John Shen has been in love with you for three years, six months, and seventeen days. Not that he’s counting. That’d be weird. Okay, he totally has been counting and he totally hopes you feel the same otherwise thats gonna suuuck for your friendship.
Reader traits: not chinese, doesn’t speak cantonese, hair can be pulled back into a non-descript (i.e curly, straight, braided, etc) bun, reader is referred to as dr. morgan, has an iud, uses lube
We dont have a specific place Shen’s family is from, but I’ve headcannoned them as from Guangdong
W.C: 3.7k
if you feed my work to AI I will remove your toenails individually with pliers
John Shen is more than happy to admit he has a favorite resident. He tries not to make it too obvious, but he also just can’t help himself. You’ve turned into a sort of stress ball for him, especially when he pinches your cheeks just like a baby’s.
And sure, it’s wildly unprofessional given his newly minted attending status, but the two of you did most of your residency together, you coming in the year after him. You only had like a year left in your residency, and then you’d be doing a fellowship in critical neurology, but like. If he really thought about it, like really, thought about it. You were basically the same as him.
And maybe that clear favouritism is why Robby’s kept you on day shift. And maybe that’s why he’s not allowed to have you on any cases. And maybe that’s why he more than happily takes the food you give him at shift change.
It’d be rude not to! Especially because it makes you happy. There’s nothing he likes more than seeing you happy. Gummy smile, crinkles at the corner of your eyes. Makes the back of his neck get all hot. Knowing it’s what he did that got you so smiley.
So thank GOD Ellis has to go out of town for her sisters’ graduations, and it forces you onto a shift with him again. It’s been maybe six months since Mommy Abbot and Daddy Robby started playing mother hen with you. He’s so giddy he doesn’t even get a coffee on his way to work. All he needs is that sweet, sweet high of working with his favorite Dr. Morgan again.
Somehow, maybe by divine intervention or the people of Pittsburgh deciding to behave for one night, it is quiet. Genuinely quiet. The last patient came in 45 minutes ago with acute alcohol poisoning and just needed a stomach pump, liquids, and some observation. A perfect, peaceful night.
John takes the time to watch you. Starting at you from across the central nurses' station as you sit in one of those wheeled chairs with terrible back support. Your knees are drawn up to your chest, feet planted on the chair in front of you, with a textbook propped up. Some of your hair comes loose from your bun, only held back by a headband that he bought you when you were an R2. There's a pen near your mouth, and you've got the audacity to be chewing on the pen cap. Your lips wrapped gently around it.
He could probably get lost in you. Already does get lost in you. Something must have been knocked loose from him that first day he met you, and you picked it up and kept it. Often, he feels like an animal, territorial and jealous, when he sees you with other guys. Totally goes against his cool and calm exterior, which he’s worked so hard to maintain.
Chill, relaxed, attending Dr. John Shen. Totally not obsessed with you and thinking about your lips wrapped around his dick.
“Jesus, kid,” Lena bemoans almost. “You look like you want to eat her.”
“I’m not staring, just watching.” John shrugs and takes a sip from his straw. He did end up getting some coffee around 1 am. “Observing my residents as any good attending does.”
Lena looks at him over her glasses, perched low on her nose, an eyebrow raised. “Really. That's what you're calling it?”
“Yep.” He pops the p.
“No wonder Robby and Abbot won’t let you have her on your shifts.”
John draws his face in tight, offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re staring at her like a lovestruck idiot.”
“So?”
“You’ve been in love with her since you were an R2.”
“And?”
“And? There needs to be an and?” Lena laughs, but she says it like she can’t believe it. “Either man up and do something about it, or get over it. She’s never going to make the first move, but if I know one thing, she feels the same way as you. Either way, stop staring at her. You’re messing with the feng shui.”
“What do you even know about feng shui?”
“Enough to know you’re fucking with it.”
Meanwhile, you're exhausted. Going from four shifts in a row on the day shift to a double to just the night shift has your internal clock off. Makes you a bit delirious, yeah, but not enough to affect patient care. Just means instead of rereading material to help cement it in your brain, you’ve got bad TikTok audios on loop in your head.
Like the internet’s obsession with AAVE and using finna all the time. I finna be a doctor. I finna eat a sandwich.
“I finna be in the pitt.”
You don’t mean to say the last one out loud, but you do, and it makes you giggle. Your forehead hits the book, and that’s when you know you’re done reading for the night.
“Okay,” John laughs, leaning over the desk in front of you. “You’re clearly sleep-deprived. That or a CTE.”
He looks good. Always does, but something has changed in the last six months. Maybe it’s that new workout routine he’s told you about. Maybe it’s the new haircut. Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t really seen him that much the past three weeks, your days off never aligning.
It’s not fair how handsome he is.
You pout, and John just wants to bite your bottom lip. “I’m not that bad. Besides, I'm thinking about a TikTok trend.”
“Ah, you kids and your TikToks.”
“You’re a year older than me.” You deadpan.
“Yeah, so, respect your elders.”
“Of course, Dr. Shen! My sincerest apologies.”
“Don’t call me that, it's weird.”
“I can’t really call you buttface anymore, you’re my attending.”
“Only when the stars align.”
“Did you consult with a mystic to have the next week happen or suck off Robby to make it happen?”
“Afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
You stick your tongue out at him, and he stares a bit too intently at your mouth. Brings back flashes of being an R3 and the night at the bar, when he almost kissed you. The two of you don’t talk about it.
“You want to come back to mine after and pig out on Mr. Ping’s while we watch something?”
“Wow, I thought you’d almost forgotten about our tradition.”
“I could never forget. Remember everything about you.”
Your tummy feels unstable with how many fucking butterflies are in it.
“Yeah,” you nod. “But you’re paying. Attending money and all that.”
“Not a problem,” he smiles back at you, blinding. ‘Attending money and all that.”
───※ ·❆· ※───
For once, Shen’s glad his sisters talked him into getting nice lighting for his place. Bullied him into it is a more apt descriptor. Drug him to the smart lighting section of IKEA and drained his wallet of $757.63 to his place looked “like a real adult lived there.” Whatever that means. But it’s worth it seeing you in a pair of biker shorts and an oversized shirt from your alma mater. The lowlight is so soft, you look angelic.
More so than usual. Which he didn’t think was possible.
Something is playing on the TV, but, honest to god, John stopped paying attention probably five minutes in. Found it much better to watch you.
“John,” you sigh and turn to look at him. “Is there a reason you’re staring?”
“Not particularly.” It’s not a lie if it’s true. He doesn’t have a reason to stare at you; he just does.
You wrinkle your nose at that. “You’ve been doing it all night. Is something wrong?”
“Nah,” he stretches his arms over his head, his shirt rising some, and he catches your eyes, darting down to look at his happy trail, before meeting his again. He relaxes into the couch now, legs spread wide, arm on the back near your shoulders, and a grin on his face. “Lena just said something to me I’ve been thinking about.”
“Oh god, what this time?”
“Told me to man up.”
“Regarding?”
“You.”
“Hmm?” It’s so cute how you look down at your feet in their fuzzy socks, shift side to side, and then look back up at him through your lashes. “You have something to tell me?”
You’d support John in anything he does. He’s your best friend, your person. First thought when you wake up, last thought you have before bed. If he told you he was seeing someone, you’d smile and congratulate him. Would that confirmation you’d get hurt? Like a thousand cuts. You’d had a major ego death when be pulled back from the almost kiss a few years ago.
Would you eventually be able to get over yourself and just be friends with him? Hopefully. He’s just someone you always want to have in your life. But he looks nervous. There’s that stupid bravado you know he wears as a defense mechanism layered over it, but you know him too well to not see it in the way his shoulders tense.
“You can tell me to fuck off if you want after, but I hope like…” John does not like this line of thought. “Fuck, if that does happen, we still better be friends after, okay?” He only continues when you nod. “Eugh, I don’t want to make it weird, never mind.”
“Well, now you have to say it.”
“Nah nah nah, I’m good.”
“What the hell!” You grab the pillow and hit his stomach with it. “Don’t bait me like that.”
“I’m not baiting you.”
“You totally did. Asshole.”
“Nuhuh.”
You swing around on the couch, facing him as you hit him with the pillow again. “Yeahuh!”
“Maybe just a bit.”
There’s a bit of sadness in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. Foreign and unnatural. You’ve seen him cry over patients, when his childhood dog died, when his grandma got COVID and passed, but this is a sadness you've never seen before. Makes you nervous.
“John,” you’re gentle on the approach, placing your hand on top of his. Both of them resting on his thigh. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right? Nothing you say will change the fact that I love you.”
“That’s the thing, though, I love you.”
You don’t let that hope he means it differently bubble up. “I know you do.”
John shakes his head. “No, I’m in love with you.”
He looks away from you at the end. Can’t really bring himself to watch your reaction, so he’s caught off guard when you lean forward and touch his chest. He’s looking down now, so you have to bend a bit to have your face in his line of sight.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
The confession warms the air between you.
“Really?” John smiles so bashfully that his dimple comes out as he looks at you.
“Really really.”
“Really really really?”
“Really really really really.”
“Really really-”
“If you don’t kiss me, I swear to god Buttface, I’ll-”
John is known for being chill, but he’s never had any chill when it comes to you, so it shouldn’t be any surprise that he surges forward and kisses you.
He’s so soft and gentle at the start, it makes your heart hurt with how much he cares about you. It doesn’t last long, though, the kiss quickly picking up steam. His tongue is hot against yours. Licking your teeth, taking everything he can from you. His hand on your waist pulls you closer and closer till you're on his lap. There’s not enough fabric between your biker shorts and his sweatpants for you not to feel how hard he is.
When he finally pulls away, and you get a chance to breath you can’t help but giggle. He’s being exactly how you thought he would. Picking up steam and moving as fast as he can, dragging you along for the ride.
“What’s so funny, hmm?” He asks before biting your neck. A gasp tumbles out before you can even think to stop it. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Do,” you stutter. “Do you remember when we spent -oh fuck- Lunar New Year's with your family last year?”
“Course I do.” He doesn’t let up, kissing and biting at your neck while he talks. “My parents liked you so much they said it was okay if I married you, even though you’re not Chinese.”
John pulls your hips down tight against him and grinds up into you and you swear your brain must be filled with static. That's gotta be the only reason a whine pitches from the back of your throat, Head falling forward against his shoulder as you grind back down. You’ve never been so affected by someone before.
“Focus, baby, what were you saying?”
“Right, right. When we were there, I saw all the smutty manga you had hidden away.”
“You trying to recreate it?”
As the son of immigrants, he’s had a lifetime of hiding anything that might bring the slightest hint of shame to his family, but John is undeniably and irrevocably a massive pervert. He’s had years to think of all the ways he wants to touch you. To fuck you. And of course, pull inspiration from smut manga.
He’s shameless enough to admit he’s been so wrapped up in you that his last girlfriend broke up with him for saying your name not once, not twice, but three times during sex in one week. Which is why he’s super grateful to have his tongue down your throat as you circle your hips against him.
Your fingers catch on the bottom of his shirt, pushing it up as you splay your hands against the hard muscle of his stomach. There’s still some cushion over it that makes your feel feral. Guess that new workout routine was doing wonders for him.
John lets you feel him up for a moment, content to have your attention. But he’s John. He’s got plans. The most important one right now was getting you on your back. So he moves you, gently might he add, despite the urgency he feels, to lie down on the couch, and slots a leg between yours. Then he pulls off his shirt. Doing the hand behind the head pull that makes your mouth water.
It tickles a bit as John pulls the fabric of your shirt up your sides.
“Arms up,” John says.
You lean forward at his command and raise your arms, shirt coming off with no resistance. Settling back on your elbows, you gaze up at him.
John chokes on his own spit. “Bit bold y’know. No bra.”
There’s a flush across his face that’s hard to miss, and god does it do wonders for your ego.
You tilt your head at him, innocently. “You don’t like it?” Pushing your chest out as you speak, you watch his hands twitch. “Touch me.”
John’s on you before you can finish the two-word sentence. His mouth is wrapped around your left nipple, while he palms your right tit. It warms your body is a heady rush. He alternates between each one, making sure to suck hickeys into them.
You can’t help but push up against his thigh, dragging your still-covered core over it. The combined sensations get to you, and before you know it you’re moaning. It’s not terribly loud, but it’s loud enough to pull John from sucking on your tits.
“Oh my god,” he groans. “I really want to have sex with you, but I refuse to let the first time we do so be on my couch.”
You nod, and he scrambles off of you and helps you to your feet with a yank that’s got you off balance, tumbling into his chest.
“You don’t have to sweep me off my feet, y’know?”
John gets that look in his eyes when he’s about to do something stupid.
“No, no. Whatever you’re thinking of, I want no-“ John’s bent down and put you over his shoulder, you ass near his face. “Put me down! John Shen, I swear to god I’m gonna beat your ass!”
“Yeah, yeah, but first let me make up for lost time, okay?”
You watch from a new angle as John brings you into the master bedroom and sets you down on the bed with just enough force that you bounce. His hands are everywhere, like he’s not sure where to start. One’s down between your legs, pulling off your shorts and panties. The others anchored at the base of your skull while he kissed you.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so perfect it makes me feel like I’m crazy. You make me crazy, you know that?” He’s pulled back to stare into your eyes. A warm, syrupy sweet feeling blooms in your chest.
You smile. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
And then it’s back to the races. John reaches over you to his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube. He squeezes some onto his fingers before dipping them between your legs. They brush your clit lightly, making your hips buck, before he sinks one inside you.
John angles himself so his thumb rubs your clit in tight little circles while he stretches you open with a second finger. When he bends down and starts kissing your neck, any hope of not cumming too quickly was lost. A constant shiver runs down your spine and straight to your pussy while he whispers sweet nothings to you.”
