and your vision splotches out, and you do let him hear how much you want him. It’s exquisite. He continues to fuck into you, working your clit, every nerve burning, every muscle tightening in a white, brutal wave. He fucks you through it, groaning, not letting up until a second, sharper quake rips through your body. Then and only then does Andy let himself go—slamming into you, his hand a vise around your hip as he spends himself, jaw pressed to your spine. The shudder of him fully inside you is shocking, almost convulsive, and he bucks in you until the last aftershocks fade and the only sound in the room is two desperate people fighting for air.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays there, draped over your body, letting you catch your breath, his weight an absolute. When he does finally move, he’s slow and careful, laying beside you and rolling you into his arms, not a word spoken. You’re still too fogged by want and exhaustion to move, content to let him hold you close, the press of his cheek against your hair. Neither of you speak for a very long time.
But there are thoughts you still need him to hear.
You find your voice in the hush, not loud or demanding but plain, with the rough edge of sleep and aftershock. “I don’t want more nights like this,” you say, and you can feel the way Andy’s chest stills under your hand. “I didn’t want to be coerced into your bed, I didn’t want to be forced into an engagement, I didn’t want to get married like this. You exploited the attraction, you’ve made me weak for you, but please,” your voice breaks, “please don’t make me the wife who has to wait up alone for you.”
Andy doesn’t speak, not at first, and the silence unsettles you, but you make yourself hold it—make yourself show that it matters. You refuse to shrink or swallow the need. If he’s going to be the kind of man who pulls you into his orbit, he’s damn well going to know he can’t just leave you in the dark. Not without a fight. He’s made slow but small shifts in some areas you’ve pressed with him. Maybe you can have resonance here, too.
He smooths a hand from your shoulder, down your back, each pass gentler than the last. He’s thinking, you know. Not just brushing off what you said, but actually holding it up to the light, inspecting the seams. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and soft, but firm.
“I meant it when I said I’d do my best,” he says. “I don’t want you to be her—the wife who waits at the window. But I also can’t give up what I am.” His hand lingers at your waist, a heavy presence.
You sigh, too thoroughly boneless to summon the right words, so you simply roll over, and it’s too natural how your body melds against him as he curls his arm around you and pulls your back flush against his chest. All you can do now is hope your sentiments will start to seep into him through osmosis.
You let the silence ride a little longer, curled together as if this is some and listen to the slowing cadence of his breath, to the metallic taste of words you didn’t say, and you wonder if this is what love might be—the willingness to be furious and still stay.
And you wonder if this is love—not because it’s gentle or clean or what you imagined, but because it has weight, because it has teeth, because it sits in your chest like a stone you keep reaching for. Because you are angry and ruined and held, and somehow all three of those things are the same thing. Because no one has seen you the way he does. Because no one has made you feel so wanted, even if it’s infused with possession. But even through the moments you know there are things he isn’t telling you, you know he’s never lied to you. Even when he says things you don’t want to hear, he speaks to you openly. Even when his actions are incendiary and disagreeable, they’re still somehow for you now.
He says your name. It’s a quiet thing, a soft push through the dark, but it lands with a rattle in your chest.
“I want to tell you something,” Andy says. “Not because you asked, but because if you’re going to be my wife, you will need to know.”
You swallow, knowing instinctively that to interrupt is to lose the tiny, trembling momentum inside him. He never initiates these confessions. He’s all action, never exposition. You hold your body still, afraid any breath will snap the thread.
“They brought me in tonight to consult on a sit-down. Not a war, but something close. One of the families in Jersey—Lupo’s people—made a move on Levinson’s properties—of one of our allies—along the North River. Not a huge play, but enough to draw blood. No one got shot. But next time, someone will.” Andy’s hand flexes at your hip, tightening like a vise. “If that happens, everything changes. This life, the way we can have it, ends. The only thing that keeps us—keeps you—safe, is the order.” He breathes out, a single tight exhale. “If the peace goes, I can’t guarantee anything. Not for you, not for me. And that’s not something I’m willing to risk.”
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, sheets cooling under your legs, and you realize what he’s giving you is not reassurance, but the truth of his world, knife-sharp and blood-warm. It should terrify you. It does, to a degree, but you’ve had a security detail, you know there are six loaded guns hidden here in the master suite. There is nothing normal about any of this, but the fact of Andy’s world is that it remains obsessively ordered only so long as no one has reason to start a war.
“When I have to go, I have to go, and I’ll never apologize for that,” he adds when you don’t say anything more.
Thea joked about reading mafia romance novels, but this is not a genre, this is your life now. When you let the reality land, it isn’t just gravity, but something like inheritance: no matter what you wanted or didn’t, you’re marrying into all of this.
And yet, as you lie there, taken apart and held tightly yet again, you find a calm in yourself you didn’t realize you could access. Maybe it’s the spill of adrenaline draining away, or the simple fact that Andy—your future husband, in a matter of hours—has finally handed you the truest thing he’s ever said. Everything is always at risk.
But if the world really is this dangerous, you’ve no doubt you’re held by the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and since he stopped at nothing to secure you, he will stop at nothing to keep you secure.
Uncle Rob! Thea! Andy! A Levinson name drop?!
There are so many things here that I've been plotting for ages, and so I think it's half the reason it took me so long to finish this chapter. Back in May I had written what I thought was about 3k to make up the first half of the chapter, but something about it just wasn't working, so I pulled it apart, kept a few of the scraps, and went back to the drawin board. I'm pleased where it finally ended up, and even though I know parts of this story are frustrating (coughSOMEOFANDY'SBEHAVIORcough), I do hope you all like the chapter.
And I know this is at the verrrrrry tail end of Monday for the first of what I'm hoping will be I'm Your Man Monday, but we made it! So we'll see if I can make this happen and get you another update next week!
NEXT PART: For Better and For Worse
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
since he stopped at nothing to secure you, he will stop at nothing to keep you secure
YOU OWE ME THIS, Andy!! you better keep me secure, sir! 😑
Still think he can manage the safety at the same time that he tries to compromise on more things in this relationship. i mean i don't expect him to change his personality, but really.
“When I have to go, I have to go, and I’ll never apologize for that,”
Well, MAYBE, when I need to use the golf clubs on his car collection again, I need to use the golf clubs on his car collection again. No apologies. 💅🏼
you know i'll give Andy lots of leeway usually, but something about being left alone on the night of the rehearsal dinner and continuing to be left in the dark for sure frustrated me. sometimes i want to be super petty and try to emotionally shut him out.
Summary: a new neighbour moves in and changes everything.
Character: Frank Castle
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, NSFW. This is a dark drabble like most of my stuff so take this as your warning to stop reading.
Part of the Trailer Park AU
Please leave a comment and reblog. Or send an anon ask! Always happy to hear from y'all. ♥️❤️
"What's that? A back up?" Your grandma sneers as she takes her refreshed mug of coffee.
You look at the other in your hand. You shake your head. "Was gonna give it to the neighbour. For helping."
"Ha. Sure. See if he can put up with ya." She leans back and as she holds her cup between both hands, hovering it over her chest as she inhales the scent. "Or stomach your poison."
You smile weakly even though she's not looking. You've learned to just let the words roll over you. You turn and carefully cross the lawn. You follow the noise of wood clattering into more.
Frank drops another slat onto the pile. You nearly spill the coffee at the noise. You touch your ear and wince.
He stands straight as he grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it up to wipe the sweat from his face. Your insides twinge oddly as you notice the thick muscle around his middle and the lines that angle around his pelvis. The dark hair that leads down to his belt has you feel fuzzy.
"Ah, sorry, didn't see ya there," he drops his shirt but it doesn't quite fall all the way, the bottom of his stomach still peeking out.
"I... Coffee." You offer the mug awkwardly.
"Ah, you're good to a man," he crossed to you and takes the cup, his hand dwarfing the porcelain almost comically. He sniffs the coffee and purrs. "Smells good."
"I... Hope... I don't... Drink coffee."
He bends his neck as you speaks and leans in. "You got a nice voice, you should make sure I can hear it."
"Sorry," you utter, still mumbling.
He takes a drink. He nods and purrs at the taste. You shift uneasily. You glance back at the front of the trailer. You're not sure if you should go back but your grandma isn't much better company.
"Wanna help? Don't gotta but you can." He suggests.
"I'm, sure, what can I do?" You rock back and forth.
"Here, I'll show ya." He turns to set his cup down on a stack of cement blocks. "You're gonna take this," he moves to grab a tool belt piled on the ground. He unhooks a measure tape. "You wanna mark the boards so I can cut em. The short ones, about six inches. Then the long ones about twelve. Make sense?"
He faces you and holds out the tape.
"Uh huh." You take it, brushing the coarse skin along the side of his knuckle. "Got a pencil too," he flips the belt around and slides out a stubby HB no.3. He hands that over and again, your skin grazes his. “You need anything, just say my name.”
You look down at the tap and pencil. “‘Kay.”
You hesitate then go to the pile of wood. You stare at it a moment then set a plan. You sort the short ones apart from the longer ones. As you do so, sweat trickles down your temples and dampens the inside of your striped tee shirt.
Frank finishes breaking up the crates as you settle on your knees in the dry grass and bend over a board to measure. His shadow darkens over you and you look up. “Got it, sugar?”
You nod and focus on the task as he looms above.
“Need some water? Least I can do. Repay the favour.” He offers.
“I’m okay,” you assure him as you make a tick on the wood. “Is that… good?”
He bends to get a look at the mark. He presses his wide thumb beside it. “Do it about the width of my thumb, that’d be two of yours.”
“Yes, sir.” You make the tick bigger.
He pulls away. “Frank’s good enough for me, sug.”
You sit up and look around. You set the wood aside from the rest to keep track. You grab another. You work diligently, the led duller with each mark. You reach for another and it slips in your grasp. You hiss and drop it. You shake your hand at the sting of the sliver embedded in your fingertips.
Frank turns and swallows loudly, setting down his mug. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and nears you. “You okay?”
“Mm, yeah.” You keep your head down and examine your fingertip. It’s throbbing. You try to pinch the end of the splinter but it sinks in further. You gasp in pain.
“Come on, lemme see now,” he bends his knees to squat down across from you.
He takes your wrist and pulls your hand closer. He hooks a thick finger around yours and squints at your fingertips. He moves to pinch your finger and you whimper. He eases up.
“It’s really in there.” He drawls.
“It’s okay. I’ll get it out later.”
“Nah. This thing gets in too deep, you’ll never get it out. Get an infection.” He shakes his head. “Now, it’s gonna hurt but you tell me what’s too much and I’ll ease up.”
He focuses on your hand. You nod blankly. Something about his tone sends a shiver through you despite the stolid sun.
“Mm, I almost got it but… damn hands are too big. Bear paws.” He clucks. “Here.”
He moves your hand up and your eyes widen as he puts your finger in his mouth. You’re frozen in shock as he sucks. You feel the pressure pulse in your flesh and he pops your finger out all at once, the relief instant.
He lets you go and feels around his mouth, pulling his finger out to show a small sliver on the tip. “There y’are. The culprit.”
Your mouth is dry as you rub your fingers together. He flicks away the splinter and takes your hand again. He uses his shirt to dry your fingers off.
