rabbit’s paw | shane maguire x reader
(MDNI, explicit sexual content, fem!reader, flirting, biting, fingering, p in v sex, outdoor sex, shane gets lead around like a dog on a leash but he likes it)
A proper shower is not an everyday occurrence for Shane Maguire. A scrub with baby wipes or a quick rinse with a portable camp shower is the best one can usually achieve out in the wilderness, and Shane prefers to spend most of his days in the trees. The creatures of the earth don’t care if he crawls into bed most evenings with a thin layer of dirt on his skin. Tonight, though, the squirrels and the birds won’t be his only company, and he has a feeling you would be less than impressed if he showed up for your date unwashed and sweaty.
A date. That’s what it felt like when you asked him to take you to see the stars. Shane is no romantic but this feels like classic romance. You and him and the night sky, alone on a ridge overlooking Yosemite. Cicadas chirping. Moon full and bright. He hopes you’ll think the mood is right, because the showers cost $5 to use and the box of condoms in his backpack cost $10, and he’s put so much damn work into wooing you these past few days that he thinks you might actually hurt his feelings if you turn him down now.
The cold water clears his mind, running grey and brown as it swirls around the drain at his feet. The workday was long and he spent most of it thinking about this evening, about seeing you again. He scrubs himself down with a scented body wash, fingers working into aching muscles, raking shampoo through his cropped blonde hair. He scrubs until he’s spotless and towels off in the damp stall, tugging on jeans and a soft t-shirt, boots, a dark flannel.
The bathroom is noisy with the commotion of other campers bathing and chattering. He picks a spot in front of an empty sink, drops his pack on the counter and digs out a razor and shaving cream. The stubble on his jaw disappears under the blade of his razor, and he wonders if you don’t prefer him that way. A little bit rugged. A little bit wild. But the skin left behind is smooth and soft, and he imagines you brushing your fingers over it, holding his face in your hands, planting your lips on the clean line of his jaw.
Shane Maguire, primping and preening for a woman. A likely place for him to be.
He takes a step back from the mirror to look over himself. Runs a hand through his damp hair. Adjusts the watch on his wrist. And, optimistically, tucks a condom into the pocket of his jeans. It’s getting late, and you’ll be waiting for him to text you.
He sends one off as he climbs onto his ATV. On my way now.
He drops his backpack onto the cargo rack and sees that you’ve liked the message, a little pink heart appearing next to the text bubble, before he stuffs his phone in the bag and heads out. Your cabin is a ten minute drive away off-trail, and by the time he pulls up to your front porch, the wind has dried his hair and the sky is painted in deep pinks and purples.
The window of your cabin is illuminated in warm yellow light. Through the parted curtains, Shane can see your clothes strewn over the quilt on your bed, as if you had been trying them on. He wonders if you were thinking of him when you picked them out — if you were trying to pick something he would like. Not likely. If the stunt you pulled last night was any indication, you already know you’ve got him on a leash.
He steps up to the door, pauses, runs a hand through his wind-tussled hair one more time, and knocks. Footsteps pad across the cabin floor, the sound soft and muffled through the door, and Shane remembers the last time he was standing in this very spot. Remembers the sweat on your bare skin and that satisfied smile. The door swings open and you’re there, tragically fully clothed in shorts and a shirt that hugs your body.
“Hello, mountain man,” you greet him. “You here to run off into the woods with me?”
“You know me,” Shane says, a smile creeping across his face. “Always looking for a pretty lady to throw over my shoulder.”
You step onto the porch and shut the door behind you, and Shane leads you down the steps to his 4-wheeler.
“And here I was thinking I was special,” you say, returning his smile with one of your own.
Shane huffs. “Sweetheart, you got no idea.”
He swings a leg over the seat of his ride and motions for you to follow. You climb onto the ATV behind him, chest pressed against his back, arms wrapping around his waist. Your body is warm against his and he can smell your perfume now, gentle and sweet in the fresh air.
“You been on one of these before?” he asks.