“Been in love with you for years. Swear to god you’re the most perfect person I’ve ever met. Drives me up a wall.”
“John,” you stutter as he speeds up.
“Funny, kind, and an amazing doctor, great sense of humor. Fuck you’ve got it all. I’m a real lucky son of a gun, aren’t I? Getting you in my bed.”
Familiar pressure builds in your abdomen as he keeps going.
“You’re so sweet. So good. You’re so good to me.”
The praise goes straight to your pussy. You clench down hard on his fingers as you cum with a whine. John pumps his fingers a few more times, extending your orgasm before pulling them out. Twenty seconds or so pass while you catch your breath.
“I just gotta say, you look so fucking sexy when you cum.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”
He shifts on the bed, reaching over to the nightstand again, and then goes deathly still.
“John?”
“I, uh,” he goes red. “I’m out of condoms. If you give me like 15 minutes, I can go get more.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you clean?”
“Yep. Got tested four months ago, haven’t had sex since.”
“Me too.”
John’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. “STIs aside, we’re both doctors. We know what happens if you have unprotected sex.”
“I have an IUD.”
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh.”
You let him sit there stunned for a moment. “So are you gonna fuck me or-“
“Nope! Definitely gonna fuck you!”
John moves quickly, pulling off his shorts and boxer briefs before settling between your legs. He drags his cock from your clit to the right wet heat of you and pushes in with a drawn-out groan.
“I could die happy like this.” He rocks his hips back and forth a few times. “Fuck, you feel good.”
He wraps an arm around your waist and lifts your hips, leaving only your upper back touching the bed. His other hand braces against the headboard as he gives a few more experimental thrusts, and god do they feel good. He fills you out so perfectly.
“Jesus, babe,” his voice is incredibly breathy. “I’m not gonna last long, but I swear round two will be longer.”
“I trust you.”
John’s hips snap forward like a rubber band, driving into you with a groan. He takes a minute to find a steady rhythm, pulling out to just the tip inside before slamming back into you. The noise it makes is pornographic, the wet slap of skin on skin mixed with both of your moans.
“Take me so well,” John pants, his voice strained. “Fuck you feel so good. So beautiful.”
He can feel himself losing it, or rather building it. His abdomen tightening as his whole body rockets towards the edge. The pressure swirling and building as he pounds into you.
“Where?” John’s voice cracks. “Where can I cum?”
“Wherever you want.”
“Fuck,” that sends him over the edge, and he cums inside you.
He collapses against you, and you rub his back. The soft planes of muscle give under your fingertips. John sighs and settles further against you. You feel warm all over with your personal heated blanket on top.
“You’re kinda heavy.”
He pulls back enough that you two can stare at each other. “Are you calling me fat?”
“I'm not calling you anything.”
“Sounds like an excuse,” he teases, but drags himself off of you and out of you.
You feel the srivvle of cum leak out of you
“Fuck that’s hot.” John’s laser focused at how it drips out do you, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
He reaches forward and spreads your pussy lips to watch more slip out, before he pushes it back inside. What he can’t get back inside, he smears all over you, his fingers catching on your sensitive clit.
“John!” You hiss.
“Sorry, sorry! Can’t help myself, I mean, she looks great like this.”
For the second time tonight, you hit him with a pillow as he flees into the bathroom. You hear the sink turn on and off as he comes back into the room with a warm washcloth and cleans you up. Some undignified gestures, aka you making grabby hands, has him lying next to you in bed.
You could definitely get used to this. Domestic bliss really is all the rage.
“Did you mean what you said? About your family?”
He nods against your breast. “Yeah, weird thing to lie about. You might want to learn Cantonese, though. Granny doesn’t do English.”
Buying a house to use when you’re never home is a stupid idea, but John Price has done it anyway. He doesn’t think much of it after 10 years, til you move in behind him, and then suddenly it’s not so bad.
warnings: MDNI, John “talk her through it” gentle dom Price, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex (fem receiving), reader is called girl, praise kink, light biting, implied pregnancy, you have a child at the end
w.c.: 5.6k
It’s not often that John finds himself so… distracted. With a job like his, that means certain death. Never let your head wander. Never let your eyes drift. Stay focused. Ready. Out in the field, your head swivels for a bird like his is and that's a bullet to your temple. Hopefully, the shot kills you right away and doesn’t leave you bleeding on the floor. Slow and painful way to go. Choking on your blood, teammates around you just watching, wishing they’d finish the job, and you wouldn’t have to fade away.
But there’s something about you that’s got him distracted.
Your garden backs up against his, property lines defined by an old wooden fence that's been there since the 60s. Not much to look at for his side. He keeps his grass cut short with minimal landscaping. Few large paver stones between the patio and the slab of concrete the hot tub sits. He’s rarely even home to see it.
The house had been a purchase he felt he had to make when he hit 30. Soap joked it was his midlife crisis since every crisis could be their midlife one. He guessed it gave him a weird sense of normalcy that never sat right. Like shoes that are ever so slightly too tight. They fit, could even fit better if you took the time to stretch them out, but he doesn’t. Told himself it’d be a better fit when he retired. If he got the chance.
Now he’s 40, a homeowner for a decade, and it’s barely used, and he’s barely there. Hell, the weekly cleaner and gardener had been there more since he bought it than he had. John’s only ever there when he’s got an extended break between missions, but well and truly, how often is that?
He hadn’t even noticed when the old couple who used to own the end of the terrace house passed away, and you moved in. Meredith and James. It had happened eight months ago, right at the end of autumn. Tells you how much of a good neighbor he is. John didn’t learn about it until April hit, and you came knocking on his door.
You had a black oversized jumper tucked into some dark wash high-waisted jeans with a big hole on the left knee. Hair held back with a claw clip, brows drawn ever so slightly together. Like you were nervous as you shifted side to side holding a plate of cookies.
It was one of those gross British spring days where the air starts to get muggy as the sun hits its peak. Past the part of spring where it’s grey and drizzly for weeks straight, the cold still clinging to your bones.
He’d barely been home for 13 hours. Came in and passed out, only woke up about 20 minutes ago, and turned on the TV in the lounge to listen to the news while he made a late lunch. Still in the groggy headspace of jetlag, but he swore you looked radiant.
“Hi! I wanted to introduce myself.” You had a soft voice. Gentle. Like you were afraid of spooking him. “Meredith told me that you’re often overseas, and… well, this is the first time I think I’ve seen you home.” You gave him your name and told him you owned the house behind his now.
John was pleasant for the whole interaction, chatting with you for about 15 minutes before you excused yourself. Smiled and said all the right things like his mum raised him to, still not really all there mentally. Didn’t even really click for him that you shared the fence with him until two days later, he saw you in the garden, taking a hammer to the fence with a mean look on your face.
Good opportunity for him to be neighborly.
“You alright?” He’s leaning out the first-floor window, arms resting on the windowsill.
John didn’t expect you to startle so much, dropping the hammer with a shriek before your head whipped up to him. “Fucking hell you scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry, love,” he chuckles, “Something wrong with the fence?”
“Yeah,” there's sweat beading down your forehead that you swipe away. He has a wandering thought about licking it off you. “I think the wood’s rotted through. I leaned something against it yesterday and it about gave through.”
Great opportunity for him to get closer to you.
“I’ll come down and have a look.”
Turns out the wood was rotted through for more than half the fence. The whole thing was one bad wind day away from falling over. John had removed some of the worst parts that day with plans to remove the rest on Tuesday morning. That was until you both got hit with a stop-work order. One of the neighbors had called the council and complained. Something about protecting historic areas, and the boundary of the two properties not being legally defined. Not their place at all, but regardless, neither of you could do anything about it now.
They did at least let John finish taking the fence down for safety concerns, so the two of you spent that time getting to know each other better. You were 34, worked as a fashion buyer, but you really wanted to be a designer, liked holidays with your girlfriends where you could try new wines, and were perhaps the sweetest bird he’d ever met, hidden behind a layer of fierce sass.
Then the council told the two of you it’d be another eight to ten weeks for them to assess the new fence and then another three for them to do an impact report on whether it’d require the other fences to be changed. Typical British bureaucracy. The fence was being built in the same way it had looked prior to it being torn down.
But now it meant the two of you shared one big garden. One big, ambiguous green space only defined by how much landscaping you had done and the numerous planters full of growing veggies you had. Not a big deal for him. While he liked his space, a week or two of shared garden wouldn’t kill him.
Then the pandemic hit and no one was going to approve jack shit or build anything. It was like the council fully vanished, emails going unanswered.
John had been deployed shortly after the lockdowns were announced and told you to email him if anything important came up with the council. You laughed, told him you would, and followed it up by demanding he stay safe lest you have to deal with a new neighbor and no fence.
True to your word, you did email him. It was never any updates regarding the fence. Rather, it was you checking in on him and telling him about the local gossip. Turned into penpals. Between bouts of violent warfare, he got to know you, and hell, he’d say you’re bordering on friend territory now, which isn’t a title he gives out often. He tried to be polite and cordial, but the image of you sunbathing never left his mind.
When he came back 12 weeks later in the dead of night, he climbed into his bed in the primary suite on the third floor and passed out. Bags dropped by the front door, half blocking it from opening. Maybe he was finally getting too old for this.
He didn’t wake up until 1 pm, sunshine making the room uncomfortable and hot. He hadn’t programmed the aircon to come on yet. Sweat clung to his back, t-shirt fabric uncomfortably damp, and he pulled himself out of bed.
Trudging to the window, he throws it open in the hopes that the jet stream might bless him with some breeze before he hops into the shower. He might have opened it with more force than needed, hinges creaking, now squinting from how bright the sun was.
Then he saw you. Lounging on a beach chair.
Now, remembering the lack of fence between the two of you, he didn’t think much of it until he rubbed his eyes as his vision cleared.
You were lying in the chair, sunglasses on as you listened to Jazz House, a staple of yours, he noticed, stretched out supine and basking in the sun. The glint of an anklet was the first thing he noticed before trailing his eyes upwards to your baby blue bikini bottoms and no top. Tits soft and supple in the sun. They shone, covered in what he assumed was tanning oil, jiggling as you raised your arms to cover your eyes.
If he were a better man, he’d look away. Step back from the window and pretend he never saw anything. Unfortunately, he’s not a better man. John looks on a bit longer, memorizing every inch of your skin, before he walks to the bathroom.
The shower he takes is ice cold.
It’s a couple of days later, right before the sun starts to wane, the light turning golden, and the squad has shown up for a barbecue. You’ve spoken to him briefly, claiming you’d catch up more when you weren’t so busy.
Price’s place became the de facto grilling spot a few years back. It was probably the most use it had ever gotten. Helped, he had a big garden, a high-quality grill, and guest rooms for the lads to crash in if they drank too much.
Ghost and Soap had brought four packs of Carling. Pure shite in his opinion, but Soap was a fan and at the end of day free beer is free beer. John’s on his third can, enjoying the build of a buzz as he stands over the grill flipping kebabs, lamb, and beef with some veg, listening in on a story Ghost is telling him. There’s an old 80s rock playlist one of the lads found on Spotify that’s agreeable enough. Soap and Gaz are wrestling while Ghost intermittently laughs at their attempts to pin each other.
He almost forgets there’s no fence between your places till you come out bounding over in a short little white dress that scrapes the tops of your thighs, struggling to open a jar of olives. You looked like a goddamn angel.
“Hey John,” he places the tongs down as you come closer. “Could you help me open this jar? The girls and I are making martinis, and I can’t seem to—oh. Hello!”
You’ve crossed the imaginary threshold and are only a few feet away from him as you look up, still trying to open the jar.
“Take it this is your squad?” Your eyes flick between him and the group of very large men near him.
“Aye, love,” he motions with his head towards them. “Lads, say hello.”
Like the well-trained dogs they are, a round of “You Alright,” and “Evenin’” rings out.
You smile and give a small wave. “Sorry, I won’t interrupt for long.” You draw closer to him, holding out the jar with one hand and the other curling around his bicep. “Could you open this? We’re dangerously low on olives, and we’re making martinis.”
You smell like coconut cream, vanilla, and sunscreen as the tips of your French manicured nails catch on his skin.
John smiles, takes the jar, and opens it before sealing it again and passing it to you. You beam up at him, lips shiny with gloss. “There you go, love,” he tries not to look down the front of your dress, but from this angle, it's hard not to. Especially once he notices you’re not wearing a bra.
“Ugh, my hero!” Sighing dramatically, you give his arm another squeeze before holding the jar with both hands. “I’ll bring you a martini as payment. What are you making?”
You’ve leaned across him, pulling your hair to the side as you inspect the grill. From the corner of his eye, he sees Gaz give Soap a nudge.
“Kebabs.” You lean a bit too far forward and he puts a hand your your waist to steady you. “Have a few steaks to put on if the occasion calls for it.”
You gasp and smack his chest. Mock betrayal and hurt with a smile. It’s light and playful, and you don’t make any move to get away from his hand on your waist. “Where was my invite?”
John raises a brow. “You told me you were with the girls tonight.”
“Yes, but if I had known you were grilling I would have told them to sod off.”
One of the boys, surprisingly, Ghost, laughs. It’s a real laugh too, which is a bit mental coming from him.
“Don’t be cruel to your friends now.”
“They’d understand,” you’re quick with the reply. “We’re only having martinis and cheese.”
You do this thing he’s picked up on. Leaning a little too forward and looking up at him through your eyelashes, lips in a slight part. Intentional? Maybe. Innocent? Probably. Dangerous? 100%. It’s the kind of look that gives him pause. Stabs him in the heart and weasels its way into his bloodstream. Gets his thoughts going a bit too fast.