“All good. You want some gloves? Don’t need ya cutting up them soft hands.” He says.
You shrug. “It’s… I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Mm,” he rolls his tongue around, poking into his cheeks, then pops his lips as he stands. “Well, you let me know what you need.”
Anyway, thank you everyone who partook in Friday and Saturday's Pick Your Fic polls - Sunday's is open here.
Tags/Warnings: slow burn, Arranged Marriage, angst and fluff!, this is a medieval/viking AU - look I didnt really do much past researching old huts and some traditions haha, arranged marriage, emotional intelligence of a brick!Curtis, self-deprecating talk, curtis being brooding, but that's also for plot, you’ll see, attempts at seduction, sexual content mention (but nothing happens in this part sorryyyy), reader is just a horn-dog xoxo
Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine. All of my work is 18+ so read at your own risk x
Summary: Being married off to the rivalling villages chieftain, securing a peace treaty for your people, you believe that all is well and good until you realise that he's not interested in you.
The way he'd walked into the food hall had you captivated.
Confident but not arrogant, bloody, dirty and a face set in stone with eyes that shone like jewels in their sockets. He wore leathers and furs laden with weapons; and axe and a multitude of knives. The most prominent article of clothing was the bearskin he wore.
Rumour had it that when lost in the harsh wilderness after a battle, he had killed a bear and hidden inside it, skinning it's fur the following morning to stay warm as he ate the flesh over a fire.
That rumour alone was enough to terrify most other village chieftains into submission. But not all. He was a fierce fighter, a brilliant strategist. Up until four days ago he'd bested you father's men at every turn and hadn't lost a single soldier, prompting your father to call a truce as he reconsidered where his alliances truly lay as chieftain of a much smaller village.
You shifted nervously in your chair watching him approach. He was big, tall and broad and you could feel your heart begin to to prepare for a hundred metre dash. Exhaling slowly and quietly to compose yourself, you kept your head held high as your father did the song and dance of welcoming Curtis and his village people to the celebration, reminding yourself that this was your idea. For the sake of your people.
"Today is an important day in our history. Today, we welcome Curtis and his people as if they were our own. Today we celebrate the unification of our villages."
Curtis stopped before your father but didn't bow and for one dreaded moment you think there may be a massacre. However, he nods his head before turning those beautiful eyes onto you. As if on cue, you rise before him, smoothing the creases your white marital gown away and smiling shyly.
His eyes don't leave you as you step away from your place next to your father, clutching a thin circlet made of woven twigs with crocuses of white and purple slipped between them. You present it to Curtis who, without taking his eyes from you, takes the circlet in his large hands and places it delicately onto your head.
The room erupts into cheers and applause. Congratulations are thrown around and Curtis recieves many a slap on the back and handshake while you are fussed over by your friends and the ladies who you will now call your family.
"Curtis is a good man," one of them says.
"I'm so envious!" Another giggles.
The next few hours are a blur; drinking, dancing and feasting. The acceptance of your circlet was the acceptance of you as a bride, as a wife. Your life would change dramatically up north; longer winters in strange lands, new customs to learn, old customs to share.
His hands were warm and soft as they slipped a silver ring onto your hand and vowed to keep you safe and you'd smiled as you promised to care for him in return, slipping a matching silver ring onto his hand. The cheers and whoops from the crowd as he cupped your cheek with one of those warm hands to press a kiss against your lips rang in your ears. A morning proposal, an afternoon wedding and a celebration that lasted well into the night.
As you danced and sang around the fire with your friends for one final night, you can feel Curtis' eyes follow you and when you do catch him looking, you flash him a smile. Only for him to look away.
"Your new husband is handsome." One of your friends giggles. "And his eyes have been on you all evening."
"Here's to hoping you're not left disappointed tonight." Another slurs, raising her tankard, which you quickly steal from her and hush her.
"Not so loud!" You giggle before entertaining the thought. "He doesn't look like he'd disappoint."
"Hrm." The first friend says again before goving you a sly grin. "Don't bears mate for three months? And it's loud and savage?"
The group bursts into laughter when you hide your face in embarassment, quickly shushing each other as Curtis approaches. He's still stoic. You'd only caught a few wisps of a smile throughout the day but he looks almost uncomfortable as he stands before you and your friends. You take the hand he offers as you get to your feet and he nods at your friends.
"I'm sorry I have to steal her away." He says.
"We're surprised you didn't do it sooner." Your drunken friend teases and you smack at her playfully, guiding Curtis towards your hut.
"I'm sorry about them." You tell him, looping your arm through his. You can help the excitement your feeling, the tension, how he's been looking at you. Your insides curl with anxiety; tonight was the mark of a new beginning. Your people would be safe, your friends and family too, and you had a husband who was, at least the very least, attractive.
You chuckle as Curtis has to duck through the doorway as he enters your hut, his massive figure blocking the light of the moon as you try to light some candles.
The curtains that acted as your door billowed behind him as you dusted off your bed, a raised stone slab with a straw mattress and pillows with animal fur covers. You knelt awkwardly, peering up at him as he sat next to you, trying to look seductive. He jumps when you run your fingers across the width of his shoulders and you murmur a quiet apology as you move closer to his lips.
"You don't-" he breathes. "We don't have to. We're up early tomorrow."
You blink at him. Was this a test? A joke?
He was your husband! You knew what should be happening on your wedding night. In fact, you'd been looking forward to it since laying your eyes on Curtis this morning.
"I want to." You tell him but he clears his throat and stands suddenly.
"I'll help you pack."
"You'll what?"
Curtis heads to your clothes chest and opens it. "Help pack. You have space for winter clothing - that's good."
You're baffled. You don't know what to do other than awkwardly bring him trinkets and some of your crafts. He doesn't speak much other than complimenting your craftsmanship on your embroidery but even after you've finished packing, he's not interested in the consumation of your marriage.
"Husband?" Your voice wavers with nerves watching him stoke the fire in the centre of the room. "Are you alright?"
"'M Fine. You should get some rest." He doesn't look at you now and you sit on your bed confused and slightly affronted that he won't cast a glance your way.
"Okay... well, goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The next morning, you're too embarassed to tell your friends the truth before you leave. You let them think that you've throughly enjoyed your wedding night, lest they worry like you are. You ride a horse alongside Curtis, wrapped in furs, waving goodbye to your old life as you set off with your new husband and new people, wondering if things will get better.
On your journey to your new home, Curtis and you shared a tent at night but he continued to refuse letting his, or your, hands wander. He'd keep you close for warmth, and you'd let yourself indulge in the smell of him. He smelled like conifers and ash; a sweet and deep musk that, once you collapsed into the furs of your new bed late afternoon four days after your wedding, you fell straight to sleep almost immediately after lying face first in the furs.
On your journey, and within your first few days, you'd befriended a woman named Tannya and her son as they seemed closest to your husband other than Edgar who was his second in command. You'd hoped they could offer some insight into your new husband, perhaps even explain his strange behaviour.
They spent more time with him than you did after all.
Since arriving back at his village, Curtis had practically ignored you. He would bring you food but not eat with you, sleep next to you only when he thought you were asleep... You couldn't help but get the feeling your husband was actively avoiding you.
"Curtis is... Curtis." Tannya shrugs over at you as she cuts open a rabbit carcass to remove the offal and internal meat. She'd instructed you to wash the skins but you were in awe of her resourcefulness.
As your husband was almost always busy with everything but you, Tannya had been a saving grace from keeping you from going insane. You had watched her set traps the eve before and had attempted to make one yourself; before it collapsed in on itself.
"That's helpful." You sigh. "What about his favourite food? Maybe I should try to make it for him."
"His favourite food?" Tannya pauses her cutting and grins over at you, and you give her a small, sheepish smile. She shakes her head and resumes cutting. "That would be sweet. No wonder he's smitten with you."
"He is?" You couldn't stop the question before it flew out of your mouth. Even in your first week in your new home, you know that Tannya isn't one to lie. So it was odd for her to say something so entirely contradictory.
"Pssht. It's written all over his face." Tannya waves her knife as she speaks, looking at you incredulously. "Always looking at you, worrying about the celebrations... You know he even asked for extra blankets in your hut just in case the cold was too much for you?"
You look at her for a moment and consider her words, chest warming to the notions of Curtis' alleged affections. He was never looking at you when you looked his way but then, you supposed, that was the point. Perhaps courting was different in the north? Perhaps your husband was shy?
"Extra blankets?" You can feel the ghost of a smile tug the corners of your lips, recalling your second morning in your new hut.
At night, Curtis still slept beside you and thankfully so because heat rolled from his body like an open bonfire. However in the morning, after leaving you to sleep to run errands, he'd caught you shivering as you entered the living area and had silently shrugged off his bearskin to wrap around your shoulders. You'd been surprised at the gesture but thanked him (earning you a grumbled response) before he'd disappeared again. You'd thought he'd been annoyed but now, knowing he'd fretted about more blankets for you, relief and hope surged in your veins. You may be able to win over your husband after all.
"He can take some getting used to. Don't worry you have the rest of your life to understand him." Tannya continues unperturbed, offering a motherly smile that comforts you from the inside out. "I'll show you how to make his favourite dish after we finish up and you can serve it for him tonight. In a few days when you're more settled I'll take your measurements for your second ceremony dress."
"Second ceremony?"
"You had a southern wedding now you'll have a northern." Tannya says plainly. "Not everyone was able to make it for your first one, myself and Timmy included. It'll be a rite of passage as our new chieftainess."
You nod vigorously, the weight of Tannya's words sinking in. Your rite of passage. It was more responsibility than you ever expected to have and yet you welcomed it with open arms.
The stew had been simple enough to make and you'd tried to inconspicuously smuggle it back to your hut to surprise Curtis, only to be stopped by about five villagers who all wanted to ask you the same questions on how you'd found your trip and how you were settling in.
By the time you'd managed to get back and set the food above the fire pit, you only had thirty minutes of pottering and preparing before Curtis appeared.
"Smells good," He murmurs, setting his axe down against the bedroom entryway as you dish up hot stew and place it on and already-set table.
"I was thinking we could..." you wring your hands bashfully. "Eat. Together."
Curtis raises an eyebrow but grunts with a nod, taking a seat opposite you, and tentatively poking at his stew with his spoon. He raises it slowly, almost as if he's waiting for it to stop steaming. You watch with baited breath as he takes a bite, the silence between you intense. He looks up at you to see you watching him and his ears go pink, his eyes drop to the stew again.
"How is it?" You ask, feeling silly for sounding so eager, so desperate to hear his praise.
"Good." He says around another mouthful but he says nothing more. After a few beats you sit back in your chair and poke at your stew before taking a few mouthfuls of your own.
"How were things today?" You ask casually. "Any progress on the second well?"
"Mm." Curtis nods again, not looking up. "Progress is going well."
"Oh, good."
Silence falls between you, the only sound in your home the clanking and scraping of spoons against bowls. You chew at your lip. This had been better than it had been and you didn't want to push your luck. However, after a few beats Curtis speaks up again.
"How are you settling in? How's my... how is the hut? I tried to make it ... nicer for you."
If you didn't know any better you'd say your grizzly of a husband was flustered. You look up over your spoonful of stew and can make out heated, red flesh peeking over his beard and your heart jumps for joy.
