Damn it, I'm craving a bloody Bucky now. Ugh.
Omg please tell me he comes back from a mission and he needs us to calm down and then we clean him up afterwards?
Sort of.
The Red Door
Summary: You take on a mysterious new client.
Warnings: prostitution, oral, blood, dubcon at worst.
Please, let me know what you think. Leave a like, reblog, and some feedback. Love you all.
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The other girls are scared. You won't pretend you're not.Â
They stare as you lead the man down the hallway, figures pressed against wood, eyes peering through inch-wide cracks, women with a sudden sense of modesty. You exhale as the heavy boots follow you, methodic, rhythmic, almost inhuman in their unwavering pace.Â
You stop at the end of the hall, by the door painted red, pulling forth the scarf tucked in the belt of your silk robe. You tie it around the knob to signal others not to disturb before you twist. You enter and wait for him, the metallic smell tickles your nose and seeps into your stomach. It almost makes you wretch.
He pauses at the threshold, the rosy light casting soft shadows across the space. Another scarf tossed over the lamp to give the effect. You grip the edge of the door and hold back a shiver as you look at him.
You didn't before. Not fully. You were too terrified to see further than the streaks of crimson across black leather, spattered across his chiseled jaw, and dark hair. His blue eyes are the only bright thing about him.
He steps through, another clunk of his thick sole, and marches past you. You blow out another quivery breath and shut the door. The click makes you flinch.
You turn to watch him as he walks the perimeter of the room, stopping at the covered window, examining it before spinning back. He moves as if he's inspecting the place. Curious, most men aren't so concerned with the room, just the bed.
Suddenly, he approaches you again. You press yourself to the door and cower. The stench of blood stains your tongue as wafts in through your nostrils. He reaches past your arm and turns the latch, locking you in.
He retreats without a word, not even looking at you. You stand on your own weight as he angles his head until a loud crack comes from his neck. He stretches his fingers, the leather gloves squeaking, then pops his knuckles.
The more antsy customers do better with wine. You go to the cabinet in the corner and open the small glass door. You grasp the neck of a bottle but his gritty voice gives you pause, as abrupt and unexpected as the rest of him.
"No, shit is like water to me," he waves you off.
You let go of the bottle and shut the door. You face him as he strides along the edge of the bed, unstrapping a glove and peeling it off. He pulls off the other and leaves them to ball on the table against the window. He drags his fingertips along the wood.
"I'm Rouge," you offer, uncertain how else to proceed. Some of the men like to have a name, others don't give a fuck. You don't ask for the same as often they prefer anonymity. This isn't a place for renown.
"You choose that?" He wonders as he turns, examining his hands, one shiny and metal, blood in the creases across his palms. He looks at them as if they are not his own, a wrinkle between his brows, as if he is as perturbed by the sight as you. Your more concerned with the artificial knuckles limned in gold.
"Red door, rouge," you shrug, "suppose the one before me went by the same."
He nods and drops his hands. His throat bobs as his eyes glimmer hotly. He looks at you, jaw ticking.
"I need to... clean up..." his timbre scrapes up his throat and he spreads a hand across his bloody jacket, resting it there before retracting it sharply. He bends his fingers and blows out a breath. His eyes search the floor, then the wall, as if he's lost.
"Sit," you say.
"I'm dirty," he returns flatly.
"I change the bed after. Every time."
He shifts and looks at the bed. His sole squeaks on the floor as he keeps his fist balled and considers the invitation. Surely, he didn't come here without intent.Â
He hesitates and takes the two steps across the floor and sits. His shoulders are straight, posture rigid, head raised like a soldier. His knees are wide as he grips one, once more entranced by the blood across his knuckles.
You leave him and gulp as you enter the small bathroom. You take the small basin from beneath and let it fill with warm water as you search for a cloth. You twist the faucet off, balancing the plastic vessel and the cloth as you emerge.
You place the basin on the table by his gloves and wet the cloth. He watches, you sense him and confirm it with a glance in his direction. You turn and near him. You reach to wipe the streak across his forehead and he catches your hand, wincing as if you've slapped him.
You stare into his deep blue eyes, endless like the ocean, mysterious and terrifying.
"I'm just helping," you say.
You wonder but you don't ask. He's not there to talk and neither are you. Besides, you don't want to know what happened. Rather, what he did.
He relaxes, just a little, and you continue to wipe away the blood. It's dry enough that it flakes onto the cotton and you rinse it before turning back, dabbing the line of his nose as he wiggles the tip and scrunches his lips. Ticklish despite his veneer.
He lifts his chin so you can clean his jaw and you see how the blood has dripped past his high collar. None of it seems to be his own.
You take his hand, the real one, and worked diligently on his fingers. He spreads them and turns his palm up as he lets you. He groans, a soft whisper, as you focus on the task.
"You get a lot of men in here need cleaning up?" He asks.
"You really wanna talk about them?" You ask as you turn and dip the cloth in the water, wringing it out before facing him again.
"Nah," he grabs the knot in your silk belt and tugs you close, stilling your other hand before you can touch it to him, "I don't know why I came here."
"Why does anyone come here?" You counter.
"Fair enough," he shrugs and slowly lowers your hand, squeezing it as he slides further over the edge.
"You want me to undress you, honey?" You ask."
"You call everyone that?" He intones.
"What do you want me to call you?"
"Whatever you like, doll," his tone softens, "you're a sweet thing, working in a place like this."
"You came to a place like this," you say as you wiggle your hand free of his. You drape the clothes over the edge of the basin and return to him, sliding down the tab of the zipper just beneath his chin.
