Chapter 3: The Barn
The barn smelled of old hay and leather, the lingering musk of horses long gone mixing with the damp heat of the storm brewing outside. Junior worked shirtless, the muscles in his back shifting as he shoveled soiled straw into the wheelbarrow. Sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
The first roll of thunder cracked in the distance, rattling the loose tin roof. Junior paused, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. He didn’t hear Wayne come in—just felt the shift in the air, the weight of someone watching.
"Shouldn’t you be fixing that fence?" Wayne’s voice was rough, too close.
Junior didn’t turn around. "Shouldn’t you be yelling at me from the porch?"
A beat. Then Wayne’s hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm.
Junior froze.
Wayne’s fingers flexed, calluses catching on damp skin. "Turn around."
The words weren’t a suggestion.
Junior exhaled through his nose, slow, before dropping the shovel. It hit the dirt with a dull thud. He turned.
Wayne stood too close, chest nearly brushing against Junior’s. His eyes were dark, unreadable in the dim light filtering through the high windows. The storm outside rumbled again, closer this time.
Junior swallowed. "What?"
Wayne didn’t answer. Just looked at him—his bare chest, the sweat drying on his collarbone, the way his pulse jumped under his skin. Then, without breaking eye contact, Wayne reached down and unhooked the top button of his own shirt.
Junior’s breath caught.
The second button came undone. Then the third.
The air between them was electric, thick with something neither of them had dared name.
"You gonna stand there," Wayne murmured, "or you gonna do something about it?"
Thunder shook the barn.
Junior moved.
He grabbed Wayne by the shirt, yanking him forward, their mouths crashing together with none of the hesitation from before. Wayne growled into the kiss, hands sliding around Junior’s waist, pulling him flush against him.
The kiss was rough, all teeth and tongue and years of pent-up frustration. Wayne tasted like tobacco and cheap coffee, and Junior couldn’t get enough. He shoved Wayne backward, sending them stumbling into the stall wall.
Wayne didn’t fight it. Just let Junior push him against the wood, his hands sliding down to grip Junior’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
"Damn," Wayne muttered against his mouth, breath hot. "Took you long enough."
Junior bit his bottom lip in answer.
Wayne groaned, deep and raw, before flipping them, pinning Junior against the wall with his whole body. His knee slid between Junior’s legs, pressing up just right, and Junior’s head thumped back against the wood.
The storm outside finally broke, rain hammering against the roof.
Neither of them noticed.
Wayne’s mouth moved to Junior’s neck, teeth scraping over his pulse point. "This what you wanted?"
Junior’s nails dug into Wayne’s shoulders. "Shut up."
Wayne laughed—low, rough—before biting down, hard.
Junior cursed, hips jerking forward.
Rain poured. The barn creaked.
And for once, neither of them thought about fences, or Marlene, or anything else that didn’t matter right now.
Only this.
Only them.
Only the storm.
The rain beat harder against the barn roof, filling the silence between their ragged breaths. Wayne pressed closer, his damp shirt clinging to Junior’s bare chest, the heat between them cutting through the barn’s chill. Junior shoved at him, but Wayne didn’t budge—just gripped his wrists and pinned them against the wall.
"Still talkin’ back," Wayne muttered, breath hot against his ear.
Junior jerked his knee up, but Wayne anticipated it, twisting them until Junior lost balance. His back hit the hay-strewn floor, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Wayne loomed over him, blocking the flickering light from the storm outside.
"You smell like shit," Junior spat, twisting under him.
Wayne grinned, all teeth. "Yeah? Well, you smell like trouble." His knee pressed between Junior’s thighs, forcing them apart.
Junior bucked, but Wayne’s weight held him down. He hated this—hated how Wayne always won, always made him feel small. Hated the way his own body betrayed him, heat pooling low in his gut as Wayne’s calloused hands slid down his sides.
"You want this," Wayne said, not a question.
"Fuck you."
Wayne laughed, low and rough. "That’s the plan."
His hand fisted in Junior’s hair, yanking his head back. The sting made Junior gasp, and Wayne took advantage, mouth crashing down on his. It wasn’t tender. It was teeth and spit, dominance and defiance.
Junior bit his lip, hard.
Wayne jerked back, swiping blood from his mouth. His eyes darkened. "Guess you need a lesson."
Before Junior could react, Wayne flipped him onto his stomach. Hay prickled his skin as Wayne’s palm came down sharp on his ass. The slap echoed through the barn.
Junior tensed, breath hitching. "You bastard—"
Another smack, harder this time. Wayne leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Say it again."
Junior clenched his jaw.
Wayne’s fingers dug into his hip, pulling him up onto his knees. "Say it."