The hut itself was... basic. Threadbare of almost anything apart from furniture and the odd trinket but the last thing you want to do is be insulting.
"It's lovely." You half-lie.
Curtis allows a ghost of a smile to pass his lips before looking serious again. "Tannya tells me it needs a woman's touch."
You bite your lip trying to force your chuckle back down your throat. Was that an joke? From Curtis?
"I mean, well -" you're smiling into your stew, and when you glance up again you can see Curtis is smirking slightly.
His eyes lock with yours and you see him stiffen again. Your heart thuds anxiously as he breaks your gaze and move to get up, the warmth that had started building between you dissipated.
Curtis moves around to your side of the table and reaches for your bowl. He's still not looking at you but his intention to clear away doesn't go amiss.
"What are you doing?" You ask staring up at him, daring him to look at you for more than ten seconds. "Go sit down."
"Let me -" He purses his lips slightly and tries again. "You cooked. I should-"
You rise to your feet, moving your bowl out of his reach and fixing him with a smirk. Holding out your free hand parallel with his broad chest, you insist he hands over his bowl.
"Let your wife spoil you once and a while." You tease softly as he begrudgingly hands you his bowl. The redness on his cheeks returns and his chest heaves but he says nothing. "You can help with clean up next time."
Curtis looks at you skeptically. There's a moment where he brushes past and you think he might kiss you but he steps back as soon as the thought pops into your head.
You expected Curtis to grunt and venture forth into the village to do some more chieftain errands as usual, however, he surprises you by hovering silently beside you. He watches you clean the bowls and utensils, dry them with a cloth and put them away without saying a word.
"Thank you for the food." He grumbles quietly, looking at his feet. "It was...delicious. How did you know it was my favourite?"
"I asked Tannya." You grin over at him proudly. "She showed me how to make it so I can cook into for you more often."
He makes a grunt of approval and nods his head. "Thank you."
Your smile stays in place. "It's nothing. Are you coming to bed?"
You catch a glimmer of panic in Curtis' blue eyes before he shakes his head. "Erm, no - not... not yet."
"Then I'll see you in the morning. Wake me if you need anything." You say gently, weaving past him to prepare yourself for bed.
The following day goes by without so much as a breeze of cold air and you decide that you would brave the elements a little longer and go for a walk, familiarising yourself with the great unknowns of your new village.
You’d been introduced to most of the villagers so you knew roughly where each person lived and Tannya had shown you some of the best places to catch rabbits, however, you were yet to brave the forest.
The pine trees that resided on the outskirts your newfound home are tall and dense. Wildflowers sprout haphazardly like a border and, as you approach, you can hear the squeals of joy from the children. You realise that they must come out of the village to play; out of the way of the adults who are working and away from fretting mothers so that they may carry out their adorable schemes and fantasies.
Walking as quietly as you can through the trees, you try to spot the children and catch a gaggle of them running not more than twenty-feet in front of you. You dive behind a thick trunk and peek out trying to make sense of the game they're playing when your husband's hulking form comes into view.
You shrink back instinctively against the bark, hoping you aren't caught - but Curtis seems preoccupied with playing with the children. Curiosity keeps you from calling out to reveal yourself; watching the children ready themselves then darting in a myriad of directions with giggles of joy as Curtis gives chase, purposefully jogging after them to let them get a head start.
You continue to watch hoping to catch a glimpse of a true smile. You had yet to catch Curtis smile properly and you knew that seeing him play with the children would be your best chance.
When he managed to get a hold of one child, the others surrounded him, grabbing at his legs and jumping onto his back until he yielded with a laugh.
Enthralled, you began to smile at the scene before you; heart swelling at the thought of him playing like this with your children. You bit back a chuckle when you envisioned him hiding behind a tree, broad shoulders sticking out as clear as day from either side, making your children squeal with laughter.
Would he love them even if he didn't love you? Or would he have no interest and leave them in your stead only? From what you'd seen, you could only surmise that he would be an excellent father to your children, regardless of his feelings towards you.
That was, if he ever decided to have children with you. Being with child meant having sex and Curtis, even after warming up to speaking a few sentences to you the last two weeks, still didn't want to bed you.
You remained rooted to your hiding spot watching your husband and the children play; clinging to a daydream where you pretended to have something wonderful and romantic with the chieftain of the north.
You considered for a moment asking Curtis to take you to play with them sometime but thought better of it when you realised that he would siphon that task to Tannya or another villager, leaving you right back where you started.
Instead, you opt to keep your daydream of false domesticity to yourself, and watch the children tackle Curtis to the ground with cries of victory.
Tannya had told you that there was no point in cooking as that evening marked two whole weeks since your marriage to Curtis and the villagers had insisted on a dance and small celebration.
"Is this my second celebration?" You asked her in a hushed tone, helping to carry a dish of berries to one of the tables.
"Goodness no." Tannya clicks her tongue setting her bowl down. "You need a new dress and the decorations aren't even finished! We're all just impatient."
You chuckle and continue to run errands in preparation for the evening, desperate not to be useless and to prove to your village that you're happy to help.
By sunset, the clearing is alight with music, drinks and dancing. You skulk around the edges of conversation and sip at your tankard, keeping an eager eye out for Curtis. You almost don't hear someone calling for you over the chatter.
"Chieftainess!"
You look around wildly, before your eyes settle on an old man who is waving his walking stick at you. Approaching with a beaming grin, you take the seat next to Gilliam, one of the elders.
"Gilliam," you address him sweetly. "How are you finding tonight? Is your tankard full?"
Gilliam guffaws and bangs his stick on the ground. "Tonight is wonderful - and yes of course it is. The children are keeping me topped up."
There's a slight slur to his words and his devious smirk makes you giggle. You knew that he was a surrogate father to Curtis, a wise man who in his old age, had become a loyal advisor.
"How has your first two weeks been?" He asks curiously. "I trust Curtis is making you feel at home?"
"Of course." You lie through a smile. "When he's not so busy."
Gilliam grins wickedly. " Maybe if he stopped bragging to everyone how great you are, he'd be able to. 'My wife did this', 'my wife did that', 'my wife made my favourite'..."
You frown gently, your heart aching in your chest. Gilliam wouldn't lie for the sake of it, you were sure of it but this didn't sound at all like the Curtis you knew, the one you lived with.
Catching your confused expression, Gilliam frowns at you instead. "You don't believe me do you?"
It's not a loaded accusation; more curious.
"I... well, Gilliam, I do live with him." You chuckle but your smile doesn't reach your eyes and Gilliam notices. He nods slowly, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Ah, of course," he clears his throat. "Tell me what do you talk about when you're together?"
A flush snakes it's way to your cheeks. Do you tell him that you and Curtis still haven't consummated your marriage? That Curtis, even on a good day, barely speaks to you?
"Not much... if anything at all." You sigh softly, playing with your hands in your lap. "If we eat together, it's in silence. He usually continues running errands or waits until I go to bed to eat."
You wring your hands, unsure if you should continue. "I know it's because he's the chieftain. He has a lot of responsibility too. I don't want to sound selfish."
"Ah, I see." Gilliam hums thoughtfully.
"Did he have a wife before? Have I done something to offend him?"
You blurt suddenly, looking to Gilliam desperate for answers to your husband's behaviour. No one ever warned you your husband wouldn't be interested in you.
Gilliam snorts and offers you his hand, which you take diligently, and he closes his other wrinkled palm over it. "Come closer."
You lean in close and feel like a child again, listening to one of your father's fables.
"Believe me or not," Gilliam scoffs. "That boy loves you."
You want to laugh at how Gilliam calls Curtis boy so easily, as if he isn't a mass of muscle and bone, but you only tilt your head slightly as if you can't quite understand him, tears prickling at the edges of your vision as you whisper back.
"My husband doesn't love me." As soon as you say it it's like all the air has gone from your lungs and more words begin to rush out. "I don't know what I've done to make him so indifferent towards me nor do I know how to fix it." You hiccup quietly, smearing tears angrily across your face with your free hand. "You say he says these things but he doesn't say them to me."
Gilliam looks at you pleadingly, squeezing your hand. "He does. And to answer your question from before, he's never had a wife before you. He's never courted anyone before you either."
That small piece of information pulls you from your tears and you sniff, brows furrowing at Gilliam. "Him? Never?"
Gilliam shakes his head, clearly trying not to smile. "Too many things to do as chieftain. To many battles. Too busy." He raises an eyebrow at you. "And suddenly he has secured peace with one village and acquired a bride."
You slump back into your chair, shocked.
"Hmph." Gilliam huffs smugly. "He's still acting like a fool, though. How can you not know how to treat a beautiful woman?" He shakes his head before nodding firmly at you. "When you get him behaved, bear-tamer; bring him to me so I can hit him with my stick."
Through your tears you snort a laugh and begins to giggle at the image. Gilliam pats your hand and chuckles with you before beginning to recount tales of Curtis as a young boy.
Gilliam is halfway through a tale of Curtis catching a ferocious boar, at which you're half in hysterics, when the man himself appears.
"Ah, Curtis." Gilliam says fondly. "I was just telling your wife about Hamhock the Terrible; you almost missed the best part."
Curtis' lips twitch. "You're trying to embarass me in front of my wife, old man?"
Gilliam chortles and stage-whispers over to you, "He's still very touchy about being dragged across the forest floor by that pig."
You try to hide your snort behind your hand but you can't quite manage it thanks to the alcohol.
"I suppose you've come to steal your wife for a dance?" Gilliam continues, raising a brow at Curtis.
"If that's alright?"
"Why are you asking me?" Gilliam huffs, shooting you a mischievous wink.
"I - erm - w-would you-" Curtis shuffles awkwardly as you rise to your feet.
"Of course." You tell him, sparing him the awkwardness, pressing a kiss to Gilliam's cheek before following Curtis. "Thank you for your company Gilliam."
"Anytime, chieftainess. Anytime." He wiggles his walking stick. "And remember what I said!"
Cheers erupt over the music as you and Curtis rejoin the throng of the party and you want to rejoice at the feeling of belonging surging in your veins. But before you can, the music starts up again and Curtis gives you no warning as he sweeps you - quite literally - off your feet.
In a surprise to absolutely no one, Curtis has two left feet. He spins you away and tugs you back towards him almost tripping over himself in the process. You start to giggle and as you're tugged square into his large chest and look up to see that Curtis is grinning down at you. A real, genuine smile that makes heat rush to your cheeks.
The music slows and Edgar's shout of "kiss! " creates an echo around the clearing where everyone is dancing. You can feel the eyes of the villagers on you as they chant and you smile nervously before glancing to Curtis, who furrows his brows slightly, then dips his head slightly before stopping, lips gently parted. You're just beginning to wonder what he's doing before he dips his head lower and brushes your lips with his. The kiss is just like it was on your first wedding night; tender and gentle. His beard is soft, wisps of hair tickle at your skin and you smile against his lips.
Joyous cries from the crowd thrum in your ears and when Curtis goes to pull back, you follow him, pressing yourself against him as your hands come up to cup his face. He, surprisingly, allows it and very quickly mimics your action; cupping your face and pulling you close before releasing you with gentle pants of breath.