“Just hold on tight, keep your feet flat on the foot rests, and if I move you move — uh, you move — you move with me.” The words seem to stick, because your palms have flattened out on the plane of his ribs, moving in broad strokes over the front of his body.
“This shirt looks good on you,” you say, smoothing a hand over the fabric. “Feels soft.” Your arms wrap around his waist again and your hands settle over his ribs. He feels the heat of them like a brand through his t-shirt.
He clears his throat. “Yeah? You want to try it on sometime?” You laugh against his back, and before you can find some other way to torture him, he takes off into the trees.
The ridge Shane promised to take you to is not on any official trail. It’s a quiet spot. Secluded. One of the many places he’s discovered after years spent wandering the park. The two of you ride through pine forest, across a gulch, and up the steep hillside. Your arms squeeze tighter around him as the 4-wheeler rumbles up the sloped terrain, hands fisted in his shirt. There’s a smug satisfaction in the way you cling to him, and Shane lets himself revel in it as you finally pull over the top of the hill onto level ground.
Shane parks and cuts the engine, and the air around you is singing with the chirping and rustling of wildlife. Shane pats your thigh pressed up against him.
“Get a little scared there, princess?” he drawls.
Your teeth sink into his bicep through his flannel and he yelps. You hop off the ATV before he can retaliate and stroll to the ridge to survey the land spread out below. Yosemite at night is a wonder cast in soft blue moonlight. The jagged line of the mountains, the conifer forests below, the bright spots of campfires and lanterns dotting the spaces in between.
Shane rubs the spot where you bit him, the pain dull and pleasant. Grabbing his pack off the cargo rack, he follows after you.
“Just couldn’t wait to get your mouth on me, huh?” he says as he catches up with you. “And here I thought you didn’t even like me.”
You twine yours fingers with his, standing so close that the toes of your hiking boots bump up against his. “You like my mouth on you?” you ask as you bring his hand up to your lips, biting softly at his fingers. Your teeth leave a faint prickling everywhere they graze his skin.
“Yeah,” Shane says, voice low and rough, and because he’s nothing if not a cocky bastard, “got somethin’ else you can put your mouth on, if you want.”
“Oh, yeah?” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. “With or without teeth?”
Shane remembers that you’re evil. A devil sent from hell to torture him. You leave him with one last bite, mean and quick, before you drop his hand and turn to the ridge again. Shane also remembers that his mouth is the single greatest threat to his chances of getting laid tonight, so he considers himself lucky that he didn’t piss you off enough to send you marching back down the hill, and unzips his pack to dig out a blanket. He unfurls it over the grass and sits down on it as you admire the view.
“This is a nice spot, Shane,” you say. “How do you even find these places?”
“Been wandering these woods for years,” he answers. “Spend enough time in this park and you learn all of her little secrets.”
You turn to look at him. “You don’t ever get lost wandering around out here?”
He laughs and pats the space next to him, inviting you to take it. “The Rangers wouldn’t have had me if I couldn’t find my away around some trees.” You wander over to him and he continues. “The Army Rangers, I mean. Not the boy scouts that run around here.”
You stop in front of him, nudging his boot with your own to kick his legs apart. He obeys without protest and you plop down between his open legs, back pressed to his chest, and take his hands in yours to wrap his arms around you.
Oh, he is definitely getting laid. Shane gladly takes the excuse to touch you and rests his chin on your shoulder. The smell of your shampoo is herbal and pleasant. Lavender, he thinks, sweet like the wildflowers that grow in the spring. Your body is warm and soft against his as he presses you even closer into his chest, and you lean back against him with a content sigh.
“Tell me about the stars,” you say. “What’s that one?”
Shane follows your pointed finger to a bright star in the sky. “Alkaid,” he says. “First star in the Big Dipper.” He points to it himself, and then to the one beside it. “Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, and that red one —“ he says, tracing the line of the constellation with his fingertip — “Dubhe. And if you follow the line these two make, way out there, is Polaris.” His finger traces a line from the edge of the Big Dipper to another lone star.