Makes him wonder what you’d look like with his cock in your mouth.
“Tell you what,” he offers, clearing his throat. “You go to Tesco and get some more, and your lot can join us.”
“Would you guys mind?” You direct the question to the squad, peaking over John’s shoulder.
Even if they did, with the hunger Price has in his eyes for you, they’d never have said no. There’s an intensity there they’ve only seen in the field, and they aren’t stupid. They can tell that he’s itching to fuck you. He had been glued to his inbox when they were deployed and evasive about answering them about who he was emailing. Easy to put two and two together.
20 minutes and one Tesco Express trip later, you and two of your friends, Joanne and Marcy, had pulled up your two garden chairs to join the men, bringing with you enough martinis for everyone. The three of you go the rounds teasing one another, breaking into fits of giggles, and you all get situated once the food is done cooking. He didn’t expect it, but your friends get on well with his squad.
Rather than bring one of John's dining room chairs out, you’ve taken to perching on his knee. One arm draped across his shoulders, toying with his shirt, and the other holding a skewer that you pick at in between talking. You’re acting like it's the most natural thing in the world, so he does the same, resting a hand on your knee.
Once the food is done and you girls have moved onto a wine, unmotivated to make more martinis, you get looser. The sun has fully set now, and everyone's been well fed. It's reaching the point where you know that once someone says they’re heading home, everyone will naturally see themselves out, but no one’s making the first move.
He’s painfully hard and every time you wiggle, giggly from the alcohol, your ass brushes against him and makes it worse. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to him or maybe it’s the pent-up sexual frustration, but when you move again, he can’t help but whisper in your ear, low and slow. “Careful there, love.”
“What do you mean?” Voice soft and teasing as you turn towards him.
He likes the sweet and innocent act you put on as you rock back against him. At first, he thought you weren’t aware of it, but now it’s clear you knew.
It’s a quick, sharp breath he draws. “You know exactly what I mean,” John’s lips brush your ear. The low rumble of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your core.
“Hmm…” you rock backward again. “Maybe I need you to spell it out for me?”
There’s a coy smile on your lips that makes him want to fucking bend you over the table. But he’s barely a gentleman and wouldn’t do that in front of your friends. One hand grabs at your waist, stilling your movements. The tension between the two of you feels electric. You’re hyper-aware of every place his bare skin meets yours. It’s not quite a warning, not quite a promise. Just enough to make you realize he’s barely holding onto his composure.
Joanne laughs loudly, pulling your attention outwards.
Ever aware, Ghost notices what's transpiring between the two of you and stands. “Right then, time for me to head home.”
Price watches as Ghost ushers the lads up, and your friends follow. He leads them all to the back door, turning to Price and nodding before heading through himself. You catch the look he gives John as he goes. A subtle little note.
Behave.
The door shuts and the garden falls quiet.
Now alone, nerves start creeping through you. Doesn’t help that John doesn’t move. He sits there for a minute, hands on your waist, thumbs brushing at the fabric of your dress. You’re 99.99% sure that he wants the same thing you do, but god forbid a girl feels nervous. Feels like your heart is loud enough he could hear it as well as he felt it through your clothes.
He exhales, slow and controlled.
Then, his grip tightens on your waist.
“Nervous?” he noses at your shoulder, mustache tickling slightly. His voice is low and rough, like he recently smoked a cigar.
You nod, small and shy. “A bit.”
John hums, happy he has that effect on you. Almost like he’s purring. One of his hands slides up your front, brushing past your tits, before settling on your jaw and turning your face towards him. The look in his eyes is one you’ve never seen before. It goes beyond hunger, he’s starving.
“Don’t be.”
You crash into him. The kiss is heavy, all-consuming, and leaves you lightheaded. John’s hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers enmeshing themselves in your hair, tilting you as he sees fit. His other hand roams your body, grabbing your breast and squeezing it. You moan, letting him slip his tongue into your mouth, and you melt into him.
When you break apart, panting slightly and leaning back against him, you giggle as he presses open-mouthed kisses against your exposed neck and shoulder. “Been thinking about this for a while, pretty girl.”
He lets go of your hair to pick you up at the waist and reposition you better on his lap. “Thinking about ‘ow pretty you’d sing for me.” John settles his hands on your hips now. “‘Ow sweet you’d taste.”
Strong hands pull your hips back before pushing them forward. It goes to your head a bit, and you're stunned as he repeats the motion.
“Don’t be shy now. Had no problem doing this earlier, did you?”
“No,” you stuttered out, grinding your hips down as instructed.
“That’s a sweet girl,” he continues to guide your hips.
Each bump and grind pulls you further and further into a corner of debauchery you thought you left behind in your 20s. It sends waves of pleasure through your body. John’s hands grip you tighter, driving you into a steady rhythm with him. His erection strains against his shorts.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Just like that, love.”
Your breath is short gasps drawn in a haze as the friction builds, panties soaked and clinging to your folds. Price’s lips find your neck again, pressing more hot kisses to the strip of flesh. Feels like you’re burning up as his teeth graze your pulse point, and you whimper.
“John,” you plead. For what you aren’t sure.
He takes his hands off your hips to push the straps of your dress off your shoulders. It falls softly off them, exposing your tits, nipples hard. John tweaks one, rolling it between his fingers, and your head falls forward with a soft cry. You don’t stop moving your hips, lost in the feeling as he continues to palm your chest. He cups them, kneading them as you continue to rock your hips.
“Love… Sweet girl,” he bucks his hips up to meet yours, grinding himself against your aching core. “Tell me you want this and I’ll take you inside and give you what you’re begging for.”
“I want it,” you stutter out. “Please, John.”
His grip on your breasts tightens. “That’s it.” He stands, picking you up bridal style in one fluid motion, your body pressed firmly against his chest. The night air is cool as it hits your bare breasts. John is swift as he takes you inside, closing the door with his foot as he brings you into the lounge. He knows he doesn’t want to make the trek upstairs yet. He’s gotta fuck you on the couch before he takes you upstairs and fucks you in his bed or he might burst at the seams and fuck you like a wild animal.
Price deposits you on the chaise part of his sectional so he can lay you out as you pull your dress off, leaving you in your panties. You look goddamn delectable.
He pulls off his shirt and shorts, leaving himself in his boxer briefs as he moves towards you. A hand wraps around your ankle, pulling your leg up and pushing you onto your back. John kisses your ankle and drops your leg, before he grabs the waistband of your panties and pulls them off you.
“Look at this,” he brings your panties up. The white’s gone transparent in the light. “Soaked through.”
Price gets down on his knees and pulls your pussy towards him. “Knew you’d have a pretty cunt. Just look at you. So wet and ready for me.”
He runs a finger through your core, chuckling with a full smile as his finger comes back glistening. Parting his lips, he brings it to his mouth and moans at the taste, watching as it makes you wiggle in anticipation. “Delicious. You going to be good for me and let me eat you out?”
You nod diligently. Submission looks good on you.
His hands grip your thigh, pushing them further apart as he settles between them. He leans forward, presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh, and then drags his tongue against you in one long, smooth stripe. The groan he lets out comes from deep inside him, echoing in the hollow of his chest. And he buries himself in your pussy.
He focuses in on your slit, sensitive from the lead up and circles it with the tip of his tongue. John sucks it into his mouth, passing his tongue over it. Your hips buck, jagged, and stuttered as he does. It feels like he’s got you on display, and the rapt attention goes to your head. Each pass of his tongue pulls you closer and closer to the edge as he devours you.
A finger prods at your hole, sliding in with no resistance. He pumps it in and out, warming you up, before adding a second. The sound of his filthy slurps and your moans fill the room as he pumps in and out of you, angling his fingers to bump your G-spot. It's obscene. You’re so wet it sounds like the set of a porno.
John wants nothing more than to consume you. Wants to watch you come on his tongue and clench down on his fingers. He can feel your body tensing, muscles pulling tight as your climax draws nearer. Your hands fly to his head, pulling on his short hair, as you grind your pussy against his face, and Price moans.
“Sweet girl, cum for me.” He pulls away for a second to speak before going right back to working you to a fever pitch.
“John,” it comes out as a broken gasp. “I’m gonna cum.”
He hums in approval, and it sends you over the edge. Your clamp down around his fingers like a vice, and it washes over you. Price doesn’t let up, doesn't stop. He continues to pump his fingers at the same steady pace, extending your orgasm. Your nails dig into his scalp, spurring him on as he sucks on your clit harder.
John can feel your juices gushing out, getting caught in his facial hair, and soaking the couch. He wants to break you, make you fall apart completely, to build you back up with the knowledge that there’ll never be another man like him. So you keep wearing those tiny little dresses around him. You’re pushing at his head now, and he takes his mouth off you with a wet pop. When you lock eyes with him, you whimper.
“Fucking gorgeous love. Prettiest I’ve ever seen.” he purrs, pressing a kiss against your clit, making you twitch from sensitivity. “You want more?”
“I want you to fuck me,” it’s a breathy whisper as you come down from your high and he swears he’s never heard something so erotic before in his entire life.
John remembers that he hasn’t had a hook-up in years and that there are no condoms in the house. “I don’t want to do anything that will make you uncomfortable, but I don’t have any condoms.”
You’ve scrambled up from your back. Propping yourself up on your knees, chest resting on the back of the couch.
“I don’t care,” the way the eye contact you make with him from over your shoulder makes him feel should be criminal. “Fuck me.”
He stands up, left knee popping from an old injury, and he looms over you. Big, beefy frame taking up all the space behind you. John reaches down and pulls down his boxer briefs. It’s not lost on him how you lock in on his erection as it bobs up and makes a soft plap against his stomach. His cock is thick, probably the thickest you’ve ever had, with an angry red swollen head leaking pre-cum.
Price grips your hips, pulls them closer to him, and deepens the arch in your back as he settles between your spread thighs again. The thick length on him meet your slit. He gives an experimental thrust, grinding himself against you and coating himself in you.
“You’re a dangerous one, aren’t you?” John quips, reaching down and grabbing his cock to line up with your entrance. His head catches, pushing ever so slightly in, but not enough.
At this, you push your hips back, pushing more of his length inside you, and the stretch is delicious. He’s prepped you so well that there’s not even an ounce of discomfort— the sweet growing feeling of being full.
“Worst criminal you’ll ever meet,” you hum, pushing back further. “Show me the error of my ways?”
The teasing lilt gives John the encouragement he needs to let go and fully enjoy this and finally he thrust forward, sinking himself fully inside your drooling cunt. He pulls out to the tip and then buries himself to the hilt.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice strained as your walls flutter around him. “Tight ‘n’ warm cunt made for me.”
Price sets a steady pace with long, full strokes. Skin meeting skin fills the room as you meet his thrusts. He leans down, breath hot against your shoulder as he kisses your shoulder, relishing in your soft pants before biting the skin. It makes you tighten around him as a sharp moan breaks through.
One hand slides around your hips to your front where he finds your clit and starts rubbing it in tight circles. His voice is low in your ear. “That’s it, love, can feel you getting tighter ‘round me.”
He punctuates each word with a deep thrust.
“Such a sweet girl, been so welcoming for me. Taking it like you were made for it.”
The praise makes you dizzy, your head falling forward on the couch. He’s quick to wrap his other arm around your chest and pulls you upright, flush against his chest. The new angle lets him push even deeper inside you while he continues to play with your clit, your orgasm quickly building.
“Christ, you’re like the gift that doesn’t stop.” Sparks of pleasure shoot through you as he bites the shell of your ear. “Feel how deep I am inside you? How your tight little pussy clings to me?”
Price kisses along your jawline, beard scraping your skin. “Can tell you’re close. Cum for me love. Want to feel you cum on my cock.”
Your skin feels prickly. Like you’re too hot and too cold at the same time.
“That’s it, dove. Let it happen,” he urges you on, letting your chest rest back on the couch and cementing his hold on your hips. “So sweet for me.”
And you let it happen. It’s slow and builds itself up, and he continues to thrust up into you til it reaches a fever pitch that makes your whole body shake and writhe. The loudest moan you've ever let out comes past your lips, your fingers digging into the couch cushions.
“That’s my girl,” he growls, thrusting faster. “Tell me where you want me.”
It’s hard to speak as he doesn’t let up.
“Inside.”
“What was that?” John teases you, bending down like he can’t hear you.
“Inside, I want it inside,” you cry out.
John’s happy to oblige, rutting into you like a wild animal. His thrusts are harder than before, your ass jiggling everytime his hips meet yours with wet paps. The force rocks your entire body, and all you can do is take it. With a final thrust, he sinks all the way inside you, cock pulsing. Ropes of hot cum fill your insides and it feels like the world goes blurry and you aren’t sure what happens next.
You’re groggy when he gets you to come to. A lazy, satisfied smile spreads across your face when you’re able to focus on him. He’s got a warm washcloth and is cleaning you up. He’s so soft and gentle as he goes, kissing your knee. The room is quiet, filled with an intimacy that feels far too real, like something between lovers, for the first time you’ve slept with him.
“You alright?” He asks, his tone is tender and soft. The look in his eyes is so tender, like you carry the moon and stars. It tugs at your heart and nestles itself in your chest next to it.
You nod, still a little dazed, still in the afterglow of a really good orgasm. “I’m good. Really good.”
That smile he has makes you clench. “Want to take me upstairs and fuck me on a real bed?”
John laughs a full belly laugh. “Bossy woman, you are.”
The complaint is one of nothing but jest. A barking dog with no bite. He’s already picked you up and crossed the threshold to the stairs and starts heading up then.