Edgar smack Curtis' back and envelopes you in a tight hug, welcoming you and gushing about how excited he is for the second ceremony. Some of the women hurry to your side with Tannya, pulling you away from Curtis to ask you about your homeland, how you'd like your new dress to look, what flowers you'd like in your hair. You quickly realise that this celebration was a test to see if the villagers, and Curtis, approved of you; and you were thankful that they had.
With one longing glance back at your husband, you were ushered away, leaving Curtis to watch you smile and laugh from afar.
Hours later, you're cuddled up with Timmy next to a fire, exhausted from drink and dancing. Timmy's idly drawing a few sketches of the villagers as you tell him fables from your homeland albeit slightly slurred. The party had died down, with most villagers heading to their homes and packing away food to stop it spoiling.
Curtis appears in your peripheral and you turn to look up at him, Timmy following suit when he hears you utter your husband's name. Curtis eases into a squat beside you both, close to you for once, and asks what you're up to in a hushed tone that makes you want to melt into him.
"The chieftainess is telling me stories." Timmy says with quiet glee, cuddling into your shoulder. "She's a good story teller."
He yawns loudly and rubs at his eyes, causing you and Curtis to chuckle at the same time before sharing a shy glance at the other.
"I think someone needs his rest." You say softly and Timmy grins sheepishly up at you. "Come on, let's find your mama and get you to bed."
"Not one more?" Timmy pleads and Curtis answers for you.
"You can have more tomorrow I'm sure." Curtis glances at you again, this time with a small smile. "I'm sure the chieftainess wouldn't mind?"
Your stomach flips. Had dancing together changed his demeanour? Or the kiss? Or was it the alcohol? Either way, it was a welcomed change.
"Of course!" You say looking back to Timmy. "But I need you well rested to be able to pay attention. Got it?"
Timmy nods and rubs at his eyes as Curtis straightens and offers both of his large hands to you and Timmy, pulling you to your feet with ease.
After handing Timmy back to his mother, you and Curtis head back to your own hut. From the night's events and yesterday's stew, you hoped that maybe tonight you'd be able to finally consumate your marriage. That you'd curried enough favour with Curtis for him to begin to accept you willingly into his bed, rather than just a woman to share it with.
"Would you like me to draw you a bath?" You ask once inside. "Fetch any beer?"
Curtis shakes his head. "No. You may head to the bedroom if you so wish, you've had a busy day."
Your heart jumps. Was that an offer? You dip your head and enter the bedroom, stripping quickly out of your dresses to freshen up. Gentle dabs of rosewater against your skin. You wait and wait until your eyes grow heavy, naked under the blankets.
When Curtis finally appears in the doorway, you immediately perk up. He shrugs off his furs as he approaches the washing bowl, splashing water onto his face to clean away the day's grime and the night's joy. He hears you shift under the blanket and turns slightly to look at you, legs bare and hair slightly tousled from where you'd been restless with nerves, thin blanket covering your thighs and chest. He immediately turns back to the water bowl.
"Thought you'd be asleep."
"I was waiting for you."
"Why?"
Your stomach flips and heat rushes to your cheeks. Did you really have to spell it out for him?
"I thought... we would be..." You drop your gaze to his feet, clearing your throat in the hopes you would loosen the words free. "That perhaps I may... service you."
Curtis stiffens. You peek up through your lashes, hopeful, but he doesn't turn around. The muscles of his back are tight and there's an angry red flush creeping up the back of his neck.
Your eyes roam his figure, unsure of where to begin; battle-scarred back, broad shoulders... your mind boggled at thoughts of other places you'd longed to see and kiss that you almost miss his growl.
"Service me?"
"Yes." You say, a little more confidently. Perhaps this was a game. You'd heard that some men liked it when women were confident in telling their husband what they wanted. "To get on my knees and-"
"No."
You blink in surprise. Surely, you misheard. His growl seemed like he was excited - you'd misread the situation entirely. Again. "Chieftain, wha-"
"I said no." Curtis snaps and you feel your heart drop to your stomach. With a sigh, Curtis turns on his heels to leave the room. "I'll let you get to sleep."
Tears prickle your vision and you don't quite stop the first sob that makes its way out of your mouth. Your stomach churns with the nauseating embarassment of being turned down, and your heart aches to be back in your village, in your own bed. You made a mistake. This was somehow worse than letting your village fall victim to his wrath.
You sob and sniff quietly as you find your nightdress and pull it on, crawling back into the warmth of the blankets and curling into a ball. You could understand if he wasn't in the mood, but this seemed more like he hated you. That he wasn't attracted to you. That you were ugly; especially when paired with the fact he wouldn't even cast a glance your way.
Your body shudders as tears stain your pillow. You're so small in the large bed, surrounded by the scent of your husband in a cruel taunt, huddled as far to the bed's edge as you possibly can be.
What had you done to make him hate you? You thought, you stupidly thought, that tonight would be different; after the dancing, the kiss, the tender moment when he'd come to get you and Timmy. Evidently, he remained steadfast in whatever ploy it was to torment you.
Wallowing in your heartache and embarassment, you made the quiet vow to not act like a wife again. If you were just there as a token of a truce, regardless of what Gilliam and Tannya said, then that's all you would be to Curtis.
Part 1 End
A/N: This took so long. It's the longest fic I've written in one go and I had to split it into two parts while editing and you'll be pleased to know I fell asleep editing this 🙂↕️. A labour of love indeed! Idk why Curtis' parts always end up in 2s...maybe he's my fave. Who knows.
Curtis seems to need a lot of practice expressing himself to his wife.
I sympathize with her because it would indeed feel confusing to not consummate a marriage; and also feel rejected when Curtis so intentionally leaves you alone or waits until you're asleep to come to bed. 🥺
Warning: age gap, verbal and physical abuse, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: silverfox!Andy Barber (mob au)
Note: If you’ve got a problem with slow burn then you’ve got a problem with me and I suggest you let that one marinate.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You’re wide awake. You’re glad Everly begged you to stay the night. If you were alone in that apartment, well, you’re not sure you could even sit still.
Not that you are now.
It’s not a good idea, but it’s your only one. You don’t know what else to do. Your stomach clenches. You bend over your lap and breathe away the nausea.
Has it all been for nothing? All your hard work? Late nights?
You’re just going to walk away? Maybe you are your mother’s daughter after all. Your father always said so.
There’s nothing else to do. You can’t go back to your dad. He never wanted you and you don’t know if you can face whatever had Andy so riled up. You have no family to take you in. Your mom hasn’t been around since the week before you graduated and that was for about three days before she took off again.
It’s wrong. You know it. All the logic in your brain tells you this is more dangerous than the alternative. But what is that? Staying here, waiting for Andy to get back, living under the thumb of another man with all the control?
Sure, Andy could be nice, but it scares you that he can also be so mean. Even if it’s not to you. This can be his last favour to you.
You leave the phone but take his card. You silently dip out the front door and tiptoe down the hollow hallways. In the front lobby, you stop at the student ATM and take out more than you should. It will have to be enough.
You slide the card into Everly’s mail box before you head out the front of the building. You tuck the money in your pocket and set off on the long walk to the apartment across town. It’s getting lighter by the time you get there.
You approach the apartment door cautiously. You listen through the wood. You don’t think he’s back yet. He’d have messaged. Well, you don’t have the phone anymore.
You enter. It’s just as you left it. You pack up your things. Just your things. Nothing that he got you.
You look back at the apartment and your heart drops. You shuffle into the kitchen and pick up the little marker on the whiteboard. You write a single word; ‘sorry’.
You stick the marker back in the magnetised holder and turn away. You leave without looking back. You hike up your bag and cross your arms, head low, shoulders high. You’ll figure out where you’re going when you get to the station.
🖤
You buy a cheap flip phone from a convenience store across from the train station. You’re sure it’s not out of the usual. You set it up as you sit on a park bench with your bag in your lap.
You don’t think you’ve ever been this far from home. They say big city’s have a place for everyone. Is there even a place in this world for you?
You finish and tuck the phone away. It’s there for emergencies. Besides, you probably can’t get a job without a number. Or a place to stay.
Like any metropolitan hellscape, the apartments are overpriced. You sleep with your bag at a bus terminal for a few hours. You wake up and wander around until you find a library. They offer ten minutes on the public computer without a card. You scribble down addresses and phone numbers on the call cards and leave.
There’s a place. Three roommates. All female. It’s your best hope.
Gladys is the ‘landlord’. She owns the walk-up and lives on the top floor. She’s fifty-eight and annoyed by it. She’s suspicious as she warns you that they’re old ladies and they don’t put up with trouble. You promise none of that and count out the down payment. She’s not as unsure then.
You shiver as she leaves you to your room. That’s the same reaction Andy would get when he flashed his card, or even just his name. You shut the door and put your bag on the lumpy mattress. It will do.
Later, you meet your other roommates. Raylene has tattoos up to her chin and recites scripture as easily as she makes a joke about her illicit past. She’s only forty-two, you can’t tell right? Amanda is older and quieter. She seems annoyed as she pours her cereal. You go back to your room.
The next day, you return to the library. You need proof of address for a card. Right.
You go back to the house. There’s mail on the floor as you step in. You pick it up and turn it over. You leave it on the table.
You look for a job on the glitchy flip phone. It’s useless. You lay in the room, doing nothing but thinking about everything. Too late to go back now. You threw it all away. Because…
Because you’re scared. Because even though you were living in the same place as him, you know nothing about who Andy Barber really was. What little you do know, couldn’t convince you to stay.
You find a job at shipping service kiosk. They had a sign up to apply online but when you tried to get a pic of the QR, the manager asked if you were interested. You said sure. He hired you on the spot.
You realise quick why it was so easy. There are less customers than loiterers. Those who hang around, lean into their high and sway dangerously towards the ground. You watch them, as nervous for them to collapse as to suddenly lurch at you instead of whatever it is they’re seeing in their heads.
You weren’t safe before but you’re not safe now. Did you do the right thing? Is saving yourself really that? Has there ever been better for you? Was Andy that?
As you head off from your third shift, you nearly shriek. You sigh and shake your head. The man in the suit isn’t him. You don’t know why you thought it would be. He can’t find you.
You drag your feet along the streets, lost in thought. You take out your phone to check the time only for your shoulder to jerk suddenly. A man wrenches on your purse strap as your phone clatters to the ground. It bounces across the pavement as you cling to your bag. Your accoster pulls back his elbow and hits you in the left eye socket.
You keep a hold of your purse as you cry out. He struggles with you as pedestrians hurry by, acting as if they can’t see you. He gives up and grabs the phone, running off into the stream of bystanders.
You pant on your knees and hug your bag under one arm. You shakily touch your cheek as you feel the skin tightening already. You keep your head down as you stand up. Not one person will look at you. No one asks if you’re okay.
You’re not.
You made a big mistake. It was easier to protect yourself from one man you knew than a thousand faceless men waiting for their moment. You hurry home and lock yourself in the room. You don’t cry. You just sit there as the bruise pulses and swells around your eye.
The next day, you put your wallet in your pocket and leave your purse at home. You get to the kiosk and roll open the gate. You’re on alert as you stand behind the counter and the plexiglass screen. It’s a paltry shield between you and the general public.
A customer comes in to send out a package. You print the label and tape it up. The complain about the price. You agree, it is expensive, but they’re welcome to try to post office instead. The take their tracking number and scoff a thank you.