“The North Star,” you say.
Shane squeezes your waist. “Smart girl. You’ll be a pro at this in no time.”
You laugh softly. “You think I’ll be navigating with the stars like you do?”
“Oh, I don’t use the stars for that, sweetheart. These days we’ve got this fancy new technology called maps and compasses.” You swat at him.
“But I can teach you to use those,” he adds. “If you want to come stay with me at my camp sometime. I’ll make a Ranger out of you, too.”
You give a thoughtful “hmm,” letting the offer hang in the air. “Maybe next time. When I’m back in the park later this summer.”
Next time. Shane likes the sound of that.
You point to another star, a blue pinprick against the inky black sky, and Shane tells you its name. He traces the outline of each constellation above you, patiently explaining them as he’s done for the plants and wildlife this last week. He loves this land. The affection bleeds through in his tone, his intimate knowledge of each and every part of it. He belongs to it, as wild as any other creature in its boundaries, and he realizes he’s given away this part of himself when you tip your head up to look at him fondly, your hand coming up to brush his cheek.
“I’ve had a lot of fun this week,” you say. “Thanks for showing me around. And buying me lunch.”
“Think I remember buying you more than one lunch,” he says, and you grin with mischief in your eyes.
“And I’m so grateful for all of them.”
“You better be,” he says. “The food in this place is all overpriced to hell.”
You take his hands in yours and press his palms flat against your hips, moving them up to the curve of your waist.
“You know, when we met a few nights ago,” you begin, “I thought you were an asshole.”
“Yeah?” Shane says. “And now what?”
“And now I know you are.”
Shane can only laugh. He’s man enough to admit that it’s true. You slide his hands further up your body, over the bottom of your rib cage. He feels your chest rise and fall in steady breaths. Can almost feel your heart thumping under your skin.
“You said somethin’ else about me too,” Shane says. “Somethin’ about being a waste of time.” He swipes his thumbs across your skin, and the calloused tips of them brush up against the curve of your breasts. His mind zeroes in on every point of connection between your bodies — your legs pressed up against the inside of his, your hips braced between his thighs. He’s certain you can feel his heart pounding against your spine.
“Oh, that’s not what I said,” you answer, guiding his hands higher. You turn your head to speak against his jaw, mouth hot against his skin. “I said you couldn’t make me come.”
And before he can speak, you press his hands into the fat of your breasts and he groans, low and ragged. His fingers sink into the soft tissue, kneading them under his sweaty palms, the thin fabric of your shirt and bra the only buffer between him and the heat of your bare skin. He wants them gone. Wants to feel the soft skin he saw for himself just last night, that he’s been thinking about every moment since.
You kick off your hiking boots and they roll into the grass. Your hands fall to your shorts, where you work open the button and slide the zipper down, hook your thumbs into the waist band and begin working them over the curve of your ass. Shane grips your breasts with enough force that he’s sure you’re aching under his palms, and watches, hungry, as you slide those shorts down your hips and toss them into the grass with your boots.
“I meant it when I said it,” you say against his skin. “And now I want you to prove me wrong.”
Shane doesn’t need to be told twice. He drops a hand to the space between your legs, covered only by the thin material of your underwear, and cups you with a rough hand. Damp fabric meets his fingertips, and a thrill skitters up his spine as he realizes that you’re already wet for him. That maybe you want this as much as he does. Your legs part to make space for his hand, breath hot against his neck, and he drags the flat of his palm against you in broad, firm strokes.
Thank you God, he thinks. Thank you Jesus. Thank you to whatever other higher power may be watching as he pushes your panties to the side and plunges two fingers into your entrance. Shane is not a religious man, but if there is a god out there to keep ledgers and hold grudges, he must not care much about the many sins of Shane Maguire, or else you wouldn’t be here whimpering into his ear.