────────────────────※ ·❆· ※──────────────────
TWO YEARS LATER…
It’s another sunny Saturday, so everyone's once again at the Price household for a barbecue. Feels routine at this point. You’re in the kitchen finishing up a cheese board and drinks, he's out at the grill. The lads are doing what they always do, except now, Soap is doing it to impress Joanne. She sits on one of the now-plentiful outdoor chairs and pretends not to be impressed. Mundane and peaceful. Not something he thought he’d ever experience.
Marcy opens the back door and comes out with the cheese board. You’re trailing behind her with a fat nine-month-old on your hip. Rhys, named after John’s very Welsh grandfather, takes after his father and is perhaps the biggest baby anyone's ever seen. He’s also an incredibly happy baby.
The second John sees you’ve come outside, he's placed the tongs down to come kiss you. Every morning he’s not on base, he wakes up next to you, but he still can’t believe it’s real. Rhys starts babbling excitedly as he walks closer. Price bends down to press a kiss to his head before kissing you.
“Your son is heavy,” you shift, hiking Rhys up to get a better seat on your hip, and look at him. “You get that from your daddy.”
You boop him on the nose, and the baby erupts into a fit of giggles.
“You calling me fat, dove?”
“One of us was the biggest baby in the county history when we were born, and the other one is mummy, isn’t that right, Rhys?” You attack Rhys’ cheeks with kisses, giggles continuing from the little boy. He’s losing it now, little hands grabbing at your face as he squirms and wiggles.
John can’t argue with the facts. He was the biggest baby, still to this day, to have been born in his home county. So he smiles, kisses both of you again, and goes back to grilling.
The meal is how it often is. Loud and full of laughter. Plates passed around, drinks passed around, Rhys passed from person to person. The sun is warm on everyone's skin with the scent of sunscreen hanging in the air.
In the lull between bites, Gaz pipes up.“Are you two ever going to fix the fence?”
Everyone's head swivels to the back of the property, fence fully gone, where they can see clearly into the other lounge. It’s covered in baby toys and fashion mannequins. It’s the smaller of the two houses, so when you got married, it turned into your studio to work on your brand.
You giggle, sipping from your glass. “Ah, right.”
Rhys slaps the table, the glass making little hollow sounds.
John looks out fondly at your back door before facing you. Fuck the fence.
Jack Abbot’s some sort of bounty hunter, you suppose. Comes into town without a care and rolls out like a tumbleweed. Maybe one day he’ll take you away from this place if you ask him real nice.
Warnings: attempted assault (not by jack), period-accurate misogyny, he’s got his leg, but it’s not full mobility because I wasn’t sure about how to make the amputation more period-accurate, unprotected sex, talk of pregnancy, blood and violence, gun violence, MDNI
w.c: 8.7k
“You some sort of outlaw?” You’re bent over the bar, hair pulled up near the top of your head, a few loose curls on your neck that stick to it from sweat. Morning sun’s already far too warm, peaking through the slatted windows of the saloon. It rained last night. The smell still lingers.
Jack Abbot snorts, guess he thought it was a funny question. He takes another drink of his beer.
“I ain’t no outlaw.” His voice is smooth, like the way whiskey burns going down, and he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
He’s the only patron this early in the morning. It’s maybe an hour and a half after sunrise, most everyone else is already working for the day, but Jack never works. At least not that you know of. Those long legs of his are crossed at the ankle, his boots on the table with the spurs hanging off, as he lounges in his chair. Sipping beer real casually, one arm on the backrest of the chair next to his. He acts like he runs the fine establishment of your employ.
Complete lack of manners and utterly handsome, strong, high cheekbones with tanned skin. Silver curls peaking out from under his hat. He looked like he was carved from stone with soft, sweet eyes that make you feel like he’s truly seeing you.
“You certainly act like one.”
He did act like one. Road into town one day with his hat brim low, red bandana over his mouth. Jack said it was to keep the dust out of his mouth, but you think he likes the mysterious air it gives him. Two long rifles slung over his back, jostling with every step of his horse as he led it to the saloon. Gait was real slow and casual, like he ain’t ever had a worry in his life. You think it’s more to cover up for that limp he’s got with his right leg. Everyone’s daddy was ready to draw their guns, fingers itching near the trigger, when they saw him.
One thing about Jack, you might not know how he makes his money, but he’s got a lot of it. Well, more than most people here. Tossed his coins on the counter like it was running out of style.
“What’s it matter to ya’ darlin’?” Jack tilts his head back, looking at you from under the brim of his hat. His eyes flick down to your chest briefly before going back up to your face.
“Don’t matter to me. Just curious, is all.” You shrug, standing up straight, feeling very exposed.
Mr. Zachariah Moultman, the Red Western Rose’s owner, had you and the other barmaids wear these corsets that pushed your chests up real high. Yours is a pretty baby-blue shade with this elegant white lace trim that the girls had found in New York when visiting. You got it from Annabelle before she left town, all shaken up. Made your girls sit real pretty, but it also made the male patrons think they were owed something extra because of it. It didn't help that Mr. Moultman also owned the brothel.
And the gambling hall.
And the general store.
And about every other business and building in town.
Hell, he even owned half the next town over.
“Ain’t ya know curiosity killed the cat?” Jack drawls, uncrossing his legs and stretching with a roll of his shoulders. He stands, walking his now-empty glass over to the bar for you.
You reach for the glass, fingers bumping against his own as you do. He holds on tight to the glass, not letting you fully take it from him. There’s a little game of tug-of-war he plays with you, the side of his mouth curving up into a smirk before you get the upper hand and take the glass from him.
Triumphant, you smile. “I ain’t no cat.”
He leans against the bar, forearms resting against it. His eyes look hungry, real low and serious as he stares at you with that smirk on his face. It makes your heart flutter in your chest, and your tummy turns in a way you’ve never felt before.
You swallow it down and lift your chin. Never once have you liked someone telling you who you are and what you can do.
“Damn shame that is,” he drops his head, chuckling before looking up at you. “Ya see, I’d just love me some pussy.”
Your face turns hot instantly as you go rigid.
“And you, sir, are no gentleman!”
Jack laughs, full-bellied, leaning back away from you. It’s a throaty one that shakes his shoulders. He got the reaction he wanted. “Now ain’t that the truth, darling? If I were a gentleman, I’d’ve taken you to the church by now and had the pastor do the Lord’s work.”
The implication of his interest in you isn’t lost.
“You oughta learn some manners.” you grumble, choosing to ignore it and move on.
He puts some coins on the table, and you turn to pull him another pint. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the bar's back mirror. Jack’s watching you very intently. That unspoken offer hanging in the air. It makes you tense. Haunches raised like a cat caught in a corner, but nothing repulsive. More flustered than anything.
“Say, how come you’re here anyway?” You look over your shoulder at him as you speak, pulling the lever for the beer.
“Mr. Moultman put out work.” The scratch of a barstool being pulled out follows his statement as he plops down on it.
You slide him over his new pint and stand with your hand on your hip. “What kinda work? I mean, you blow in and out of town quicker than a dust devil. Always spend money here, too. I feel like I oughta be owed an answer now.”
“What did I just tell ya?” He grabs the glass and takes a sip. The corner of his eyes crinkled.
“Yes, yes, I know. Curiosity killed the cat, but there’s a second part of that phrase.” You lean over the bar again. “Satisfaction brought it back.” There’s a little smirk on your face when you finish.
He tilts his glass, balancing it on the edge of the bar.
“Well, I do lots of things. Mostly with a gun. Hunting, trapping, extortion, bounty hunting, you name it. Any issue you’ve got that can be solved with a clean shot or the threat of it.”
Mr. Moultman was a known shady guy. Can’t own that many things without doing something above the law. The man had swallowed the town whole. Guess that came with being out west. Real gentlemen were all settled back east, like your momma used to say. A man with clean hands ‘round here just meant he had the coin to pay others to do the dirty work.
“So you’ve got to shoot someone then?”
You aren’t sheltered. If he’s around, it seems like someone might be dying soon.
“Not necessarily,” he gives it a second thought. “Depends on if he pays up. If he does, I just take the money back to Mr. Moultman.”
It hangs in the air as the humidity does in the Carolinas. “If he doesn’t…” he trails off, tilting his glass by the rim before knocking it back center and flat on the bartop. “Well, I know better than to tell a lady what’ll happen.”
“And do you do this often?” you ask it real low and quiet, like it’s some secret.
“More often than I’d like,” both his hands are on the bar now. “But the money’s good.”
“That makes sense.” It’s easy to justify it. “Living out here ain't cheap… but neither is back East.”
He hums in agreement. The conversation lulls, staggering around like a drunkard as the question weighs on your tongue. You fiddle with the fraying edge of the bar towel. Daddy always said a lady like you should never handle a weapon. Momma would have shut it down with just a look. But that’s when you were still livin' in New Jersey.
Men out here didn’t care about proper civility. You’d seen it.
“Say, Jack…”
He finishes what's left in his second glass of beer. “Yes’m?”
You look him dead in the eyes. “Would you teach me how to shoot?”
He narrows his eyes, searching for something in you, but his posture doesn’t change. Still relaxed as ever. “Sure. I’ve got some free time this week.”
Half of you didn’t have the heart to believe he’d accept in the first place.
You blink, surprised.“I’m off on Sunday if you’re free after church.”
“No church for me, but I’ll be around.” The corners of his mouth curl up in a small smile.
───※ ·❆· ※───
“Amen.”
The church hall echoes as the service finishes. Footsteps, bibles closing, skirts rustling. Everyone had to go to the same church, with the different denominations having services at different times. As god would deem it, the Baptist service was at 9:00 in the morning, so after breakfast, you and your daddy would head down to listen to the pastor's sermon. Not to say you’re something of the religious type, but in a town like this, you oughta be. At least for appearances.
Today’s sermon was all about human relations in the eyes of God and the commandments surrounding them. How a wife must be subservient to her husband, that both must uphold the sanctity of marriage, blah blah blah. Ironic considering you know for a fact the pastor’s been at the whore house more times this week than he has been at home. But as god and the good book said, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”
So you keep that to yourself.
You’re itching to get out of the building, boots tapping on the wooden floor, and to where you agreed to meet Jack for a shooting lesson. But of course, everyone wants to hang around and chat till 10:15 when they’ll be kicked out for the Protestants to set up. Daddy’s been chatty too, speaking with the local seamstress, Mrs. Taylor, with a contemplative look on his face.
He’s bargaining for something, but you aren’t sure what.
“How’s my favorite barkeep doing today?”
Hot breath hits the back of your neck, goosebumps rising like little pinpricks across your skin. You’d recognize the heavy gravel of that voice anywhere.
“Good morning, Mr. Moultman.” You turn and face him with a smile. While you’re not a big fan of the man, he is your employer.
“And how are you this fine and blessed morning, young lady?”
You’d think for how much money he had, he’d be a big fella, pot belly and all. Maybe with a golden pocket watch tucked into a vest that doesn’t fit right. But Zachariah Moultman was a weasel of a man. Tall, thin, gangly, and all angles. Every time you shook his hand, you could feel every single one of his bones poke into you. Like all the fat had been rendered out of him, and he was just skin stretched over sinewy muscle and bone.
“I’m doing well, thank you, sir.” He’s leering at you now. The same way he does to the working girls.
Mr. Moultman smiles, too wide with teeth too straight, too white. It’s unnerving. “That’s what I like to hear. Good, well-kept woman such as yourself seems to shine in the house of our good lord.”
You don’t quite understand what he’s saying, so you laugh politely. He keeps getting close to you, uncomfortably so, eyes trailing a little too far down your body. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sir, sir, sir,” he repeats it in a sing-song voice, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. It’s slow, like he’s been waiting to get his hands on you. “Please, Missy, call me Zachariah.”
The blood in your body turns to ice. Your skin prickles under his touch, like millipedes are crawling over it, heartbeat heavy in your throat. Being this bold in the church, where everyone and their mother could see you, means Daddy already knew this would happen. You catch his eye across the pew, and that bastard smiles at you, goes back to talking to the seamstress, and your stomach sinks.
Something awful is about to happen to you.
“That wouldn’t be proper, sir. You are my employer.” You try to play it off like he’s joking with you, but it's shaky, nerves showing through as you try to take a step back.
“Well,” he’s grabbed your hand now, keeping a steady hold on you. “I’m more than that now.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles as he brings it up for a kiss. You must look absolutely terrified as he lets your hand down. “I take it your father hasn’t told you yet?”
You blink, and the church tilts on its axis. This can’t be happening. He knows that Mr. Moultman is a terrible, terrible man. He once beat a girl, Jessie, from Little Rock, so badly that she's been left with a permanent limp. He knows that he’s a violent drunk. He knows that no one can calm him down when he gets going. Mr. Moultman had bought the jury out after he killed a man for not paying on his debts.
“Told me what?” It's barely above a whisper, all tangled up in the back of your throat.
“Your father’s given me permission to take your hand in marriage,” you’re going to be sick. “Granted, I did have to overlook a few things, but I’ll not bore you with specifics.”
Oh God.
Daddy sold you.
He had promised Momma, on her deathbed and again at her grave, that he’d never let anything bad happen to you. Swore it on the good book. But that son of bitch, bless your granny, has thrown you to the wolves. Mr. Moultman’s mouth is moving, but you can’t hear anything. You can barely breathe, the corset now squeezing you too tightly; it feels like your ribs are breaking.
“Good morning, Zachariah,” Daddy comes over and puts a hand on your waist. His voice just about cuts through the fog. “How are you doing this sabbath?”
“I’m doing mighty, Mr. Wells. Thanking Jesus, I’ve got such a beautiful bride to be.”
He kisses the top of your forehead. “That you do, that you do, “ he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I do apologize for her behavior. I hadn’t had the chance to tell her just yet, but looking at her, you can tell she’s overjoyed.”