You turn to put the parcel in the bin of expedited shipments. The bell rings as the next customer steps up. You’re right there, they can wait.
You turn and nearly fall backwards. It’s like you’ve been punched again. You stare at Andy through the scratched protective glass.
“Hey, I’m here to inquire after a lost package.” He says calmly, resting his fingertips on the lip of the counter.
Your lip trembles and you flick your lashes. You deflate and shake your head.
“Tracking number?” You prompt, staying away from the counter.
He stares at you. “Sweetheart…” His voice scrapes up his throat.
You stare at him. His brow furrows and he leans in. He puts his elbow on the counter and rests his palm on the glass.
“Who did that to you?”
You blink as your eyes tingle. You shrug. You look away. He doesn’t. You can feel him staring. He exhales.
“You know it’s time to come home, don’t you?” He says quietly.
You gulp.
“Sweetheart…” his voice hardens. “I don’t want to make you… but I will.”
You dip your chin down and flutter your lashes until the tears retreat. You lift your head slowly and look him in the eye. “I’m afraid if you can’t provide a tracking number, I can’t help you, sir.”
showing back up on my dash and in his sweetheart's temporary getaway life! Oh, he is NOT HAPPY. Can't you see he just wants you home safe with him where you belong?
Warning: age gap, verbal and physical abuse, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: silverfox!Andy Barber (mob au)
Note: If you’ve got a problem with slow burn then you’ve got a problem with me and I suggest you let that one marinate.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
The ringer of your phone jars you awake. It's even earlier than your alarm. You slide your thumb over groggily to answer the call. The voice on the other end isn't who you expect.
"Slacking again." Your father snarls as you tap the speaker and roll back against the pillow. You hold back a sigh.
"Dad?" You gulp.
"Daughter." He snaps. "You owe me rent."
"Huh?"
"With interest. You think I'm gonna keep holding onto this trash you left behind for free?" He sneers.
You rub your eyes, wide awake as your heart spikes. You sit up and clear your throat.
"Dad, you said--“
"You're just like you're mother. Running off whenever you want, thinking you can just barge back in when it suits you. I'm not a storage unit." He huffs. "Just as useless as her too."
"Dad, please, I'm still waking up. I..." You pause and swallow in your dry throat. You glance over your shoulder, staring at your bag on the night table. Andy's card... No you can't.
"Always a goddamn excuse. I thought-- I tried to raise you better but you're just as stupid as her." He growls. "A thousand by the end of the day or I burn it."
You wince. "Dad, please--"
The line clicks. You stare at your phone then close your eyes. You tip your head back and roll your shoulders. Well, it's a good thing you never had anything very valuable. But there's one other hitch; doesn't sound like you'll be going home after this term.
"Sweetheart." Andy's crisp voice slices through the lull.
Your eyes snap open and you turn to him. He has a cardboard tray with cups in his hand, a paper bag in the other. You push yourself to your feet and the blanket droops over the side of the bed.
"Andy?" You gasp. "When..."
He looks down at the coffee and wets his lips. His throat tightens. "Been here long enough to hear what I need to."
"Andy..."
He crosses the room and puts the tray and bag down on the night table.
"Wanted to surprise you. Figured you'd still be sleeping." His voice is thin with fatigue. "Sounds like you had a rude awakening."
"Andy," you repeat his name again. "What did you..."
"All of it." He turns to you and puts his hands on your shoulders. He squeezes. "I was gonna drive you to class but... I got business that just came up. Get yourself an Uber."
"What? Business? Andy. What are you talking about?" Your spine locks up as chills ripple across your skin. "My dad... He says things he doesn't mean."
"Sweetheart. That didn't sound like a concerned father to me." He rubs your shoulders with your thumbs. "And it's not the first damn time I've heard him talk to my woman the wrong way."
You flinch. You frown. Back in the store when your dad called... You thought maybe he overheard some but hoped...
"Please. It's not a big deal. You don't have to--"
"Sweetheart, you don't get it." He bends to kiss your forehead. "I do gotta."
"Andy..." Your voice cracks as you think Charles and bloody knuckles; of what Everly said. "You can't hurt him."
He goes silent and slowly drags his hands down your arms. He clings to your hands and hums. "No, I can. He hurts you and I know he does more than speak to you bad." He squeezes. "I see it each time you shy away from me."
"It's just my dad."
"Who's going to burn all your stuff?" He challenges.
"He's not serious."
"Sounded pretty damn serious to me." He snaps and you flinch, pulling your hands from his.
He cringes and shakes his head. "I'm not mad at you, sweetie. I'm concerned."
"Please--"
"This isn't something I can just let go." He leans back on his heel. "Don't worry about me. That's not your job. I worry about you." He insists. "And this is just that.”
He turns and strides away. You hurry after him. He stops just inside the front room. He faces you.
“Go. Enjoy your breakfast.” He orders.
“But… yours.”
“I’ll be fine.” He caresses your cheek and leans in to kiss you. “Sweetie. You have to trust me. That’s gonna be important. Trust that some things I need to take care of.”
“Please, don’t hurt him.”
He winces and closes his eyes. His jaw tenses. He shakes his head.
“I’ll try not to.”
He spins and marches out. You stand stunned. He as much as admitted his intent. But what’s more shocking is you’re not stopping him. All that pleading, just words, and that’s as much as you’ll try for your father. It’s more than he ever did for you.
💗
You go to your midterm but you’re not really there. You can’t stop thinking, wondering what Andy’s doing. Flashes of his bloody knuckles and that deadly silence when he came to your house that night he found Everly colour your mind. The memories redraw his entire image; all those moments he firmed his voice and told you, didn’t ask.
You write on autopilot and hand in your exam. You don’t care if you do well. There’s more important things than twenty percent of your grade.
You don’t know what to do. You can’t go back to that apartment. You’re too nervous to be alone.
You call Everly. She answers. Surprising considering it’s before noon, even during midterms season.
“There you are!” She chimes. “All done with daddy?”
“Everly,” you warn. “Please.”
“I didn’t mean it like that but… nice to know what’s on your mind,” she giggles.
You roll your eyes. “Just finished my last midterm.”
“Yay!” She trills. “So does that mean you want to get hyped on vodka?”
“Not exactly. How about a latte?” You offer.
“Do you have daddy’s card? We could go to the sushi buffet.” She suggests. You sigh. She laughs again. “Oh, you’re starting to sound like him.”
“Oh my god. Don’t say that.”
She cackles.
“I need some sashimi.” She whines.
You chew your lip. Well, you need the distraction. You shrug and shuffle along the campus sidewalk.
“Sure, should I meet you at your place?” You ask.
“Uh, probably. I need to get myself together.” She yawns. “Do you remember Chase?”
“You didn’t…” You hiss.
“A girl needs to rebound!” She preens.
💗
After sushi, you go back to Everly’s. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re avoiding leaving or being alone. Sometimes her lack of perception is an advantage.
She’s too focused on begging you to upgrade her wardrobe as she shows you her ‘out of season’ pieces. You cross your arms as you sit on the couch and she presents shirts that look brand new and skirts you’ve never even seen her wear. You squint.
“I think that’s cute.” You argue at the mini skirt with the little tassels sewn into it.
“It’s totally last year!” She throws it down. “You can have it… and buy my a new one with daddy’s card.”
“Everly, it won’t fit me.” You chide.
“Sure it will. It’s got give.”
“You don’t need new clothes.” You rebuff. “Your dad said for emergencies only.”
“My dad? Your sugar daddy.” She laughs.
“Ew, stop doing that.”
“It is kinda weird.” She sticks her tongue out. “Are you like… my mom now?”
“Stop!” You shriek.
She laughs even louder. “Well…” she comes around the couch and pushes aside the clutter of clothing. She sits across from you. “You know… dad hasn’t dated since… mom. Hasn’t even tried. I actually was starting to think he was ace or something. Which like, no judgement to him, but he’s so wound up.”
“He’s a bit… uptight.” You say quietly.
“It’s so weird to see him… soft. Like, he’s my dad, of course he cares about me but he’s always been so strict, you know. But with you… I don’t know.” She pouts and her eyes brighten. “Do you think you could sweeten him and get me a car?”
You scoff. “Everly.”
She shivers dramatically. “Oh, you’re worse than him. Scarier.”
“Don’t,” you chide.
She winks and giggles again. She stands up and turns to scrutinise her clothes again. She holds up a pair of holographic heels. “I really need the new Manolos.”
You shake your head and huff. Despite the distraction of her bartering, you can’t settle. You just keep thinking about that look in Andy’s eye when he walked in this morning. That stone in his voice. The resignation in his face.
Andy can be nice, but you can’t change the part of him that isn’t. Or control it.
Warnings: This will include dark elements, abuse, trauma, neglect, kidnap, including non/dubcon. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Cole Turner
Summary: you're the least valuable among the bunch, but it doesn't mean someone won't want you. (another wife-buying fiend)
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
“Teyona,” you whisper, “Tee.”
You reach over as the small slat of light at the seam of the metal shelter barely reaches you. You can see the shape of the young woman curled up beside you, feel her shivering as you press your palm to her forehead. She’s feverish and gibbering.
“Hey, honey, shhh.” You pet her sweaty hair. “Here, I saved some, for you.”
You take the bottle of water you kept crushed under you. There’s maybe a mouthful left. It’s hardly enough for her. You angle her around and pull her head into your lap. You feel around her lips before you tip the trickle of water into her mouth and rub her throat. She swallows with a croak.
“Is she gonna be okay?” Marska whispers from her other side, her accent thick around her words.
“I don’t know.” You admit softly, mindful of your volume. You glance towards the line of light, wary of one of the men passing by.
“Sick.” Marska states in her fractured English.
“Yes,” you agree.
You hold the girl against you, rocking her, caressing her cheek. You never thought you had any maternal instinct. At your age, most people assumed so. Seems you finally found it.
Teyona’s nineteen. She was on her way to college when she spun out on the country roads and woke up here. She wanted to study biology but her grades were too low so she went into economics instead. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but she’d take it now.
She asked you about your college years. You would tell her when you couldn’t hear the constant pace of soles outside, or the voices, the laughter. It was easier to tell her about the girl who was than the woman who’s now stuck in this place. The middle-aged office worker who was just taking the urn of her dead cat out to the beach to scatter.
The clanging on the side of the shipment crate echoes through you. You sink into your shoulders as the clamour rattles your skull. Several girls whine but they move quickly.
“On your bellies, girls.” A voice hollers through as the banging continues.
Shoot. You spread Teyona out. She whimpers and drones. You get her on her stomach then spread out. You put your hands on the back of your head, your face between the feet of the girl ahead of you.
The doors are pulled open. You stare down at the ground. You look up and you won’t do it a second time. Not after you feel the butt of the rifle.
The men’s shadows stretch over the prone bodies, trembling and gulping on the cold metal. Boots stamp down, stepping carelessly between the women. You hold your breath, not for yourself but Teyona.
You’re not stupid. The men told you themselves. You’re not meant to be here. You’re too old but maybe if they put a bag on your head…
“Well, better something than nothing, right?” One man scoffs.
“Where the fuck is she? Look for grey.” The other snickers.
You frown. They can’t mean... A third man kicks your side. “The old one’s here.”