This is the image that’s plagued his mind since you first shot him down at that bar so many nights ago, the sounds and sensations he’s been dreaming of. Your core, hot and silky under the rough pads of his fingers. The weight of your body squirming against him, your face crumpling as he probes every sensitive spot inside of you until he finds what makes you melt.
His fingers pump steadily inside of you, in and out, in and out, and you press down on the heel of his palm so it grinds against your neglected clit. Whatever you want, he’ll give it to you. Tonight, he’s your eager student, studying your body and your bliss with a gaze that devours.
The sounds you’re making are shutting down the higher function of his brain. Reducing him into an animal with two thick fingers sinking inside you, rubbing curiously against your walls, fixated with carnivorous intensity on each little shift in your expression. He curls his fingers into the spongy spot in your core and you arch against his chest, head tipped back against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” you say, breathless. “Yeah, right there. Right there, Shane.”
A week ago he was fisting himself to the thought of you saying his name like that. To the thought of you moaning and squirming against his body like this. You feel even better than he imagined while he was sweaty and alone on top of his shitty cot. The wet heat of you swallows his fingers up as they pump into you again and again, grinding against that spot you like each time. Hips rolling, you meet each thrust of his fingers, and the hand that was resting on his cheek is now fisted in his hair.
“You been so mean to me,” Shane says raggedly. “Leading me around like a dog on a leash. You like that? You like bossing me around?”
He feels your mouth curl into a smile against his skin. “You like it when I boss you around.”
Another point he can’t argue with. You’ve had him all but whipped for the last week and he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy every second of it. Your clever remarks. The ornery curve of your grin as you leave him high and dry over and over again. The sweet shine in your eyes as he shows you the best and most beautiful that Yosemite has to offer. You must know how much he wants you. How much he wants you to want him.
“Shane, I can’t — I can’t come like this. I need you to — need to you touch me —“
“I know, princess. I got you.” He drags his fingers, wet with your slick, up to your clit. You pant into his neck as he makes quick circles, and he feels your body drawing tighter and tighter as he pushes you right up to that ledge. Your fist tightens in his hair and the pressure on his scalp draws out a groan from deep in his chest.
He hasn’t even taken his clothes off. Hasn’t even taken all of yours off yet, and he’s charged like a live wire around your trembling body. Your hips jolt against his hand, little bucking motions that rub up against his pants where he’s hard and aching behind you, but he can’t even think about grinding into you now. He needs to see the way your face breaks as you tumble over the edge. Needs to hear his name on your lips as he guides you over it.
The movement of his fingers is tight, controlled as he swipes over your clit relentlessly. Your hand wraps around his wrist, to keep him there or to push him away, as your body starts to tremble.
“Ah, Shane — fuck, I’m — I’m gonna —“ your voice breaks around the words.
“Give it to me, sweetheart,” Shane says. “You can do it. Give it to me.”
And for once, you do as he tells you. Your mouth parts into a pretty “oh,” body arching off of his chest, as you finally tip over that ledge and let him prove you wrong. A week of trailing after you was worth it, the bruise you left on his ego that night in the bar finally paying off, as you melt into ecstasy under his diligent fingers.
He should have made you beg for it. Should have made you eat those words and kiss the wounds you left on his pride, but any smug satisfaction he feels is being smothered under the sound of your pretty voice chanting “Shane, Shane, Shane,” like your clever little head has emptied out of every thought that isn’t him.
He guides you through the waves of pleasure, working you through your orgasm until you’re shoving at his hand and your moans turn into desperate little “ah,ah’s” as the sensation becomes too much. When you’ve come down from that high and he finally relents, you slump against him, boneless, only to gasp as he wraps a strong arm around your waist and tips back onto the grass.
He hauls you onto his body, laying with your back to his chest as he fumbles with the button of his jeans and shoves them clumsily down his thighs, working them down just enough to free his stiff cock.
“You better have a condom,” you say, voice still raw. “I want you inside me. Now.”