"Not tryna insult you," he assures you as he frames your right hip with his hand, the metal cold through the thin silk. His touch slides down to knead your thigh and he hums. You let him pretend he isn't as slimy as the rest of them.
"I know," you push the zipper down and pull apart the leather, revealing the tight black tank beneath.
He stands and you can't help but take a step back. He looms over you, reminding you at once of the imbalance; client and seller, brute and woman. You guide the jacket down his arms and draw it away from him.
He sits once more and begins to unlace his boots. He tugs harshly as you hang the jacket on the back of the chair, looking at you as he pulls his foot free of the leather.
"I wanna see what you're hidin'," he says.
You nod and untie your robe. The lace bra and thong beneath lend a glimmer to his gaze as he removes his second boot. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, his chest rising and falling markedly. He runs his fingers down his cheek as he stares.
"Come here," he demands, all gentleness receding as he tugs up his shirt, peeling it over his head.
His torso is thick, muscular, and covered in scars. Those along his left shoulder that line the edge of the metal are most obvious, like tendrils that reach towards his neck and across his chest. There is blood in those places where it seeped through a seam.
He drops the shirt over the edge of the bed as he watches you approach.
He rises as you shed the robe. You gasp as his metal hand stretches across your throat and he squeezes, just enough to frighten. You peek up from beneath your lashes as his other hand comes up behind your head.
âAre you scared?â He asks.
âYes,â you answer honestly, âwho wouldnât be?â
He searches you, for something, anything. A crack, a tell. You can see heâs trained to look for weakness, for deceit. In your business, honesty is the best policy⊠to a point.
His touch slips down your throat and past your collar bone. He traces a line between your cleavage and flutters along your stomach. He pulls away and unbuttons his fly. You go back to the table and open the slender draw, pulling out a condom from within. You return to him as he hooks his thumbs in the top of his dark briefs.
You hold out the square package and he tuts, âI want you to put it on, doll.â
Itâs not an unusual request. You tear open the corner as he pushes down his pants and briefs in one swoop. He stands straight, his need bobbing before him. You can rarely tell with a man what they hide below the waist but with him, heâs as thick there as anywhere else.
You place the rubber against his tip and circle your fingers around him, unrolling the condom down his length. He trembles and grips your side. His other hand crawls up your arm and cradles the back of your head. With a nudge, he urges you down.
You get to your knees and look up at him, his fingers brush around to your chin. His thumb lingers on your lip as he grasps his hip with his other hand. You wrap your grip around him and stroke him. He lets out a long hum.
You press your lips to the slight bump at the end of the condom and slowly take him in. The act is routine, almost numb. You welcome him to the back of your throat, your hand reaching up blinding to brace his hip. He covers it with his own as he pets your crown with his metal fingertips.
âSlow down, act like you mean it,â he pushes his hips out until you gag.
You breathe through your nose and ease your throat, inching him down past your reflex. You go until you canât take anymore and pull back until only his tip remains, poking just between your lips. You repeat the motion as he balls your hair in his hand, purring as you coax him with your mouth.
His voice drones around the room, the tension slaking from his tone. You push your tongue against him as he coos, âthatâs it, doll.â
The wet noise of your mouth slicks up and down him, you smell the sweat and blood, taste it despite the layer of rubber between you. You let your hand glide up his hard stomach. His muscles clench in response as he squeezes your shoulder.
âIâm ready, doll,â he snakes his hand under your chin to stop you, âyouâre gonna make go too fast.â
You slide your mouth off of him, a string of spit dangling before you wipe it away with the back of your hand. You swallow as he offers his hand, hauling you up roughly so you stumble against him.
âHow do you want it, baby?â You ask, breathless.
He smirks, the first chip in his hard veneer. Beneath it all, beneath the metal and blood, he is a man. He grabs your arm and spins you so you're dizzy. He shoves you so you bend over the bed and he kicks apart your feet. He slaps your ass with his metal hand so you cry out. The sting ripples down your thigh.
He tugs the thong aside and drags his tip along your folds as he bends his legs. You curl your fingers into the mattress as he edges inside. Your lips form an O as he stretches you. He feels even bigger than he looks. Your walls fit snugly around him. He sighs as he reaches his limit and your legs buckle.
âThing is, doll, as sweet as you are, I canât help but break things,â he thrusts, bringing you to your tip toes as you cry out again. The pain is as fiery as the pleasure, âeven nice things.â
Your eyes roll into your skull as he dips his hips again, a hand on your waist as his other kneads your ass. He rears back and jars you meanly. Your moan becomes a whine and you hit the top of the bed. Your bones thrum with the force of it.
He falls into a steady tempo, skin slapping loudly, you whimper and squeal, tortured by his intrusion. His grip is tight enough to make you grit your teeth. The long he goes, the harder, the faster his thrusts.
The bed hits the wall with each tilt of his pelvis and your voice forms a deafening and endless blare. You can barely take it. Your walls throb as your bones feel as if they will snap. He latches onto your shoulders, arching your back as he rams into you, over and over.
His growls and grunts swirl into a cacophony with your shameless song. Your feet slip out from under you and he falls onto you, crushing you against the mattress. He doesnât stop, bucking into you furiously as he scoops his hand under your chin and lifts your head. He nuzzles along your neck and bites into the tender flesh that curves into your shoulder.
You sputter as your walls vibrate around him, his own motion grows errati and he raises his head to snarl at the ceiling. He jerks his hips, over and over, punctuating his climax, until heâs shaking and weak. He stops and hangs his head to exhale into your scalp.
âI paid for the hour, doll,â he wiggles inside you, âIâm gonna make you earn this.â