Lightning flashed outside, throwing their tangled shadows against the wall.
Junior gritted his teeth. "Fuck. You."
Wayne exhaled, slow and deliberate. Then his hand slid around Junior’s throat, just enough pressure to make him gasp. "Try again."
The storm roared. Junior’s pulse pounded under Wayne’s grip.
And for the first time, he didn’t fight it.
Wayne’s mouth curled into a smirk. "That’s what I thought."
The hay scratched Junior’s knees as Wayne pushed him down, hands rough and unrelenting. The storm outside raged.
Inside, so did they.
The air between them was thick with sweat and hay dust, every breath sharp with the metallic tang of blood from split lips. Wayne’s fingers dug into Junior’s hips hard enough to bruise—like he wanted to leave proof this happened, like he needed Junior to remember tomorrow.
"Hold still," Wayne growled, voice rough against the nape of Junior’s neck.
"Make me," Junior shot back, but his voice cracked halfway through.
Wayne exhaled, hot and jagged, against his skin. Then his hands moved—not rough this time, just decisive. The tear of fabric split the air as Wayne ripped Junior’s jeans down the seam. The sound was obscenely loud against the rain hammering the roof.
Junior flinched. "The hell—"
"Quiet." Wayne’s palm smacked against his bare thigh, the sting blooming sharp and bright. "You want this."
It wasn’t a question.
Junior’s jaw clenched. He could lie, could spit some half-assed denial, but his body was already betraying him, heat coiling low in his gut. He hated that Wayne knew. Hated more that Wayne didn’t gloat—just pressed closer, the scratch of his denim against Junior’s skin making him shudder.
Wayne’s teeth grazed his shoulder. "Yeah," he muttered, like he’d won something.
Junior twisted, suddenly needing to see his face. Wayne let him turn, their chests colliding, the sweat between them making their skin stick. Junior’s fingers hooked into Wayne’s shirt, gripping tight.
"Yours too," he demanded.
Wayne’s smirk was all challenge. He reached down, grabbed the collar of his own shirt, and tore it open with one sharp yank. Buttons pinged against the wood floor, disappearing into the hay.
The sight of Wayne’s chest—broad, scarred, hair catching the dim light—made Junior’s throat go dry. He didn’t get to stare long. Wayne hauled him in by the waist, their bodies slamming together with enough force to knock the breath from Junior’s lungs.
Outside, the storm howled. Inside, the world narrowed to hands and teeth and the creak of old wood under shifting weight. Wayne’s mouth was relentless, biting at Junior’s lips like he was trying to carve himself a place there.
Junior shoved back, fingers tangling in Wayne’s hair. "You always this fucking impatient?"
Wayne’s laugh was dark, vibrating against Junior’s skin. "You always this fucking mouthy?"
Lightning flashed, illuminating the sweat on Wayne’s brow, the raw hunger in his eyes. For a second, Junior saw it—the same look he’d caught that morning when Wayne thought he wasn’t watching, the one that made his stomach flip.
Then Wayne moved, flipping them again, pinning Junior beneath him in the hay. His knee pressed between Junior’s thighs, forcing them wider.
"Stay."
Junior bared his teeth. "Or what?"
Wayne leaned down, lips brushing his ear. "Or I stop."
The threat hung there, worse than any violence. Junior went still.
Wayne’s grin was all triumph. "That’s what I thought."
His hands slid down Junior’s sides, slow, like he was memorizing the shape of him. The touch was almost gentle—too gentle, after the biting and tearing and slapping. Junior squirmed, suddenly unsure.
Wayne noticed. Of course he did. His grip tightened, fingers digging into flesh just shy of pain. "None of that."
Junior huffed, but didn’t pull away.
The rain fell harder, drowning out everything but the sound of their breathing—ragged, uneven, too loud in the cramped space between them. Wayne’s mouth trailed down Junior’s chest, teeth scraping over ribs, tongue swiping at sweat-slick skin.
Junior’s back arched off the floor.
Wayne hummed, low and satisfied, before biting down on his hipbone. Hard.
"Fuck—!"
Wayne didn’t let up until Junior’s fingers twisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. Even then, he only paused to smirk up at him. "Keep pulling. See what happens."
Junior swallowed. His pulse hammered in his throat, in his wrists, between his legs. He could feel Wayne watching him—like he was waiting for something, like he wanted Junior to break first.
The bastard always had to win.
Fine.
Junior tightened his grip in Wayne’s hair and yanked.
Wayne’s groan was pure filth, vibrating against Junior’s skin as he let himself be dragged up. Their mouths crashed together again, less fight this time, more something desperate neither would name. Wayne’s hands roamed, possessive, like he was mapping territory.