You resent that. You don’t say so but you’ve caught a few glimpses of them. They’re not all spring chickens.
“Hey, let’s get her up.”
The man who kicked you grabs one elbow and another man takes the opposite. They haul you up. Panic swells in your stomach. Not for yourself, but for the girl on the ground shivering and slack on the metal as the outside beams in. Marska reaches over to take her hand. She’ll take care of her.
You don’t have a choice. The men pull your arms down and twist them behind you. The march you out of the crate. You squint at the brightness. The warmth of the sun is a relief from the humidity of the dark freight.
Why you? Why now? This can’t be good. You already understand what’s happening. Where the others go. Not the specifics, but the purpose. Women sold to the highest bidder.
“This way.” The first man commands as he leads the way.
You walk stiffly, chafing in their grasp, yet happy for the extra support. They walk you around the length of the freight and past another. As you come around the corner, there’s a man waiting by a truck.
His hands are in his pocket, then out of them. He paces back and forth as he pulls his gestures in silent conversation with himself. He scratches his sandy hair and turns on his heel, giving a start as he sees you and the men.
He wears jeans and a carhaart jacket. He looks like an average guy. Tall, maybe a few years youngrt than you, his boots scuffed and his plaid shirt slightly sweaty. He shoves his hands in his pockets again, fisting them under the fabric.
“This is all we got in your price range, guy.” They shove you ahead.
You stumble and the man’s face lights up in surprise and dismay. He opens his arms and catches you. Your head lands against his chest as you groan.
“Sorry…” you rasp.
“Hey, you don’t have to be so rough with her.”
“Ha. Don’t play like that. We all know what this is.” The guard retorts. “Now you have two minutes to get the fuck out of here and not come back. You’re lucky I didn’t beat you down coming in here with no money.”
“It’s all I got,” the man says.
“Ours not. Get.” The other retorts.
The man who holds you shifts you in his embrace. You struggle to stand and he moves you so his arm is around your back. He turns you and guides you to the truck. He lifts you into the front seat. Well, at least you’re worth something. You’re not sure this is an escape though.
He buckles you in and squeezes your arm. You ignore his gaze as you feel him looking you over. He shuts the door and hurries around the front of the truck. He gets in the driver side and fumbles to turn the ignition. He cranks the shifter and reverses out.
“Those guys are scary, huh?” He mutters as he rolls the wheel around and leans into the gas pedal.
You don’t say a word. Your head lolls and you stare out the window. You just want to watch the sky. It’s like an old friend.
“You know, I… I didn’t think it’d be like that. I thought they’d take care of you girls. You know…” he rambles. “That’s all I wanna do. So, you don’t gotta worry.” He grips the wheel and leans forward. “I’ll do better.”
You still don’t answer. He falls into silence and drives on. You slump and slowly sink into hazy sleep.
You jolt up as the door beside you opens. He touches your shoulder gently, rubbing your dry skin. “You looked… you’re okay. I thought.” He sniffs. “I just stopped a mile back. Got you something to drink.” He points over you to the cupholder. “Lots of electrolytes.”
You stare at him. His hand lingers then trails along the side of your neck. “You okay, honey?”
You stare at the buttons of his shirt.
“Look, I’m just gonna look you over. Make sure you’re not hurt.” He says.
He runs his hand back to your shoulder and with both, he feels along your arm, examining it, than the other. He does the same to your legs, tracing a thick scab below your knee. “Ouch, look like it hurts.”
He feels up your thigh and you twitch.
“I’m just… not gonna… hurt you.” He bends, slowly. He looks hypnotised as his thick fingertips tickle along your thigh. He gets lower and lower. You lean back into the seat. ”Just…”
You squirm but don’t push him off as he suddenly shoves his nose down against your pelvis. He nuzzles into the front of your worn-out panties and takes a deep whiff. You watch him in horror and disbelief. This is insane. He’s insane.
He stands up so suddenly, he looks ready to tip over. He grabs the door to steady himself and clears his throat. He spreads his hand over his chest and drags it down.
He swings the door shut and turns away. He pauses and grips his head, fingers curling as he says something you can’t make out. He drops his arms and marches around to the driver’s door and climbs into the seat.
“Have a drink, honey,” he twists the key. “We’ll be home soon.”
Summary: Mafia marriages aren't about love, but that doesn't mean you have to have low expectations for your future husband.
A/N: Reader is big, tall, female. No other physical descriptors used.
Warnings: Body shaming. Please let me know if I missed any!
In the game that is genetics you know you've lost. Most women take after their mother in terms of build. You took after your father. While any man would kill to be so tall and broad, it was social suicide for a woman.
You'd gotten your first taste of that when your "friends" went on a shopping spree for their birthday and you were the only one unable to try on any clothes as they were all too small. You'd grown too big for your mother's clothes and shoes by the time you were 13. None of the big name labels ever carried the latest fashion in your size. You'd had to stop trying because of the bile that rose in your throat every time the store assistant saw you come in with a look of fear, or worse, contempt.
Money could do so many things, but it couldn't make your body socially acceptable. Not without major surgeries that you were simply not willing to undergo.
Besides, at least a woman of your size wouldn't have to worry about the old men in your father's syndicate making unwanted advances. They prefer the small, petite girls that they actually have a chance of overpowering.
Still, a woman of your status was expected to marry well for your father's business. You tried, honestly you did, to get the attention of someone who would make father look good. You know better than to expect love, of course, but it would be nice to find someone who didn't immediately dismiss you when they saw you weren't wearing heels but were still eye level with them.
Honestly, the temptation to give in to the men who wanted you to step on them was getting harder and harder to fight. They'd promise you money, jewelry, custom made clothing and lingerie, just let them use your body how they wanted. All the while they made it clear you would just be a sex toy to them, not a person. You know love isn't an option but respect shouldn't be so hard to find.
It was quite the duality to have a body that was simultaneously seen as "unfit" and also fetishized.
So it was that, when your father called you into his office to tell you there had been offer for your hand, you were surprised and nervous.
"He's a former federal agent who helped our family get through some dicey times," Father explains. "He's out of the legit game, early retirement or whatever. But he's willing to continue helping us out with his connections so long as he gets you."
"I understand, Father," you nod. "Though I'm surprised you trust him enough. He betrayed his agency, why wouldn't he betray the family?"
"That's another reason I'm giving you to him. I trust you and I know where your loyalties lie."
"We'll probably have to come up with some new phrases," you nod.
"That's my girl," Father smiles. "He's asked you to meet him at your future home. Says he wants to get your opinion on things so he can get things renovated or fixed up before the wedding."
"That's...quite considerate of him," you blink. "What's his name?"
"August Walker."
The car pulls up to the townhouse you'll be moving into after the wedding. The exterior is quite plain but, if Mr. Walker can be expected to keep his word, you'll have a say in changing that.
When your car door opens, you're surprised to be greeted by your future husband, offering his hand to help you out of your seat.
"Thank you," you smile softly as you take his hand.
Stepping out of the car, you make sure to not put too much of your weight onto him, forever mindful that many cannot handle your size. But there is a strength in his arm that makes you wonder if he could.
Mr. Walker kisses the back of your hand and your cheeks heat up, unused to such gentlemanly behavior.
"I know this isn't a mansion or a penthouse, but I do hope the townhouse will be sufficient for you," he smiles. "Especially after all of your requested changes are made. I've got Mr. Carter, a local construction supervisor whom I trust, and who your father recommended, already inside, ready to take notes."
"Thank you, Mr. Walker."
"August, please. We will be married after all, and I would prefer my wife call me by my first name."
"I understand," you nod.
His lip twitches and you're not sure if it's in amusement or annoyance.
"Shall we?" he gestures to the front door.
"Please."
When you're inside, it's clear the townhouse is an older construction and you feel a slight thrill. You admire the custom work done that have withstood time. The contemporary style of everything being sleek, shiny and white has never appealed to you. Testing the waters of your fiance's promises to listen to you, you make sure to state aloud the fixtures you'd like to keep. You're pleased to not hear any arguments from Walker on the matter.
As the tour continues, you grow bolder, asking about replacing things that can't be kept with something similar in terms of style. Mr. Carter says he knows a very good woodworker who can provide some estimates and you find yourself smiling.
Every so often you catch a glimpse of Walker and you swear he's smiling more as you're going on.
"And now, for the final part of the tour," Walker takes your hand again, "the main reason I sought this house."
When he opens the final door you enter into a two-story tall library, making you gasp. You almost feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
"The shelves are empty, waiting for the books you currently own and, hopefully, there will be enough room for future books you should seek to purchase," August informs you. "My own books will remain in my office and this will entire library will be yours."
"August..." you whisper.
"I have seen other men attempt to woo you with gold and riches," he explains. "But you are no Atalanta, distracted by shiny things. You are a woman who craves intelligence more than money or power. Our lives are not given to expectations of love, but having a wife I can respect? That's a very good start, in my book."
You beam at him, almost teary eyed, "and having a husband who can genuinely make me smile is far more than I could have ever expected. Thank you, August."
for your weekend writing event, what about andy barber + free use?
-@witchywithwhiskey
Rabbit and wolf
Andy Barber x female reader
warnings: Dark Andy. Mafia Andy.
It will help so many people, you tell yourself as you stare at the printed contract in front of you.
Your clinic was deprived of all the funding. Your argument with that fucking bastard Brenner, which ended in you slapping him, resulted in hell for you. You know it’s because of him that the funding was withdrawn, that controls were raiding your little clinic, that a few employees left, that some of the private patients dropped.
If it continued, you’d have to completely shut it down, which not only would be your reputation’s downfall, but also a huge loss for the poorer community you took care of.
You had no means to fight Brenner, but you were smart enough to know hyenas like him were scared of bigger creatures. Lions. Or wolves.
So you went to the biggest one, with the sharpest teeth.
Andy Barber.
You didn’t fool yourself thinking he’d agree to provide any help just from the goodness of his heart. You doubt he had a heart at all. So you were ready to promise free urgent medical care for his men, or to even serve as a money laundering spot. As long as people got free healthcare.
He wasn’t interested in that. But when your heart was already sinking, Barber said there’s a different agreement you could come to.
As you read through the contract he drafted, heat and dread settled in heavy, molten lava in your veins.
He wanted you to carry his baby.
That in itself shocked you to the core, but the stipulations left you completely unbalanced. There was nothing to hang onto. He wanted to get you pregnant. He wanted it to be done naturally - not a detached process in a lab, but real sex.
There were paragraphs on that. Including the one stating you’d give him your body anytime, anywhere, anyhow he wanted. Free use.
You should be appalled! You should throw that in his face and storm out the door!
Later, you’d tell yourself it’s because you were scared of what he might do, if you disrespected him like that, as well your desperation to keep your clinic. You had to pretend sudden heat wasn’t pooling between your legs as you thought of Andy Barber in all his lethal glory, in that expensive pristine suit, strutting into your clinic and telling you to bend over your desk, so he could fuck you full of his cum.
Your fingers clenched on the edge of the desk as you stared at that paragraph. An image of him carrying you straight to his bedroom the moment you signed the contract; ordering you to strip for him and spread on the huge bed.
Or maybe he’d tell you to do it here, while his men were outside guarding the door. They’d hear your moan when Andy forced you to stretch on his cock and take your first load.