The two continue to talk. Over you, around you, about you. Like you aren’t even there, having your whole world torn apart. Like you’re a goddamn racehorse they can trade. It takes all your willpower not to scream like a banshee and run out of the church.
Then it’s over. Daddy’s leading you out the double doors.
You follow silently out of the church and to the horses. He tries talking to you on the ride home, but it's impossible to acknowledge him, the betrayal he’s done. It’s just another day for him.
The front door slams shut behind him as he comes in from putting the horses in. You had grabbed the nearest thing to throw when you came in before him.
“How could you!” You throw the ceramic pitcher past this head. “You promised momma you’d protect me and you’ve sold me off like I’m some damn broodmare to repay your gambling debts!”
“Honey, Zachariah told me he’d take good care of you.”
“Good care of me? Like he did to Jessie? Or Clara? Or Elizabeth?”
His face hardens for a second before that little ember of guilt is stamped out.
“You’re overreacting, darlin'. Every man's a little wily before he gets married. You’ll calm him down.”
“Were you wily? Did you beat women before Momma?”
His mouth opens and then closes.“You know I’d never.”
“So you lied again. " You grabbed a basket with a snack you had prepared before heading to church. “I can’t stand the sight of you.”
And you’re out the door, slamming it shut behind you and heading off to meet Jack.
───※ ·❆· ※───
Even after three weeks of practice with Jack, you’re still a lousy shot.
You’re standing in a little dead-end street that faces out into the great, wide open plains. It’s peaceful on this side of town. Less developed. Like you could just wander off and never be seen again. The thought has been on your mind an awful lot now that everyone knows about your predicament. Just leaving. Walking away from it all. Letting the great beyond swallow you whole.
Some of the younger boys have set up to use it as an impromptu shooting range. There are some hay bales with old glass bottles, mason jars, hell, anything made of glass, lined up on them that you’re doing a terrible job of hitting.
You’re doing a real bang-up job not hitting them. Squint. Breathe. Fire. Miss. Again.
“You gotta slow your breathing. You’re too anxious.” Jack is off to the side, arms crossed, looking on as you imagine a general would. His skin looks like he’s made of bronze in the sunlight.
“I am slowing my breathing, thank you very much. He’s had the brunt of your frustration the past couple of weeks. You really do try not to snap at him. It’s not his fault that any of this has happened. He didn’t make Daddy marry you off.
“Are ye?” He spits some chewing tobacco on the ground. “Yer looking as tense and wound up as a spring.”
He’s up behind you before you can snap again. A solid, broad chest meets your shoulders. He smells like cedar wood, his hands firm on your waist.
“Y’need to tense here,” he says, sliding his hands up along your sides to your shoulders, the butt of the gun resting against your right, “and relax here,” his knuckles brush your collarbone, light as the breeze, as he takes his hand away. “Otherwise, yer gonna shoot yer shoulder off.”
Stubborn as you might be, you didn’t have the money to see the town doctor, so you listened, even if you wanted to tell him to take his hands off you.
So you steady your breathing. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Relax your shoulders, tense your waist, and line it up. The world narrows to the green bottle in front of you. Your finger presses against the trigger, and the gun goes off, shoulder pushed back from the kick. The shot rings out like thunder. Gunpowder fills the air as the glass bottle explodes, green light filtering through all the shattered pieces.
“I hit it!” you gasp, stunned. After missing so much, it's shocking that you managed to land the shot.
Jack gives a lopsided grin. Over the sporadic periods of time he’s come to town, he likes to think he’s gotten a good read on you. Reading people ain’t hard for him, so knowing that you’ve been upset isn’t difficult. You get this little pout that makes him focus on your lips. Not one that's super obvious, just a little downturn of your lips. He’s often staring in that direction far more than he should.
“Nice to see you finally smile today,” he’s testing the waters, seeing if he can get you to open up with him. “Was thinking that a snake bit you on the ass and that's why you’re so sour.”
A laugh slips out before you can top it, hand flying to clamp your mouth shut.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be a downer.”
“S’alright.” He shrugs, easy and low, grin still plastered on. “Didn’t think it was personal. Unless it is?”
“No! Not at all.”
You might have responded a little too quickly. Jack catches that flicker in your eyes, the same one horses get when they’re about to bolt.
“You haven’t been smiling as much lately.” He’s careful now. Trying not to spook you. He just wants you to stay close.
The wind picks up. It whistles through the dry grass, stalks of wheat swaying in the distance.
You sling the rifle on your back. “Ain’t had much reason too.” Your eyes stay fixed on the horizon.
“Not happy about your upcoming nuptials, then.”
You give a brittle, dry scoff. “Ugh, not at all.”
“I hear you.” He hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Jack likes you; he knows that. Thinks you’re as pretty as the sunrise. “He’s not… polite. The way he talks ‘bout you when you ain’t around.”
Brows furrowed, you turn to face him. “How do you mean?” You only meet his eyes for a second before he looks away.
“It ain’t proper to tell you.”
“Truth be told,” your voice breaks. “I’m frightened of what he might do to me.”
He’s quiet. “All you gotta do is tell me you’d like to leave and I’ll take you where you want to go. No strings.”
“Thank you, Jack. I might just have to take you up on that.”
───※ ·❆· ※───
He left town for a gig shortly after that. Now you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere till he comes back. But you thought about it. Hell, you prayed on it. Going with Jack seemed like the best option for you. Maybe he could take you to California. Or North.
Somewhere that wasn’t here.
Mr. Moultman invited you round to the gambling parlor to “get to know each other” before your nuptials next week. You’d imagine a man would want to spend time actually getting to know his wife, but all he’d done since you got here was sit you on his knee, arm loose around your waist, and play poker with his usual band of hooligans.
“Now, Mrs. Moultman, should I call or fold?”
“Fold.”
He doesn’t listen and calls. The dealer flips the next card and reveals a second eight. The man across the table lays his cards down, as does Moultman. He’s only got a pair, but the other man has three.
“Suppose I ‘oughta listen to you.”
He leans in and sniffs at your neck. “You smell good. Like peaches. You ripe for the plucking?” Teeth graze across your skin.
“I’m afraid not, sir.” It’s hard not to shy away from him and remain confident.
“Now don’t be like that,” his hand slithers up your back. “It ain’t sinful for a man and wife to be together.”
“We aren’t married yet.”
Rage flashes across his face, a hurricane in his eyes. “You talk back an awful lot.”
You didn’t think it possible to get stiffer, but his hand on your neck proves you wrong.
He squeezed the back of it far too tightly for comfort, dirty fingernails scratching the skin.
“Now you’re gonna behave, girl. We’re gonna give the boys here a nice show of what matrimony means.” His other hand undoes the laces of your stays.
There are moments in life when you oughta think before you act, but sometimes your body just moves faster than your head. It’s a swift crack across his cheek, a small thunderstorm, as your palm connects with him. Mr. Moultman’s head swivels to the side, and the men in the room grow quiet. You’re not a prey animal, but you’ve been hunting enough times to watch them still. Seen how they pause when they know something sinister wants them.
Your stomach sinks hard and faster, falling right out of you and onto the gambling parlor floor.
“It’s alright, darling,” Mr. Moultman sniffs and turns to face you, eyes dark. “We’ve got a lot of time to educate you. Don’t we gentlemen?”
Rabbits have nothing on you with how fast you fly off of him and out the door. Fear squeezes your heart, and you clutch your chest. In part to keep your stays up, and another part because you're so afraid your heart might leap out of your chest. You’ve never been much of a runner; you prefer soft activities and hobbies, but by Mary and Joseph, you wish you had been.
Shame, embarrassment, some nasty mixture of the two, laced with anger and humiliation, bite at your heels as you tear through the quiet streets. No one's out tonight, it seems. The whole town’s hiding from a girl who got too big for her britches. Despite how much you run, your blood stays cold.
The band of men chasing after you isn’t quiet at all. Hoots and hollers bounce off the sides of buildings as they leer. Tell you how soft your skin's gonna feel under their hands. That you should have let them watch, since now they’ll get a taste. Said they’d do to you what they did to Annabelle.
It’s hard to know where to run to for shelter as they chase behind you like wild dogs. Daddy wouldn’t be no help. He wouldn’t stop them. Hell, he’d open the door for them and step outside the house to let them do whatever they wanted. You prayed Momma wasn’t looking down and seeing all of this.
Your head bangs against the ground as you’re tackled from behind, air rushing out of your lungs. Pebbles dig into your front, shirt shifted with your stays undone. You thrash and writhe, but the men gather round as Mr. Moultman turns you over and pins them above your head. Another man helps hold them down.
“Wriggly little thing ain’t ya? Gonna have to fix that.” He has the audacity to chuckle. Like you’re some show pony for him, moving when he says move. All the men laugh at it, too. Like it's a funny joke to treat a woman like this.
You gather all the spit you can in your mouth and fire it at him. It lands squarely on his cheek. Mr. Moultman’s face goes flat, laughter dying in his throat. Hell, you don’t even see his hand move, don’t know the smacks coming till your heads wrench to the side. Ear ringing, face burning, all you can do is stare down Main Street. He craned your neck so hard to the right that you could see the church hall at the end of the street. The second one’s just as abrupt, though you give yourself some grace on it. The first ones still got your head ringing mighty bad.
If you squint just a bit, the stars dance across your vision like the Fourth of July, all bright and sparkly.
“Always knew you’d be fun to break,” the sleazy scumbags got you straddled to the ground. “Just had to get your daddy on my side.”
He reaches down to his belt buckle. The metal clinking brings you back into yourself real quick. “You’re gonna be a dutiful wife and take care of me and my rights now, y’hear?”
“Get off me!” It’s wet and angry. Scratches the back of your throat nonetheless as you yell through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you, I swear I’ll kill you.”
There ain’t ever been a moment in your life that you’ve felt so hopeless as you do now. All the men around you are laughing. Sneering at you.
Mr. Moultman chuckles. “You don’t got much say in this here, sweetheart.”
His fingers dig into your jaw as he wrenches your jaw open and pushes them down your throat. They taste like metal and dirt and make you gag. God help you. If you made it through tonight, they’d see you hung not long after. You’d grab daddy’s rifle and shoot these men like wild animals, they are.
A gun goes off.
Maybe Dod did hear you callin’ out to him.
Mr. Moultman goes limp and slumps to the side, his brains spilling out. Blood splattered across your face, warm and sticky. His corpse slumps over you, exhaling from the force.
The men around you are slow to move. Too drunk to process what was happening until another one of them crumples to the ground dead. It sends the remaining three men scrambling. Pulling out their pistols and kicking up dust as they try to locate the shooter.
It’s dark. Has been on this side of town since the sun went down. No street lamps have been lit. Only the moon, hung high in the sky so big and white, produces any light.
Nothing about the past month feels real. Maybe you’d died, and this was penance for your sins. The ringing in your ears only gets louder. Your part doesn’t feel real. Maybe your souls are being taken into the rapture, the archangel Michael coming down to bring you to the pearly gates. You sit up slowly, shoving off Moultman’s body as you do so. He’s heavy. Dead weight. Doesn’t laugh or jeer at you. Just flops to the side like a fish.
Another gunshot rings out, and another one of the lackeys hits the ground.
“Come out, you fucker!”
“I’m gon’ rip yer face off!”
The three remaining men sound scared when they scream. Too far gone to notice the glint of silver from around the corner. A third shot echoes in the empty street, hitting one square in the chest. The fourth hits Moultman’s right hand in the throat, tearing open his jugular. The last man standing doesn’t even try to fight. He just takes off running.
Then the streets are quiet. Still. Crickets make music in the night.
Gunpowder clings to your hair. All you can smell is the smoke of it and the metallic stench of blood. Can’t tell if you were near an ember, if you’d burst into flames, or if it’d be doused out by all of the blood on you. Everything hurts. Your fingers, wrists, arms, neck, and by Jove does your face hurt.
You don’t even know you’re sobbing.
“Cmon girl, up.” It’s Jack’s voice, but he sounds so far away. “Up, girl. We don’t have time for this.”
You know you should move, listen to what he says. But all you can do is continue to sob.
“Right now, don’t get mad at me for this,” Jack bends and tucks his arms under your knees and picks you up. Carries you like a bride. You thrash; the feeling of his hands on you is painful. “I know, I know. You gotta let me do this.”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!” You’re screaming at him.
Jack just grips your face, forcing you to look at him. He looks tired. “Sweetheart, it's me.”
“Jack?” You stutter. It finally clicks that it's him and not someone else as you wrap your arms around his neck.
“I’m here,” His hand cradles the back of your head, the ghost of his lips in your hair. “We gotta get outta town.”
“Okay.”
He whistles low, and his horse comes out from the dark. You always knew he was strong, and if you didn’t believe it before, the way he hoists you up on the mount before hopping on behind you proved it. Leaning against his chest, you let the sway of horseback numb your mind.
Let your head go blank. Trying to forget everything that's happened in the last few weeks, few months, hell, the past few years. Maybe if you squeezed your eyes real tight, you’d wake up back when Momma was alive, and none of this mattered. When you still lived in Virginia, before Daddy took up gold mining out west. Be under that big oak tree in the back by the crick, hair in pigtails with dirt on your hands. Happier.
It’s easy to retreat into yourself and let life happen around you. You aren’t sure how much time passes like that.
The sun rises at some point, but you pay it no mind. Blood on your hands is flaking off now. Like little paint chips floating off in the wind. Still would swear it’s running fresh across you, but it ain’t. It dried hours ago in the summer heat.
You raise your eyes and see a mountain range you've never seen before in the distance. The peaks still look like squiggles on the horizon, but the shape of them's so distinct you’d’ve known it from others.