Junior let him.
For now.
The hay stuck to their sweat-damp skin, the barn air thick with the scent of sex and storm and something dangerously close to surrender. Wayne’s breath hitched when Junior rolled his hips—just once, just to see.
"Cheeky shit," Wayne muttered against his mouth.
Junior grinned, all teeth. "You love it."
Wayne didn’t deny it. Just shoved him back down, hands rough and sure, like he’d been waiting years to do exactly this.
Maybe he had.
Outside, thunder cracked like a gunshot.
Neither of them heard it.
The hay prickled Junior’s bare back as Wayne loomed over him, all hard muscle and sharp angles in the flickering storm light. His breath came ragged, warm against Junior’s throat, smelling of tobacco and last night’s whiskey.
"Please," Junior gasped, hands scrabbling at Wayne’s shoulders, nails biting into sun-leathered skin. The word tasted foreign, bitter like unripe persimmons—something he’d never said to this man, not once in fifteen goddamn years.
Wayne’s grin was a knife slash in the dark. "That’s it. Beg proper."
His calloused palm slid down Junior’s stomach, rough as a rusted file, stopping just shy of where Junior burned for him. Teasing. Always fucking teasing.
Junior arched up, hips stuttering. "Goddamn you—"
Wayne’s laugh was low, mean. He spat in his palm.
The first press of him was a branding iron, white-hot and brutal. Junior’s back bowed off the hay, a wounded noise tearing from his throat.
"Christ, you’re tight," Wayne ground out, sweat dripping from his brow onto Junior’s heaving chest. "Like you was made for it."
Junior turned his face away, teeth bared. "Fuck you, old man."
Wayne grabbed his jaw, forced him to look. "Nah. Fuck *you*."
He sheathed himself in one brutal thrust.
The scream ripped out of Junior, raw and shattered. His fingers clawed grooves into the dirt floor, hay stems snapping under his thrashing hips. Pain spiderwebbed up his spine, bright and terrible—but under it, humming like a live wire, something worse. Something hungry.
Wayne didn’t move. Just watched him, eyes black as a shotgun barrel. "Hurts?"
Junior wheezed, throat clicking. "Go to hell."
"Already there, darlin’." He rolled his hips, slow, deliberate. "Ain’t you coming with me?"
The stretch burned. Junior gagged on his own spit. "S-smells like a goddamn hog pen in here."
Wayne barked a laugh, sudden and ugly. Before Junior could brace, Wayne mashed his armpit over his nose and mouth—sweat and musk and old leather flooding his senses.
"Shut the *fuck* up," Wayne snarled, voice gone gravel-deep. "You’re just like your mama. She’d bitch about my stink too, but truth was?" He pistoned forward, nailing Junior to the ground. "My stink got her horny as hell." Another punishing thrust. "*Just like you right now.*"
Junior sobbed, the sound muffled by Wayne’s pit. His body was a live grenade, shrapnel tearing through every nerve. He kicked out blindly, heel connecting with Wayne’s thigh—but the bastard just grunted and drove in harder.
Three minutes. That’s how long Junior writhed—three endless minutes of Wayne’s cock splitting him open, of his own voice cracking on curses and pleas. Then—
*There.*
Wayne hit something that sent lightning up Junior’s spine. His whole body seized, a garbled scream ripping loose as his hips jerked uncontrollably.
Wayne stilled, panting. "That," he rasped, knuckles dragging down Junior’s twitching flank, "is your bitch button." He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of Junior’s ear. "Flipped the switch for you, boy. Now you’re always gonna want dick—*especially* if it’s mine."
Junior’s vision whited out. The pain hadn’t gone—if anything, it burned hotter, deeper—but Christ, he *ached* for it. Needed it like a lung needed air.
His arms moved without permission, wrapping around Wayne’s heaving shoulders, fingers digging into the scars he’d memorized from years of sidelong glances.
"*Fuck*," he choked out.
Wayne’s grin was feral. "Say it."
Junior bared his teeth. "Hammer my goddamn hole."
Wayne obliged.
The barn ceased to exist. There was only the slap of skin, the creak of old wood, Wayne’s growls harmonizing with Junior’s fractured moans. The storm outside raged, but inside? Inside was worse.
Junior came untouched, back arching like a bowstring, his shout swallowed by Wayne’s mouth.
Wayne followed, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that sounded punched out of him. He collapsed forward, their sweat-slick chests sticking together, hearts hammering in sync.
For a long minute, there was just breathing. Then—
"Fence still needs mending," Wayne muttered into Junior’s collarbone.
Junior huffed, exhausted. "Go to hell."
Wayne nipped his throat. "Told you. Already there."
Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle.
Neither moved.