Today, Shane’s optimism has payed off in spades, because he digs that silver packet out of the pocket of his jeans and tears the corner off with his teeth. He’s barely fit the condom over his tip when he feels your hands fumbling for his dick, your body squirming on top of him as you line him up with your entrance.
“Fuck, sweetheart, god — just give me a second,” he says as he finally rolls the condom down his length.
Shane grips your hips between his hands, anchoring your body against him, plants his booted feet into the earth, and sinks into you with one strong thrust.
The sound that tears from his throat is almost humbling. Around his fingers you were perfect, but around his cock you are addictive. Hot and soft and slick. He pauses there, bottomed out inside you, every muscle in his body tensing as his mind narrows down to the singular feeling of you, perfect and beautiful, wrapped around his cock.
“God, fuck,” he groans through his teeth. He just needs a minute. One moment to gather himself, to stave off the release he can already feel building in his gut.
Because you’re evil and devoid of mercy, you squirm on top of him. “Shane, move,” you whimper, rolling your hips in search of friction.
He’s not going to last. Your desperate little movements are almost too much, and Shane knows as soon as he starts fucking you it’s going to be a short walk to the edge of that drop. You’ll never let him live it down.
“Just give me a minute,” he says, thighs shaking with the effort not to slam into you and finish it.
But of your many virtues, patience is not one. “Shane,” you say, voice hard. “Fuck me.”
Fuck it. Shane gives up. “As you wish, princess.”
And damn it, it feels good to give in. He pounds into you without restraint, fingers gripping your hips with enough force to bruise, and your voice breaks on little hiccuping moans with each thrust. He should, perhaps, be more concerned about getting caught. Yosemite is a big park but certainly isn’t lacking in visitors, and the two of you are making enough noise that the night-crawling animals have gone silent and wandered elsewhere. He would care if he wasn’t so, so close.
“I’m not gonna last,” he confesses, hips stuttering as he draws closer to that high. “Touch yourself, fuck, give me one more. Wanna feel you.”
You drop one hand to rub yourself in quick little motions, the other hand clasped around his arm where it pins you to his chest. “I’m close,” you say. “Really close.”
Good, he thinks, because he’s nearly at the end of his rope. His thrusting turns erratic, losing its rhythm as the coil in his belly starts to unravel, heat spreading through his hips in white-hot release. His thighs burn with exertion but he doesn’t slow, the ache registering distantly in his mind as his orgasm burns through him and he spills inside of you.
Your fingers have gone shakey where they play with your clit, fingernails digging into the skin of his arm. “I’m coming, Shane, I’m coming, don’t stop.”
He grits his teeth and thrusts into you even as the pleasure shifts into the sharp sting of overstimulation, his legs trembling, his breath hissing through his teeth. The pain grounds him, brings him back down to earth just enough to remember that he’s still not done with you, that there are things he’s been dreaming about that he still hasn’t brought to reality. The first of which he remedies by fisting a hand into the hem of your shirt and dragging it up over your chest. His fingers find the band of your bra and shove it up as well, and finally, your breasts are free.
He watches with a wolfish gaze as they bounce with every thrust, and he seizes one in his hand as the other arm keeps you steady on top of him. The skin of your breast is warm and damp with sweat, softer even than the fabric of your shirt, and your nipple pebbles under his palm. He kneads it firmly, roughly, as you ride your second orgasm on top of him.
Beautiful. You’re so beautiful, and still he hasn’t had his fill. He wants you on top of him. Wants your taste on his tongue. Wants you in every way he can take you, but right now, his body is slick with sweat and trembling with the sting of overstimulation. He brings you down slowly from your high, hand still clutched around your breast, until your cries die down and your muscles relax against him.
He collapses onto the blanket, your bodies falling into a sweaty heap. You’ve gone boneless on top of him, two orgasms in quick succession sapping you of your energy, and Shane feels that smug satisfaction returning. You told him to prove you wrong — he did it twice. Maybe you’ll let him crawl into your pants again for his efforts, sometime later, when he isn’t panting on the ground.