“Where are we going?” Mouths dry as you talk. Tongue darting out to wet your lips.
It feels unnatural to talk. You ain’t done it since you left town those days ago.
“Forget already?” Jack chuckles in your ear before he leans back to look at you. It feels like he sees every single secret you’ve tried to hide. “You alright, doll?”
You look back at your hands. They’re perfectly clean.
“I don’t know,” it’s truthful. You don’t know if you’re okay or not. But you do know one thing. “I go where you go.”
“You sure?”
It’s the third day you’ve been riding with him. Stopping at night to rest while he hunts. He went into a small town two days ago and got you new clothes. Took you to a river and let you wash off.
There’s no hope of coming back to town even if you wanted to. New York is out of the question for you. Too many loan sharks after your last name. It ain’t practical for a woman to be out on her own.
You haven’t felt a safety like you feel in his arms in many a moon.
“I’m sure.”
“Alright.”
Jack’s lazy smile walls off his face as he clicks his tongue. The horse protests a bit, but he pulls the reins and rights it. You’re headed to a slightly different location than you were before. Just a tad more to the North of North West instead of just Northwest.
You just hope things will stay the same when you get to town.
───※ ·❆· ※───
It’s been four months since you came to town. The Montana Territory. It’s different than anything you’ve ever known. With thin air, tall trees, and a glacier in the mountains, Jack took you there previously. It's rugged and remote. Removed from any real connections. Though the people in Bozeman say they’re gonna build a railroad
It’s different. Ain’t a bad thing or a good thing really. It's just different.
Your days are different, too. You don’t wake and make breakfast for Daddy, you make it for Jack. But Jack doesn’t come stumbling down the stairs hungover to eat it. He’s been up since before the sun has, herding the cattle and dealing with the ongoing. When you got to town, Jack traded in some stuff plus a whole lot of gold and bought a ranch.
The whole town thinks you’re his wife.
You ride into town in the late morning to go get some more flour. The bins are running low, and you want to make a pecan pie this week. Jack goes for it more than the berry pies you’ve made in the past. Likes them soft and gooey with cream poured on top.
One of the first things Jack bought when you got here was a bay colored mare for you to ride. Said it’d be best if you had your own way around. He just showed up with her one day, told you she was yours, and taught you how to ride her properly. You can still feel his hands on your waist, steadying you when you close your eyes.
Now you take Juniper out and ride to town or around the valley whenever you feel like it.
Dust kicks up around her hooves as she brings you down the main road. The town’s small and quiet, but given the time, people are milling about. You give your pleasantries as you tie Juniper to the post out front with a soft pat to her muzzle and head into the general store.
Betsy notices you instantly from her spot behind the counter.
“Howdy, Mrs. Abbot. How y’all doing?”
“We’re good, Betsy, thank you. How’s your oldest?”
She’d just given birth. She’s near your age, you think. Maybe a few years younger, but in the general range.
“Good!” Betsy beams as she talks. “That baby of hers has got some real lungs. If we aren’t careful, she’ll have every cow from here to kingdom come in the valley before the days done. What can I get you?”
“Aw, bless her. 10 pounds of flour would be great.”
“Of course,” she bends down and mills about some before putting a sack of flour on the counter. “Now, when are we going to see some mini Abbots running around?”
It catches you off guard for a second.
“Oh. We aren’t. That’s not in the cards for us.”
Betsy’s smile softens, a glassy look in her eyes.
“Oh, honey,” she reaches out and grabs your hand across the counter. Her skin’s soft like worn leather. “God will see you through. I’ll pray for y'all.”
“Thank you, Betsy.”
“Course.”
───※ ·❆· ※───
Jack's got a cigar between his lips, sitting on the porch, smoking it when you get back on Juniper. The sun's lower, not hanging high in the sky, but there’s still a couple of hours before sunset. You’re in a good mood when you take the saddle off Juniper and send her to pasture. Even though Betsy’s question still lingers in the back of your head, you ain’t fixated on it.
Walking up to the porch, he gives you a small smile. One of the barn cats that came with the ranch is on his lap. It’s the grey one that keeps bringing dead mice to the kitchen door like she’s proving her worth on the ranch.
“You look comfortable.”
“She crawled up on me and well,” he scratches the top of the cat's head, who leans up into it. “Didn’t have the heart to kick her off.”
“It’s cute.”
“You mean she is.”
“Yeah.” You look down at your skirts, smiling. “Betsy’s got the gossip mill going again, but I think I got her to stop.”
“What this time?”
“Asking about babies. Told it to her wasn't in the cards for us.”
Jack merely hums and looks back down at the cat.
You feel awkward. Like a snake’s crawling in your skin, slithering to and fro. “I can tell her we’re not married. I don’t want to ruin your prospects.”
“My prospects?”
The cat jumps off his lap and scuttles away.
“Of actually gettin’ married,” you mumble, watching the cat go.
Jack stands with a stretch and a small groan before he bends at the waist to snub out the cigar. He walks down the creaking porch steps towards you. His right leg is dragging a bit more this afternoon; he must have overdone it in the morning round-up.
“You tryna get rid of me?” He asks it with that signature crooked smile of his. Bastard loves teasing you.
“No, but I don’t want your life to be dictated by me.”
“Well,” Jack laughs a little bit. “I already got me a wife, just ask Betsy.”
“But it’s not true.”
“Only takes a pastor to make it true.”
Your stomach flips, butterflies swarming inside it.
“Surely you’d want a wife who’d perform marital duties, no? That means we’d need to… y’know…”
“Sweetheart,” his voice is low and controlled. It makes a shiver run down your spine. “I’m a grown man. I’d take care of the ‘martial duties’ just fine.”
Your face feels like a forest fire.
“Oh.”
“Oh indeed.” He touches your waist as he walks past. “I’m going to bring the steer in before it gets too late. Don’t get lost in that head of yours.”
You do try. Honest to God, right hand on the bible, you do try not to overthink what Jack said. But it’s hard not to when you sit across from him at dinner and can't help but notice his forearms when he pushes his sleeves up. You can’t help but notice how he washes the dishes once you’re done eating, even though you know his leg is bugging him. You can’t help but notice the way he watches you from the corner of his eye, making sure you’re alright. He’s a provider, in every sense of the term.
And you’re not dumb. You’re an educated woman from St. Mary the Venerable’s Day School for Girls. You know he’s interested in you; he made that clear months ago. But you’d never even considered him as an option. He left town too much, Daddy wouldn’t have approved, excuses you’d tell yourself. But now he’s settled. A rancher. A good one too.
Jack Abbot is a good man. A rare thing these days. Everyone in the town respects him, despite the short time you've been here. They trust him with their livestock, their children.
And he is very, very handsome.
Thunder cracks again. The storm had started just after Jack brought all the cows in. It gives a right chill to the air that even with the wood stove burning, there are goosebumps up and down your arms. Maybe that's why you slide on your house slippers and pad over to Jack’s room.
“Jack?” You knock on the door real soft. If he doesn’t answer, you can say it's a lapse of judgment, grab the extra quilt, and call it a night.
His voice is muffled through the door. “What is it, darlin’?”
You wet your lips. “Can I come in?”
“Course.”
You wrap your hand around the brass handle and push.
Out of respect, or maybe modesty, you try not to come into Jack’s room too often. Only there to clean or change the bedding. It feels different when he’s in here. Like the whole room was focused on him.
“You alright?”
His voice is rough. You must have woken him up.
“Yes. I’m just cold.”
“I’ve got a spare blanket in the chest.”
“No, I was thinking,” lord almighty, you feel juvenile. “I was thinking I could just share a bed with you.”
Jack doesn’t say anything, and you can’t really see his face with the little moonlight there is. It’s far too quiet for a moment, and you feel like you’ve made a massive mistake. The anxiety pricks your neck, and you move to cover it up, but before you can speak, he throws open the covers.
“Come on in.”
You climb into bed with him and lie still on your back after adjusting the covers, careful not to touch him.
“You ain’t getting warm like that. Roll over.”
Jack nudges you onto your side and siddles up behind you. It’s then you realize he’s not wearing a shirt, and you can feel the direct heat of him through your thin chemise. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you tight against him.
It feels right. Wrapped up in him like this.
You both settle into it quickly. A comfortable silence between the two of you. And it's only when things have stilled that you truly feel him behind you. All of him. Every part that makes him a man.
You shift back experimentally. Seeing if you can feel more of him against you, and boy, can you. Every inch of man behind you.
Jack shifts back.
That curious nature of yours comes rearing its head, and you push back against him. He’s firm. That budding restlessness comes back, too, and you wiggle a bit more.
“Darlin’,” his voice is right in your ear, and oh, do you like that. How strained he sounds. “I am tryna keep you an honest woman as best I can, so I am begging you to keep still.”
“You said all it takes is a pastor to make it official,” you whisper, voice all soft and airy. “What’s the matter if we see Father Adam tomorrow morning?”
His arm around your waist tightens.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do, Jack,” you reach down and grab his hand, bringing it to your chest. “I do. I’m not some little girl, y’know?”
Jack’s fingers dig into your breast, cupping the weight of it. “Lord, do I know.”
It’s like a flip switch in him, gone with that gentlemanly persona he put on. He moves faster than a rattlesnake, flipping you onto your back and leaning over you. Takes your breath away. His hands are back on your waist, thumb caught on the fabric of your chemise, pulling it up.
He leans down, face inches from your own.
“You sure about this?” his eyes meet your own, searching for any hesitation. “Once we do this, there’s no going back. We’ll meet with Father Adams in the morning, and you’ll be Mrs. Abbot in every sense.”
Your voice catches. “I’m sure.”
With that, Jack surges forward, his mouth meeting your own. He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s been wandering the desert and you're an oasis. Like he’s trying to mark you, flesh and bone, fill you with parts of himself. He tastes like salt and heat, tongue against your own.
You arch off the bed, and he takes the opportunity to slide a hand under your chemise and pull it up with a slight tremor. Only the thin cotton of your drawers covers you. Jack leans back on his haunches for a moment to appreciate the view. The soft swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist, how you’re breathing heavily now.
The sound of the rain on the roof seems louder now, drowning out anything else but the feeling of his hands on you.
“Mother Mary,” he whispers, a prayer and a curse all tangled up.
Insecurity bites at your heels. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, darlin’,” his hands slide lower, pulling at the edge of your drawers.
“You’re beautiful, y’know that? Already knew you were beautiful enough to kill for, hell, I’ve done it before. But this…”
He pulls your drawers off completely with a groan. “This is enough to make a man lose his mind.”
Jack leans back down to kiss before trailing kisses down your neck. He sucks on your nipple before letting go with a loud pop. He takes his time, going down your body till he meets between your legs.
“What are you doing?” You’re flustered. No one’s ever told you about this before.
“Just relax. Let your husband treat you right.”
When his mouth meets your clit, a sort of primal understanding courses through you. Your head hits the pillow, your fingers dig into the bedding. Jack’s a man of action, always has been. Good with his hands. He takes care to learn your body, focused on making sure you feel good. Taking note of what makes you tighten your thighs around his head, what makes those beautiful little whines of yours louder.
He sets a deliberate rhythm to his movements. Giving you a steady pulse to ride and ride and ride. Let that heat burn brighter under your skin. The tension in your belly tightens.
Now, you’re no saint, you’ve taken to the pleasures of the flesh by yourself before, but it feels so different with his mouth on you. The weight of him against you, your legs over his shoulders. His hands are on your body, one on your waist, the other kneading your breast.
Jack can tell you’re near your breaking point when you let out a low moan of his name. Your hands fly to his hair. He can’t tell if you’re trying to pull him away or pull him closer, but he doesn’t move. Greedy girl. Don’t you know he’s already giving you exactly what you need? You oughta trust your husband and just ride his face like that.
Your orgasm hits like a flash flood. One strike in the sky and then the rains come pouring. It's a violent shudder that draws you taut, curling in on yourself like a babe, and then pushing you out reborn. Your hips jerk against Jack’s face, but he keeps you put, only slowing his tongue a bit. There’s ringing in your ears and a headrush so intense you feel lightheaded.
“Jack,” you whimper, tears on your lashes.
He finally pulls away from you.
“I just love me some good pussy.” He jokes as you catch your breath.
“So you’ve said.”
Jack smirks and sits up to pull off his pajama bottoms. He’s got no breeches on, so his cock springs out an angry red color.
“You want to keep going, darlin’?”
He’s always so good to you.
“We'd better consummate the marriage.”
He doesn’t rush into it like you heard most men do, but you shouldn't be surprised. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and pulls them out before bringing them to your pussy. You’re wet and messy, loose from your orgasm. He slides in with no issue. He pumps them in and out a few times, opening you up further before taking them out and lining up his cock.
The head of it catches on your hole.
“Tell me if it hurts, alright?”
You nod, afraid that you can’t even speak now.
Jack's taking it slow. Letting you feel every centimeter of him. Let’s you know the girth of him as he sinks inside you. Let’s your body get accustomed to something that he knows is going to be a very, very regular occurrence with how tight your velvet walls are squeezing him.
“Easy,” his voice is raspy, and you swear you feel it in your bones. “Let me take care of you.”
Jack stills when he bottoms out, cock buried deep inside you. But you don’t want to wait. Having him so close but so far feels like torture. You want more, you need more.
“Move,” you beg, grinding up against him, lost in the feeling. “Please, Jack. I need it.”
Who is he to deny Mrs. Abbot when she pleads so softly? Like he hung the stars in the sky for her.
Jack finds a rhythm quickly. One that cooperates with his bad leg but still gives you enough to feel sickly sweet pleasure. It’s driving and steady. Take the breath out of your lungs. You feel every inch of friction as he fucks you. He lifts your hips just a smidge, but it shifts everything and makes it more intense. His grip never falters either. He just drives deeper into you.