“Are you hesitating, or are you imagining?” Andy’s amused voice reeled you back from the spiral of dirty thoughts.
When you looked up at him, his smirk broadened into a wolfish grin.
“Yes, little rabbit. Anytime. Anywhere. Always bare.”
He wanted you focused on that. On how completely he’d own you.
Forever, since you didn’t notice the composition of the contract never stating how long this deal is for, or for how many pregnancies.
Andy, how you dare you! I am clutching my pearls -- not in a scandalized way, but in a I was not prepared to be ENTIRELY CLAIMED by you, sir! He is a man of opportunities for sure.
Summary: a new neighbour moves in and changes everything.
Character: Frank Castle
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, NSFW. This is a dark drabble like most of my stuff so take this as your warning to stop reading.
Part of the Trailer Park AU
Please leave a comment and reblog. Or send an anon ask! Always happy to hear from y'all. ♥️❤️
“Would you take this outside?” Your grandmother snaps.
She shoves the lawn chair so it tips. It’s half-folded, as far as she can get it on the rusty frame. It hits your toe and you swallow a squeak as you catch it. She tramps into the kitchen area and rips the carafe from the coffee maker.
“When’d ya make this, girly?” She sniffs it.
“A few minutes ago.” You say through a grunt as you drag the lawn chair across the floor.
“Don’t be scratchin’ anything,” she warns as she sloshes coffee into a cup.
“I won’t,” you struggle not to do just that as you angle to the door.
You slide the frame over the threshold and the corner hits the top step. Your grip loosens and the chair falls through your hand, half rolling down to the ground and crushing your foot again. You stamp down after it but not fast enough.
That man grabs it, lifting it easily. You stand up straight and stare at him. He opens it easily and sets it on the grass where the imprint of the feet already flatten the grass.
“Oh, uh, thank you. You didn’t…mm.” Your voice and courage fizzle out.
“Nah, you can’t be fallin’ down after it,” he pushes the arms down to make sure it’s steady. “There y’are. Your throne.” He stands and frames his belt with his hands. “I got a spare one if you need. Not so crooked.”
“Erm, no, it’s…”
“Girly,” Your grandmother jabs your back with her fingertip. “Make a great wall, don’t ya?”
You shuffle down the steps and out of her way. She descends as she slurps her coffee. She clears her throat as she wipes her lips.
“Who’re you?” She growls at the man without hesitation.
“Just moved in.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb.
“Mm.” He sits and the chair jerks under her weight as the frame releases further. She extends her arm to keep her coffee from spilling. “Well, you don’t let your weeds grow over my grass and park that rig on your own.”
He glances over his shoulder at his truck. “Not a problem.” He says. “Frank.”
She huffs. She takes another messy gulp of coffee. “Magdaline.”
“And your daughter?” He asks.
She snorts. “You don’t got the face to be charming. Thats–” She introduces you.
The man, Frank, snorts. “Heh. Nah. Ma always said I had the hide and the head of a mastiff.”
“Face even a mother can’t love.” Your grandma jeers.
Frank doesn’t flinch. If it was you, you might cry. She never holds back what she’s really thinking.
“Well, I was hopin’ to clean up this place.” He turns to look at his trailer.
“Ones before you were pigs,” she scowls.
“Ah, looks like.” He faces her again. She doesn’t notice as he looks past her, to you. “Was likin’ the look of your flowers. Maybe’ll get some of my own. But ya know, I could build ya up a few flower boxes. Protect em, give em a bit of show. Put some mesh over the soil and squirrels won’t eat the bulbs.” He points to the garden as he talks.
“Uh huh. Why’d you do all that?” She looks into her cup.
“Cause I’m doin’ is anyway and I got the stuff to.” He shrugs. “If you don’t want em, saw a lady down the row was planting some new stuff–”
“Bess? Nah, I’ll take em.” She interjects. “Have the girl help bring em over.”
“Sure. Uh…” he drawls your name. It’s like gravel on his tongue. “You any good at painting? They’ll need a good coat. Less you ladies are busy? Day in the sun?”
“Tryna enjoy some coffee.” Your grandma snarls and turns her cup over the side of the chair to dump the rest. “Can’t even do that.”
“Got some of that too. Dark roast. And a press.” He offers. “You learn to make any coffee good in the field.”
Your grandma sucks her teeth. “You military.”
“Semper fi.” He salutes.
“Would known.”
He drops his hands to his hips again. “Well, I’m gonna get started. If ya change your mind, I’ll be around.” He backs up on one heel, stops, then gestures to you. “Uh, if you wanna help with the paintin’, wouldn’t mind.”
He turns and stalks away. Your grandma shoves the cup at you. “Make a new pot, girl.”
You take the mug and go inside. You put on a new pot. As you wait for it to brew, you pace and near the window. Frank breaks apart an old crate with his hands. You watch him curiously.
He stacks the slats of wood near the side of his trailer. As he stands straight, he catches your eye. You frown and reach for the curtain. He raises his palm. He approaches.
“Hey, you hidin’?” He says.
You shake your head.
“I scare ya?”
You can’t move or say a thing. You just stare.
“I hung up the dragonfly. Didn’t know if ya’d wanna see. Right up on the door.” He looks up at you. It’s the only time you’ll be taller than him.
“Oh, okay. That’s… nice.” You eke out.
He nods and runs his hand over his cheeks and jaw. “I don’t mean to pressure you none, just seems like you could get out. So… I got some paint and stuff. Maybe you could put some little dragon flies on the boxes?”
“I… I don’t know,” you hug yourself. “I… It’s nice of you to… do that.” You lower your head and speak to your chest.
He steps across the invisible border between lots. He stands right beneath the window.
“You’re quiet, sug. Can’t hear ya.”
You chew your lip and look at him, your head still tilted down. You sway nervously. “Sorry,” you cheep. “I don’t mean to…” you trail off again. You squeeze your arms tight and notice his eyes flick over to the tension in your grip. “I’m making coffee. I’ll bring you a cup.”
“That’s real nice of ya.” He says.
You nod. “It might not be very… good.”
“Mm, maybe when you come out, I’ll be able to hear ya right.” He reaches to tap on the window’s frame. “Always welcome, sug. Whatever you got for me.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as perversion, casual misogyny, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Lloyd is feeling a new weight on him and his friend, Lee, offers to help take the load off by finding some fun in the sun with some special ladies.
Characters: Lloyd Hansen (POV), Lee Bodecker, plus sized OCs
Note: I've had this on my mind and I thought it would be interesting to change the perspective and maybe make some OCs.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Lloyd Hansen might lack self-awareness but he’s never been short of self-confidence. He’s never shied away from a fight or a fuck. Still, even for him, a man above all others, change is hard. Change is new and different.
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.
“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.”
“Ha, yeah. They say that shit stops after puberty.” Lee shakes his head. “Can’t remember the last time I wasn’t ragin’ hard.”
This is me trying to see, if stupid dumblr will allow me to post it anew (rewrote a few sentences to see if that helps).
A reply to a prompt I got from @thezombieprostitute 🩷
Jake + only one bed trope
warnings: Friends to lovers. One bed and secret pining. Resolved thanks to Jake's body functions, lol.
can't link you the masterlist for Jake stories, because stupid dumblr flagged and took it down too
You stretch and roll onto your other side, avoiding the morning sunlight shining right into your face. When you turn you find yourself looking right into Jake’s blue eyes. Pretty blue eyes that stare back at you for a second, before widening in panic a moment later.
“Shit! Shit! Sorry, sorry!” Jake starts babbling as he rolls away onto his back and scoots to the edge of the bed.
“Jake?” His unexpected outburst wakes you up fully. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” He blurts out too quickly.
If his behaviour didn’t alert you that something definitely was not right, the redness that spreads over Jake’s cheeks and ears would. He’s blushing so hard, you’re afraid he might start fevering.
“Jake,” you say his name softly, “just tell me what’s wrong.”
You sit up a little, to match Jake’s position as he sits so far on the edge of the bed that he risks falling off. He has his back pressed to the headboard and the covers pulled up to his chin. He’s definitely not cold, since it’s the middle of a heatwave summer, plus he generally runs hot.
“Nothing. It’s just- it’s just there’s only one bed.” He laments.
True, the one bed situation at the hotel surprised you a little. Your cousin, whose wedding you were attending, knew you’d be coming with your friend Jake. She knew that you were just friends. But apparently the hotel put all people attending the wedding with a plus one as a couple. Hence, one bed in your bedroom.
Which isn't really an issue. Or so you thought.
“What about the bed?” You patiently ask Jake.
He turns even redder. You hope he won’t have a stroke.
“You’re in it!” Jake blurts out.
After that, the words keep spilling.
“You were so close, and you’re so beautiful, and you’re warm, and you smell nice, and your ass was pressed into me, and I got hard, and now you’re looking all cute all mussed up and soft, and damnit I’m getting even fucking harder just looking at you, and we’re friends, and I’m sorry, and-”
“Jake!” You interrupt him before he suffocates from the lax of oxygen.
He stops, mouth open mid-sentence. He keeps looking at you, all embarrassed and eager, and mortified.
His confession doesn’t make you feel awkward. Quite the contrary, something light and warm blooms in your belly then spreads in fluttering waves through your chest. And down between your legs.
“Will you show me?” You ask, biting your lower lip.
“Will I-?” Jake stutters, pupils widening further. “You want me to- show you my-?”
“Your hard cock, yes.” You grin and giggle when he nearly chokes on air.
When he just stares at you, a little helpless and probably losing all blood from his brain, you sigh softly. Still smiling at him.
“Jake,” you scoot closer to him, but still leaving him space in case he doesn’t want that closeness. “I’ve been ogling your biceps and ass for the past half a year. Thinking about your cock did occasionally happen, too. So you getting hard from sharing a bed with me doesn’t exactly offend me in any way.”
“You’ve been checking me out?” Jake blinks a few times. “I’ve been checking you out the whole time! Shit! Sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that. But why- why wouldn’t you say something?”
“Because, apparently, we’re both disasters?” You point between the two of you. “I thought you wouldn’t be into me and that it would ruin our friendship.”
“I thought you wouldn’t be into me.” Jake laughs awkwardly and drops the covers he’s been holding tightly under his chin.
The fabric pools around his waist, exposing his broad chest and the amazing biceps.
“See, we’re disasters.” You snort, then burst out laughing.
“Oh my god!” You wheeze. “I can’t believe your wood made us confess our feelings!”
Jake laughs at that, too, though his expression still holds a tint of shyness. It makes him even cuter. Makes your heart soften for him, as well. Jake may sometimes act a bold flirt, but he’s actually very genuine and respectful.
“Can I, uh, assume-” Jake clears his throat after your laughing fit ceases- “that we’re both interested in each other and want to be more than friends?”
You tilt your head to the side, purposely dragging your eyes down his torso and slowly back up to his face.
“Yes. I want to be more than friends, Jake.” You reply with a soft smile.
“Can I, in turn, assume-” your smile turns into a smirk- “that you’ll show me how hard you got for me?”
Summary: a new neighbour moves in and changes everything.
Character: Frank Castle
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, NSFW. This is a dark drabble like most of my stuff so take this as your warning to stop reading.