He shifts you off of his chest and sets you gently on the blanket. Crawls over you. Dips his head down and takes one pert nipple into the heat of his mouth.
“Mmph,” he groans, sucking you into his mouth. Your hands comb into his hair, pulling gently at the strands. The other breast he takes into his hand, pressing and kneading into it as he sucks and licks at the other. He could be here all night. He could fall asleep like this, absolutely pacified with your tit in his mouth. “Fuck, these tits,” he says, and switches, taking the other between his lips.
Your nails scratch the skin of his scalp, dragging from his crown to the base of his neck, the tingling feeling so delicious that he could start moaning all over again. He releases you with a wet pop.
“So, what do I win?” he asks. “For proving you wrong.”
You look up at him with a half-dazed expression, body still loose and fuzzy with the aftershocks of your orgasms. “You want a prize?” you say. “C’mere.”
You grab the back of his head and pull him down to you, catching his mouth in a kiss. Your lips are soft and pliant, working slowly against his mouth as he melts into the kiss. He meets each languid movement of your lips with his own, and you hum contentedly into his mouth. It’s a sweet thing, slow and fond and pleased, not the rough claiming he’s used to during his usual one-night stands. When you separate, neither of you speak. You gaze at each other, panting softly, until your heartbeats slow and your breaths even out.
“Should probably get you back,” Shane says, pulling his pants up and tucking himself back into his jeans. “You’ll be fallin’ asleep on the ride home.”
You nudge your shorts with a pointed foot. “Help,” you say, and Shane plucks them out of the grass and slides your feet through the holes, working them down your thighs and under your hips. He takes one boot into his hand next and slides your foot into it, lacing it up as you lounge on the blanket.
“You got work tomorrow?” you ask as he starts on the other foot.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I’ll make time for you.”
“Stay with me tonight,” you say. “I want to wake up with you.”
Shane wants to wake up with you, too. Wants to do about a dozen other things that he’s been dreaming about.
“Whatever you want, princess,” he says, finishing the knot on your laces and planting a kiss on your ankle.
The ride back is long and quiet, or as quiet as it can be with the rumble of the 4-wheeler. The forest is dark under the canopy of the trees, and animals dart out of the way of the bright headlights as Shane effortlessly navigates the terrain. By the time you reach your cabin, the moon has traveled long across the sky and the park has gone quiet.
Shane cuts the engine and you slide off the seat behind him, tugging him to your porch and up the stairs with your fingers twined in his. He lets you pull him inside, locks the door behind him. Kicks off his boots and follows you into the bathroom where you both peel off your clothes and step into a blissfully hot shower. You wash off in comfortable silence, dirt and sweat melting off your skin. He watches you with a tired curiosity, eyes tracking over every exposed inch of your skin. Noticing and appreciating.
When you tug him into bed, he folds under your covers like he’s done it ten times before. Fits your body against his and wraps an arm around your waist like you’re already his. The pillowcase smells like your shampoo. Herbal. Lavender. There’s a dangerous comfort in this. He could get used to it.
He turns that thought around in his mouth. Chews on it. Lets the taste linger and decides if it’s bitter or sweet.
“Shane,” you say, a gentle bid for his attention.
“Yeah?” he answers, voice hazy with sleep.
“Did you think I wasn’t going to make fun of you for lasting two minutes?”
Shane groans and drags an aching hand down his face. You’re evil. He knows that you’re evil.
You pull his hand up to your mouth and plant a kiss to his skin. “It’s ok,” you say with only a little bit of wickedness. “You’ve got time to make it up to me.”
Shane sighs. Presses you into his body. Finds your shoulder with his mouth and bites, sinking his teeth into your clean skin. You yelp, giggling and trying to squirm away as he pins you in place with one strong arm.
You really will be the death of him. But death has never scared Shane Maguire much, and at your hands, he’ll gladly submit to it.
He falls asleep wrapped around your body, the smell of you lulling him into peaceful rest, your body a comforting weight against his.
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