Maybe it's untoward for a married woman, but you snake an arm between your two bodies and your fingers find your clit, sliding it back and forth. It’s messy and wet and feels so good.
Your pussy clamps down on his cock.
“That’s it,” he groans, head tilted back in pure, delicious pleasure. “Play with that sweet little pussy o’ yours. Show me how bad you want it.”
Jack leans down, mouth crashing against your own again. The rough graze of his stubble against your jaw makes your heart skip a beat. He swallows your moans, your pleasure his own. The overwhelming desire to be inside you clouds his judgment as he loses a bit of himself inside the tight, wet heat of you.
For the second time that night, you cum. This time with a whine before your body goes limp. Jack lets out a startled cry from how tightly you squeeze him, but he doesn’t stop. Even as your pussy flutters around him. He’s close too. Can feel that wave about to crest.
“My girl,” Jack starts, the slap of skin echoing in the room. “My lady. My wife. I’m gonna treat you so good, sweetheart. You won’t want for nothing.”
Finally, the wave breaks. Jack's body stiffens as he spills his load inside you. It’s hot, leaks out the small gap between you too. His head meets the crook of your neck, his breath long and shaky. It feels natural for you to reach up, one hand playing with the curls at the base of his neck, the other running up and down his back.
“Did you mean it?” The question gnaws at you.
Jack pulls back enough to look you in the eye. “Darlin’, I have meant every word I’ve ever said to you.”
You smile at him, and Jack’s never been so glad to be alive. “Alright.”
Hate is a strong word, but that's the only word you can use to describe your feelings towards Tsukishima. Fortunately for you, the feeling is (mostly) mutual.
warnings: MDNI, virgin as an insult, Tsukishima has a BUZZCUT, light pussy inspection, light anal play, heavy degradation, biting, face fucking (reader receiving), spanking, unprotected sex, creampies
147. That’s how many times Kei Tsukishima has clicked his pen, interrupting your peace and quiet. Fucking typical. Egotistical know it all with a stick up his ass. You’ve no idea why the director keeps him around other than for his knowledge of the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia. You’re uncertain if it should piss you off more or less that he’s attractive.
Tall with long legs, short-cropped curly blonde hair, and a stupidly straight and perfect nose. Stupid tortoise shell and gold glasses. Stupid sweater. Stupid watch. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Are you trying to get my attention?”
Oops.
You’ve been caught staring.
Eyes narrow, you meet his gaze. He looks as if you’re a bug underfoot, voice laced with amusement, the infuriating low hum of superiority ever-present. Hard not to assume he’s always had a massive ego. It must have looked funny as a kid with how big his head is.
“No, actually,” You bite back sarcastically “I was just curious if you wake up everyday an asshole.”
“Hmm, funny,” he speaks with an exhale, lazily spinning on his stool to face you. His legs are crossed at the knee, left over right, hands clasped in front of his knees as he’s still hunched over from bending down to reach the table. “Do you wake up every day a bitch?”
You scowl at him, the urge to throw your notebook at his face overwhelming. “I wake up the bitch.”
The air between you feels volatile. Flammable. One spark, and either one of you would blow. Pressure has been building for a long while now, and the cracks are starting to show.
He’s got a brow cocked, really looking at you know. The low cut of your V-neck sweater shows off your clavicle and the starting swell of your breast. How they jiggle when you cross your arms. Not work appropriate but what could he expect from a little slut like you?
Even if he’d rather kill himself than admit it to you, you were, for all intents and purposes, incredibly hot to him. The way your skirt hugged your ass always had him sneaking glances when he was sure you wouldn’t see it. Hard to fully hate you and your attitude when half the time he wanted to bend you over the table, especially today with that slicked back ponytail of yours being the perfect handhold.
Your skin crawls seeing his eyes flick to your chest. Shameless. The smug motherfucker has the audacity to smirk knowing full well he was just staring at your tits. “Are you serious?”
He spins back around on the stool, dismissive of you once more. “More than some. At least I don't show up to work with my tits out.”
“How fucking dare you, you insolent piece of-”
The door to the lab slams open with a sharp bang, cutting you off. Director Yamada stands in the doorway, blazer half off his shoulder. He’s young for a museum director, only about 38 with grey hair at the temples. Very eccentric as well.
“You guys were going on a retreat to celebrate!” He throws a planet ticket down in front of Kei and then hands you yours, standing the bands of his suspenders. “We’re getting a Picasso!” The middle-aged man spins around and claps. “Picasso!”
A retreat with Tsukishima? Great. Kill you now.
“That sounds great, Director!” You give a forced smile, and director Yamada wanders over to you and grabs your shoulders.
“I’m putting you in charge of planning it.” His hands slide down to squeeze your arms. “I want grandeur, but not too expensive, okay?”
You nod. “Of course, Director.”
Director Yamada lets go of your arms and pivots, heading back out the door. It slams closed behind him, but you can hear him down the hall cheering out, “Picasso! We’re getting a Picasso!”
Kei mumbles under his breath, and you don't catch it. You have a feeling he’s talking shit.
“What was that?”
“I said, Daddy’s girl never had to work for anything.” He spins to face you, voice venomous, once again crossing his long legs over each other. The metal of his glasses catches the light. And here you thought he might say something productive for the first time in the entire time you’ve known him.
“Oh fuck you Tsukishima!” you start.
He lifts one of his stupid eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“Strike a nerve?” You cock your head, biting the words out.
Sneering, he responds. “Sniveling little slut whose career progression includes starts at motels with the boss.”
He thinks it’s going to hurt you, clearly, from the way there’s a smile in his eyes. Typical male behaviour. Yawn! It might have bugged you if you were 15, awkward, and uncomfortable in your body but you’re a grown ass adult who financed your way through college and graduated Cum Laude.
You know a jealous man—boy when you see one.
“Oooooh, so that’s what this is about, huh?” You laugh out, sharply. “You hate me because Director Yamada likes me more than you.”
“He likes you because you come to work with your tits out.” Kei hisses, sitting up straight, relaxed laissez-faire posture gone. Doesn’t even try to dress up his voice with fake pleasantry.
Refusing to back down, you step forward. There’s about two feet between you now. “He likes me because I’m good at my job. You’re just bitter 'cause daddy didn’t give you enough attention.”
“Clearly, daddy didn’t give you enough with the way you’re desperate to spread your legs.”
His nostrils flare. There’s a glint of something in his eyes but honestly you don’t give a flying fuck about what he’s feeling. Entitled piece of shit deserves to be chewed out for once in his life.
“If you’re that upset why don't you get down on your knees and suck his dick?” If he thinks that’s what you did, he can man up and do the same.
“So vulgar.”
You laugh. “Oh my god! You literally just called me a slut.”
Kei stands from the stool, towering above you like he’s trying to intimidate you, make you back down.
“Is it vulgar if it's the truth?”
He’s leaning down over you now. Stupid, long eyelashes dusting his cheeks.
You look him up and down. “At least I know how to fuck. Unlike you, you useless virgin.”
He’s closer now. You can see the flecks of brown amongst the gold, like parts of it have rusted over. His breath is cold exhales that smells of peppermint.
“Then why do you act like a bitch in heat?” He grabs your jaw. It’s the most physical contact you’ve ever had with him. “Desperate to get your pussy stuffed and leaking. I bet you let anyone fuck you, don’t you?”
“Fuck you.”
It’s teeth and gums more than lips when you kiss, knocking together hard enough, you wonder for a second if you’ve broken a tooth. There’s no time to think about it, however, as Kei bites down on your lip, forcing your mouth open, his tongue quickly fills the space. It's aggressive, controlling, everything you know him to be.
Your hands fly to his hair, tugging him down from standing so you don’t have to stretch to meet him as much, and his hand meets your neck. It’s shockingly gentle the way he cradles you. Warm and tender, you sink into his touch before it suddenly sours.
His grip tightens, free hand reaching out to wipe the table clear behind you, fingernails digging slightly into the back of your neck. Then he grips your thighs, fingers digging in to the point of pain, as he hikes your hips up to meet his own. You jump up, meeting him halfway as a rare compromise between the two of you, and you’re airborne for a brief moment.
Your back hits the table with a slam, and you feel in your shoulder blades the bone connecting with the wood. Kei is rough with you, pulling you down to the edge of the table and yanking up your skirt. He’s finally lost that stupid look on his face, and it’s been replaced by something meaner.
“Lace?” He comments, toying with the edge of your panties. “You really are such a slut.”
“Don’t act like you don’t like it.” You can feel how hard he is, his erection resting against your thigh.
The crack of his palm meeting the flesh of your thigh rings out, sharp and dry. It blooms into four red lines. Guess he still plays volleyball.
“You’re so sensitive, Kei, can’t even take a little teasing.”
He scoffs. “I’m sensitive?” His tone is incredulous, sarcastic, and waxing as he slides his fingers over your slit, your hips chasing after it.
“Yeah, you are.”
He strikes your thigh again, directly on the same spot. The pain was only soothed by his pressing his palm against the spot before you could process it fully. A gasp falls from your lips, tight and airy. Tsukishima grins, wide, sharp, ever so slightly unnerving. Reminds you of the Cheshire cat in the old Alice in Wonderland animation. Calculating. Predatory.
Hungry.
It’s now your nails that dig into the flesh of a neck, pulling him down over yourself. They brush against the fresh, bleached, and toned buzz of his hair. Feels like velour as you drag your fingertips from the back of his neck, over the sides of his head, and plant them on his jaw.
He slots between your thighs with a grunt. The fly of his plaid trousers catches against your panties, pulling you closer together. The bump of his erection on your clit makes a shiver run down your spine.
Tsukishima’s mouth opens in a rebuttal, but you cut him off by rolling your hips. The slide of your covered slit against the front of his trousers feels divine. Perfect amount of friction and softness, with enough lubrication from how wet you are that it’s as smooth as butter. His eyes flick down from your face to where the two of you meet. There’s a hint of deference in his gaze. It goes away almost as quickly as it comes, covered up by a groan as you roll your hips again.
He looks good like this. Head tilted back slightly, lips parted a smidge, and his eyes half lidded as he pulls your hips closer.
“See, Kei? Sensitive.” You emphasize your words with another slow body roll.
Maybe you should have held back a bit as his face shifts.
That little glimpse into a softer version of him fully replaced it. The corner of his lip lifts, white canine catching in the light. His hand flies to your neck, squeezing the sides, your head feeling fuzzy as he cuts off the blood flow. Kei’s free hand pulls your sweater up and bra down, soft mounds now pushed up by the bunched cups under them. The lab is kept cold, and your nipples immediately harden.
“I’ll show you sensitive.” He growls, squeezing your neck tighter.
Despite how he’s acting and what he’s saying, he’s taking care to choke you properly with no pressure on your windpipe.
Kei doesn’t give you a chance to argue, as he bends down and bites into the apex of your left tit before doing the same on the right. His grip on your throat never wavers, your hair now filled with static. Sharp teeth continue to nip at you as he alternates between biting your chest and leaving hickies, all the while grinding his hips into yours. Right nipple in his mouht, he swirls his tongue around it before biting down and sucking. It hurts so good that you can’t help but arch your back off the table. Your hands fly to his hair, and he pulls off with a pop, locking eyes with you.
“You still have so much attitude,” he speaks while flipping you over to your front, making sure that your skirt’s not covering your ass, and releasing your neck. “This is why I can’t stand you.”
Raspy, you quip back. “Oh, I think you're more than stand me, Kei. Just look at your little friend. He seems more than happy-”
You’re stunned into silence as his palm connects with your ass. The skin stings in his wake.
“Do you ever shut up?” He sounds so exasperated with you that you’d almost find it cute if he didn’t immediately smack your ass again. “You’re so fucking infuriating.”
You can’t help but goad him on. “Boo,” you yelp as he brings his hand down again, the sharp pain making your hips jerk forward into the table. “Fucking,” he smacks the other cheek. “Hoo.”
He comes down even harder, the smack echoing obscenely off the walls, and the pain makes you moan. It goes straight to his dick. Kei repeats the motion, and you moan again. The urge to see your face is overwhelming as he leans over you, your sensitive ass against the rough fabric of his trousers. It’s like you can feel every fiber when he moves and grabs your face and turns you to look at him, palming your cheek, his thumb resting on your mouth.
You’re flushed. Eyes glassy with unshed tears. You’d bitten your lip at some point, or maybe it was from the hot and heavy makeout session, but your lips are swollen, lipstick smudged. He almost forgets he’s mad at you with how gorgeous you look. How you parted your lips and closed them around his thumb makes him feel crazy. You make suction on the pad of it before swirling your tongue around it. Then you take it deeper, down to his knuckle. Your mouth is so soft and wet.
It does wonders for your ego when his mouth parts and he licks his lips. His eyes flutter closed for a moment. It’s not even that perverse, but you make it filthy and intimate. Looking up at him through your eyelashes as you pull back slowly, lips dragging across his skin, until just the tip of it remains in your mouth. You bite down before pulling all the way back.
“Lost in thought, handsome?”
Immediately, his eyes open, pupils blown wide as he stands up straight, like he’s embarrassed. A small wash of color spreads on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Kei grabs your underwear and pulls them down. He takes an ass cheek in each hand and spreads your legs apart. Long slender fingers part your center, and he feels like he’s won the lottery. You’re incredibly wet, pussy shiny under the fluorescent lights.
“I shouldn’t be surprised you liked that, huh?” He prods at your hole. “Dumb sluts always love being put in their place.” He pushes his finger in slowly till he reaches his third knuckle.