Part of the Trailer Park AU
Please leave a comment and reblog. Or send an anon ask! Always happy to hear from y'all. ♥️❤️
You stand by the curtain, wiggling your nose as the dust tickles up to your brain. You pinch your nostrils and your shoulders jerk as you hold back a sneeze. You blink away the glaze of tears and exhale carefully. You don’t know if the layer of dust woven into the old drapes or the pollen drifting in with the afternoon breeze.
You hum beneath the vinyl melody, not daring to interrupt the smooth soulful croon of Sam Cooke.
I go to the movies and I go downtownSomebody keep tellin’ me don’t hang aroundIt’s been a long, a long time comingBut I know a change’s gonna come, oh yes it will
The only other noise is the fan whirring back and forth on its axel and your grandmother’s crochet hooks meeting between loops. You let your hand slip from your nose and continue your silent observation of the neighbourhood. One, in particular.
There’s a new resident. He’s right next door. From the window, you can see him at the back bumper of his truck. Now and then, he carries a box to the front door or hauls something around the side, almost right in front of you.
He has a growly look to him. Black hair, black beard, eyes covered by dark black lenses. You imagine those are just as dark. The sleeves of his tee shirt are rolled up above his biceps, a band logo you don’t know stretched across his chest, and his jeans dusty from the gravel.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” Your grandma asks. “That dang squirrel back?”
“No, gram,” you turn, shielding your answer from the window. “I’m just lookin’.”
“Uh huh. Just lookin’.” She leans back in the lawn chair she has you drag in and out whenever she feels like. She furls her brows at the blanket square. “You’re hovering over there like an insect. Makin’ me itchy.”
“Sorry…” you turn back and grab onto the curtain again.
The man stomps up between your trailers. Before you can shut him out, your eyes sting and your nose speckles. You sneeze before you can stop yourself. He stops and looks at you. Not wincing, just staring. Your eyes go wide and you close the curtains with a sharp tug.
You turn and sniff. Your grandmother mutters to her crotchet hooks. You squeeze between her chair and the wall to get to the kitchen. It’s not quite separate from the rest of the place. You rinse your hands as the next track begins.
“Hey, gram,” you dry your hands off and hang the cloth. You turn and shuffle closer to her. “There’s a new neighbour.”
“Always some new ones.” She shakes her head. “Remember that one and his wife. Hollerin’ all night long.”
“Um, I think.”
“And the one with all those brats. They broke my flower pots.” She clucks and shakes her head.
“Yeah…” you trail off.
You back up and go to your corner. There’s a folding chair and TV tray there. You make little ornaments. You find glass bottles in other people’s bins and boil them before you smash them all up and turn them into pretty butterflies or sparrows. Sometimes you even cut up aluminum cans to add extra sparkle.
You want to try to sell them but grandma says no one wants trash.
You shrug and reach into your little box of creatures. You take out the blue and green dragonfly made of beer liquor bottles. It’s a really nice one.
“I’m gonna go water the flowers,” you stand up straight.
“Don’t forget the morning glories.” She chides.
“I won’t,” you promise.
You hide the dragonfly behind your hip as you stop to step into your shoes. You glance at your grandma. She’s fussing at her crochet too much to care. You wonder if she would notice if you just went and didn’t say anything.
You go out into the sunlight. It’s much hotter than you expect, even if it’s not much better inside. You sweat in your circle skirt and tee shirt. Your aunt passed them down a few years ago.
You sit on the steps and examine the dragonfly. It sparkles in the sun. You slowly peek over at the man as he shuts the back of his truck with a big clank. You jolt.
It’s no fun not knowing anyone. You would know. You stand up and your stomach does a somersault. You’re just being friendly. People do that, give gifts to neighbours. Maybe this one won’t be so bad.
You near the man as he takes off his sunglasses and mops his forehead. He flicks back a thick shank of his black hair, silver glimmering through. You drag your feet as you slow with second thoughts. It’s too late, he noticed you.
He hooks the arm of the sunglasses on his collar and folds them. His thick brow lowers over his brown eyes. The lines of his face add to the grizzliness of his expression. You gulp.
“I ain’t over the line, am I?” He lines up his hand with the bed of his truck.
You look back and forth. You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”
He squints and his shoulders slant. He shifts and cups his ear towards you. “Gotta speak up.
“No,” you shake your head harder then look down at the glass bug. Oh. “Sorry, I… I…” You lean back on your heel.
“What’s at?” He points to the dragonfly. You hunch and hold it out. “You make that?”
You nod. You can’t speak. You don’t know why you do this. You think you might make a friend then you choke.
“Dragonfly, huh?” He says.
You nod again.
“Used to see huge ones down south.” He grits. “Size of your hand… nah, mine.” He spreads out his thick, long fingers.
You make yourself look at him and blink. He doesn’t look any happier but his voice isn’t so harsh.
“Wow.” That’s all you got.
“Well, thanks for showin’ me. It’s real nice.” He says.
You frown. You sway and push the dragonfly towards him. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” He motions to himself with his knuckle.
“Yeah. Cause… it’s… nice. You’re… new?” You eke out dumbly.
“Right, right,” he steps closer and gently takes the little wire loop at the dragonfly’s head. “Look real good on the front door, huh?”
“I… guess.” You let go. He lifts it up and admires it in the sunlight.
“It’s real nice–”
You cover your face all at once. You keep both hands over your eyes and spin, blindly rushing back to the steps of the trailer. You scramble up, tripping, then haul open the door before hurling yourself inside.
What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just be normal? Even compared to grandma, you’re a weirdo, and she talks to the birds.
Summary: you’re forced to start from scratch after the messy end of your marriage.
Character: Curtis Everett, 40something reader
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, NSFW. This is a dark drabble like most of my stuff so take this as your warning to stop reading.
Part of the Trailer Park AU
y'all voted
Please leave a comment and reblog. Or send an anon ask! Always happy to hear from y'all. ♥️❤️
“What’re you doing?” Curtis asks as you turn on the faucet.
“Um… washing up.” You barely save your plate from sliding out of your hand.
“My place. You leave that.”
He nears in the small space and takes the plate from you, setting it down. He shuts off the tap without looking, standing closer than you expect. You can feel the heat roiling off of him. There's a trace of coconut or vanilla on him.
“Oh, uh, thanks. I hope you enjoyed dinner. And the leftovers.” You inch away.
“Not sure they'll last very long,” he kids without a lilt of humour.
“Yeah… guess I could've brought dessert.” You chuckle nervously.
He nods, watching you without emotion. “I like sweet things.”
You don't know what to say. This is awkward. You're awkward. And it's late.
“I'll get out of your hair. And promise, if I have any other issues, you don't need to worry.” You clasp your hands together. “Really, I'm gonna figure this out.”
“Sure you don't want a beer or something? I'm sure I got a beer or two tucked up behind that spinach juice.” He offers.
“Really, it's fine.” You smile sheepishly. “I'm beat. That old thing has terrible ventilation and the oven got it all…” you stop yourself. “It's not a problem. I'll survive.”
You turn and head for the door. He follows, his footsteps a heavy contrast to your own. You stop and look back at him.
“Thanks. You're a great host.” You say.
“Really?” He scoffs.
“Oh sure. Even if I have to bribe you with food.” You kid. “Guess I'll see you around.”
You spin and go to open the door. He reaches around you and gets the handle first, his arm brushing you. He pulls it open so you're forced to back up into him.
“Oh, gee, thanks.” You angle around the awkward courtesy.
“Mm. See ya.” He rasps quietly. “Sure you don't need me to walk ya?”
“I can see my door from here,” you assure him. “Night, Curtis.”
“Night…” he drawls after you.
You descend the steps of his trailer and cross the slowly dimming park. Shadows gather under tarps and behind unlit barbecues, and bug buzz near your ears, chasing you back to your new home.
New to you but well past its expiration. Maybe that’s fitting.
🖤
It’s hot. Blazing hot. The lack of insulation in the trailer does little to ease the summer heat, even at night. You roll over again, shoving the corner of the blanket off your hip. You’re in nothing more than a tank top and panties. It sounds sexier than it is. On you, the top is all stretched out and sweaty and your panties keep riding up in creases.
You get up and move the fan closer to the window. Little help that is. You turn over your pillow and flop back down. You turn your back to the fan to let the sweat at the base of your spine dry.
Your scalp itches and your skin chafes against the cotton. You slowly sink into a humid sleep. When you wake, you’re no less damp and your head is heavy. There’s a noise outside, loud and persistent.
You roll over and throw your feet over the edge. You land dizzily, a bit too much momentum behind you. You nearly collide with the fan. You move it out of the way and bend to look through the window.
The sight of muscled back and broad shoulders adds a couple degrees. You stare dumbly for a moment before you recognise the person mowing your lot. Not that there’s very much to do. Curtis turns the mower and you wave behind the screen.
He stops and lets go of the mower. It quiets down and he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. His shirtless chest is thick with sweat-laced hair, trailing down his stomach to the top of his jeans.
“Hey, uh, thanks for that, but you don’t need to do all that.”
“Just did mine and Mrs. Neill’s. Figured I got enough juice left.” He shrugs.
“Hm, uh, right.” You utter. “Well thank you. Again.”
He nods. He watches you and his eyes slip. You give half a smile and back up. You glance down before you stand and sidle away. You pull up your drooping tank top, hoping he didn’t see too much.
The mower roars back to life. You dress in a pair of capris and loose tee shirt. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and battle your hair. You go into the kitchen. It sure would be nice if you had some lemonade or even some of that cheap powdered mix. You grab one of the three bottles of water left in the pack and slide into your clog sandals.
As you emerge, Curtis rolls the silent mower along the edge of your lot.
“Hey, uh… sorry, I don’t have anything stronger,” you offer the bottle.
He stops and faces you. He eyes you then the bottle. He accepts it.
“Thanks.” He snaps the seal as he twists the cap. He pulls it off and puts the neck to is lips. He tilts his head and gulps deeply. His throat bobs as he drains the bottle in only a few swallows. He sighs and licks his lips.
“Needed that.” He says.
“Real nice of you to do the grass,” you look around. “It’s half burn though. Probably don’t need to.”
“Fire hazard. If it’s dry and long, it’ll catch a spark.” He crushes the bottle between his palms with no effort. You watch how he crunches it almost flat.
“Right. Didn’t think of that.” You teeter on your soles.
“Any issues with the electric?” He asks.
“No, it’s working. Fan went all night.” You grip your hips. “I might need to get a second one. Maybe one that fits the window.”
“Ah, yeah.” He agrees. “I got A/C. If you need a break from the heat.”
“I’ve survived worse,” you assure him with wave of your hand.
“Uh huh.” He gazes at you, his eyes dipping so quickly you’re not even sure you really saw them move.
“Well, uh, I’ll let you go. I gotta go finish unpacking.” You back up slowly.
“Anything heavy,” He bends his arm and flexes his bicep. You nearly twitch. “Don’t wanna hurt yourself, right?”
He turns and grips the crushed water bottle against the mower handle. He pushes it away as you stand dumbly at the end of your short walkway. You look down and cringe, noticing how one side of your tee shirt is tucked under your tit, despite the weak effort of your bra to contain them. You can’t seem to get anything right.
baratheonpilled
romaincrisis
amandla
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