“I’m impressed you’re so tight. Then again, it wouldn’t matter if every guy you’ve ever slept with couldn’t get it up.” His middle finger joins the other, and scissors you open. “Ah, that’s why you’re so wound up, isn’t it? You just need a good hard fuck, don’t you?”
“You sure you’re not the one who’s a whiny little bitch in need of a good fuck?” you stifle a moan as he thrusts his fingers in again.
He pulls out. “Always fucking talking.”
Guided, or rather dragged, by his hand at the base of your ponytail, you slide off the table and unceremoniously onto your knees. The cool tile flooring makes goosebumps rise on your thighs. Kei makes quick work of his belt, the metal jingling as he undoes his pants and pulls his cock out of his boxer. He’s longer than you’d thought he’d be and pale all over. There’s two moles on his v line you spot as he grabs his dick and strokes it a few times. Makes your mouth water.
“Open.” You roll your eyes at the command but do so anyway.
Sticking your tongue out, you open wide, and Kei positions the tip to your mouth. He smells like sandalwood. The salty musk of pre-cum tickles your tastebuds. Big hands grab the sides of your head to keep it still as he moves forward. You’re careful not to let your teeth nick him as you take him.
You look up at him through your lashes, hollowing your cheeks. It’s hard to stop the smile, coy as it builds, from happening. He looks good from this angle. His eyes are dark, intense, focused solely on you and how you take half of him in your mouth. A low groan builds at the back of his throat as you reach up to massage his balls.
All he can feel is your mouth, soft, warm, and wet as you bob your head. His hips jut forward, chasing you as you pull back. You set a steady rhythm, each time taking him just a little bit further. The wet, sloppy sounds of head fill the room, cut by Kei’s moans. He could get lost in the tight heat of your throat.
He almost does.
But then you pull back, catch your breath, and then he’s hitting the back of your throat. Your nose meets his pelvis. The one thing he doesn’t want is for you to get an ego about making him cum and when you swallow around him, he’s quick to pull you off of him.
“What, afraid you’ll cum?”
“At least there’s something you’re good at.” He pulls you up by the hand and spins you around, bending you over the table again.
The wood is cold against your naked chest. He stills, hesitant for a spilt second before he parts your pussy lips to stare at your hole. There’s a low hum from the back of his throat as you wiggle your hips.
A glob of warm spit lands directly against your asshole.
“Bet you like getting your ass fucked too. Filthy slut.”
He circles his thumb around the puckered hole, enjoying the way you tense and shudder beneath. Your back arches as his thumb presses ever so slightly against the tight ring of muscle.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” Kei challenges as he circles it again.
“Jealous?” You manage to tease, even if it comes out like a breathless whine. His grip on you tightens at the provocation.
Even with your view obstructed, the twitch of his eyebrows is clear.
His voice is right in your ear as he bends over you, covering your body with his, as he whispers in a low growl. “Doesn’t matter what you did before. After this, your only going to want to fuck me.”
Kei thrusts deeply into your dripping core. You feel yourself clamp down on him as he sets a brutal pace. He fucks with wild abandon. It makes the table jolt with every thrust, the pen holder falling over. One pen rolls to the edge and falls off with how hard he fucks you.
Your hips dig into the wood of the table, the bone rubbing against it, as you brace yourself up on one elbow. It’s like he’s driving up into you, the tip of cock catching on your cervix. Kei pulls your arm out from under you and pins it behind you, so all you can do is take it. You’ll be bruised in the morning, and you can’t wait to see them.
“Fuck, you’re tight.” Kei snarls, it’s low, feral, and reverberates in your head as he bites the shell of your ear. “Tight fucking cunt. It’s like you don’t want me to leave, huh?”
He uses the leverage of your position to drive into you harder, the table groaning in time with his thrusts. More pens clatter to the floor, rolling away from you both. It’s overwhelming. He’s overwhelming.
“Dirty fucking slut. Always wearing these short skirts and flashing me. Bet you wanted this to happen. Wanted me to ruin you.”
Kei’s words sear you, heat flashes through you with every degrading thing he says, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. He pulls you to the edge of the table and lifts your hips up. The new angle has him hitting your G-spot with every thrust. It’s like a head rush as he bends and moves you as he wants, and you’re happy to be at his mercy.
“You’re a brat who just needed to be fucked. Just look at you.” Kei’s teeth dig into the side of your neck as he bites down on the tender flesh. A moan tips out of your chest. “There's my whore.”
Kei reaches around and with a few deft touches to your clit, you’re sent over the edge, convulsing around him. It’s electric, sparks on your skin, hair standing on its ends. It feels like a gentle caress and being slammed against the wall at the same time. Like the tide crashing on the sand and the earth cracking from an earthquake.
His hips jerk, uneven, as his body tenses, muscles flexing rapidly as his orgasm approaches. It’s with a rasped groan and a final few thrusts of his hips that he cums. Hot white spend filling you.
Chests heaving, you both are quiet. Catching your breaths with his half hard cock still inside you. It’s strangely peaceful like this. Kei pulls out with a hiss, grabs a tissue from the box near your head, wipes himself clean, and then tucks himself back into his trousers as you roll onto your back.
When he takes a step back, he bends down, and Kei spreads your puffy lips apart to stare at your fluttering hole. A small trickle of cum dribbles out. He drags it up to your clit, circling it, before guiding it back inside of you and pressing a gentle, dare you say tender, kiss to your thigh.
Oh.
That’s what it is.
Kei liked you. He has a fat little crush on you and couldn’t handle his feelings. Would he stop being mean? No. Did you want him to stop being mean? God no! Not when he fucks you like that.
Kei stands and stuffs your panties in his back pocket. “I’m keeping these.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sliding off the table, you chide. You wobble a little, and Kei catches you, his arms around the waist. “Buy me dinner and maybe you’ll get another pair.”
You bend over and do up your bra, straightening out the girls to make them sit pretty. Can’t believe Kei thought the lace bra was something scandalous and not you hating padded bras. Stupid man brain.
Steadied, you gather your belongings and shove them in your tote bag. “You know the director is gay, right?”
Warnings: MDNI, Naoya Zenin is a warning, misogyny, secondary sex discrimination, physical violence, rough sex, degradation, a/b/o, biting, blood, BDSM, dub to noncon, use of slick, forced consumption of bodily fluids, talk of impregnation and baby trapping, lactation kink, sadism and masochism, spanking, threats of domestic violence, objectification, maybe body horror, dear god please practice RACK irl
w.c: 7.5k (shes juicy)
A/N: baby's first omegaverse! my (very) late entry into the wonderful @goxjo's Into the Omegaverse Collab
The rhythmic patter of zori against the courtyard bridge banged in your mind, each strike sharp and precise like a taiko drum—warning of impending doom that faces your lady. Married off into the Zenin clan under a clear blue sky, the breeze ruffling her dangling kanzashi. Everything about her looked perfect today, you had ensured it. Despite being your cousin, there was a world of difference between you as she strode forward, back straight, umbrella held by another attendant. Her every move was slow and steady, pronounced grace and elegance in every movement.
It was easier to be from a branch family like you were—less pressure, less conformity, at least to a certain degree. While you had been at least allowed to attend jujutsu training until you presented, she had been given the basics of controlling her technique. Never stepping a foot outside of the family compound.
It felt like the tsubo-niwa felt like it went on forever. The stretch between the bridge’s end and the open shoji doors where the meeting would take place going on like the desert. The air between heavy, hot and humid, weight down the fabric of your kimono.
It was easier being from a branch family. You could bow and prostrate, low and deep as your aunt had whipped into you, the cedar marks still faint against the back of your thighs. The scars almost faded, silvery lines, chain linked together through opposition, personal rebellion where you could. You could then sit, your posture picture perfect, eyes kept low to the ground, breathe calmly, and let the men speak. You could retreat into yourself, the memories of how the sun felt against your bare arms during training, the tan you’d get from the hours of running drills. The peace using your cursed technique brought.
The peace and solitude of those moments had felt so pure. So freeing. But clan expectations changed everything. If only you had presented as a beta.
The cicadas buzzed a drone against the conversation. The clan head was appraising your cousin, speaking directly to your uncle. Wanting to know every important detail about her. How consistent her heats were, what her last blood work showed, and how likely was her technique to be passed down over the Zenin family. It had always been like this here, omegas being cattle. Traded, bartered, bred. You’d be luckier than her, likely married to someone of less importance. Your value was lower than hers with a mistake from your youth. Perhaps he’d be kind, come to care for you over time.
Maybe he’d let you train again, show you favor if you gave him an heir. You had made peace with the fact freedom, true freedom, would never come until you died or the death and destruction of your entire clan.
Maybe one day everything would go up in flames, and a great fire would roar over the compound, scorching the earth. Erasing the clan from history. Maybe a curse so powerful would come and consume everything in its wake. Maybe you should just run away, flee from Japan altogether. There were sorcerers abroad, maybe you could join their ranks. Be free from how they operate here. Or maybe you would run away and rebuke sorcery.
Clove, rich and warm, scented the air as another man walked into the meeting room. His voice was low, steps heavy.
Master Zenin introduced him as Naoya. His scent was distinctive, with notes of sandalwood underneath. It was spiced and smelt like comforting winter nights as the snow fell on pine trees. Holidays with your parents when your father was still alive. Both soothing and invigorating. It seemed to draw you in. Never before had a scent captivated you so strongly.
The dread you had felt crossing the bridge grew stronger, the animal instincts inside you screaming at you to run, and to run far. Run before he could catch you.
Peeking over your lash line, you caught his eyes, dark brown and full of hatred, directed straight at you. Scrutiny crawling over your skin, climbing up through the arms of your kimono and wrapping around your heart, squeezing it tightly. He looked at you as meat, stock to breed. Your eyes quickly returned to staring at the floor.
You had heard tales of him before, of all the Zenins, but experiencing it was a different story.
“Naoya, this is Hiroko Kimura.” Naobito spoke plainly as if your cousin was another thing to buy at the store. As if he was deciding between brands of butter.
From the corner of your vision, you watched as your cousin prostrated before him, kanzahi jingling as it hit the ground. Her father bows in suit, not nearly as low, saved by being an elder even if he was from a lesser family. Hiroko gave her greetings softly, speaking of how grateful she was to meet him. She was pumping out pheromones as she went, her scent permeating the air. The clash of clove and honey made you feel sick, the smell sticky as it crept around, spread by the breeze.
He acknowledged her briefly, with no real interest or care as he returned her greeting.“What’s the one behind her.”
You knew he spoke of you sat five feet behind your cousin, now desperately trying to refrain from shrinking into the floods of your blue ougi-patterned kimono. To keep your pheromones from leaking out, to not scent the air with fear.
“That is my daughter’s handmaiden, my brother’s daughter.” Your uncle introduced you to Naoya, shifting all the attention in the room to you. “She’s to continue her duties until a suitable mate is arranged for her.”
Naobito hummed as he now turned to look over you. The weight of everyone's gaze was heavy on you. If it had been a different time and place, you had led a different life, perhaps it wouldn't have felt like the end of the world but you knew the attention of the room, of the marriage meeting, being on you was far from good.
Naoya walked towards you, his presence looming, getting so close you could see his cloth-covered feet nearly touching your knees as you stared down at them. The soft fabric a sharp contrast to the dread pooling in your stomach. Maybe god would be merciful and cause lightning to strike the house, distract everyone, and allow you to escape. But god was not merciful, not kind, nor caring. No one was there to hear your prayers.
“Smells good,” he crouched before you, cornering you without any way out behind you. He left you with no escape route. “Look at me.”
His voice dripped with authority, command, and control, your instincts forcing you to comply. Instincts overriding fear, forcing your eyes to meet his own sharp brown eyes. Something in you felt like it was pulling you towards him, screaming at you to go to him. That he was the answer to your problems. That he’d take care of you.
He looked over you, his gaze filled with an unsettling intensity making you instinctively shrink as he looked for flaws or dents, something that might detract from your value. It was strange. To be appraised not as a person but as an object by him.
The silence stretched on as he did so, no one speaking for the first few minutes. Everyone was waiting to see what he would say — if he would say anything. But as his silent appraisal continued, the conversation returned between the elder alphas in the room as they discussed the latest in sorcery. No one cared that his stare was lecherous, undressing you as you sat there poised and politely. The front of your ankles burned from the strain.
Naoya’s hand went to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands you had to patiently worked into an appropriate style for such an important meeting, before tugging your head to the side with enough force to make you wince. A whine escaped you, feeble, the omega within you desperate to appease him. To desperately try and salvage something to diffuse the undercurrent of rage and entitlement radiating off of him
It was hard to keep your eyes trained on him as he instructed, it felt nearly impossible. The trained reaction of avoiding confrontation, battling with the fear of displeasing him, and looking away only making the situation worse. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat feeling closer and closer to bursting through your chest as he leaned forward, weight in the balls of his feet, face uncomfortably close to your neck. To your scent glands.
Warm, wet muscle brushed against them, tasting the skin. A soft moan fell from your lips as you could feel every individual taste bud of his tongue as he lapped at your neck.
Embarrassment, mortification-shame dancing along your spine as the room stilled again. Everyone had heard you but no one chose to comment. It was clear Naoya was staking his claim on you. Why would anyone care what he was doing to an omega, especially one with no status? It was his birthright as an alpha. The spices in his scent made your eyes sting with how close he was now, like little pinpricks on your skin.
Each passing swipe of his tongue swirled in your belly, warm and shimmering. Molten lava began to creep freely through your veins, replacing all the blood as you desperately held on to composure. Your nerve endings all thrummed in time with your heart, sending pulsing jolts of electricity everywhere at once. Your throat scratched, your mouth dry, like all the moisture in your body was moving to gather and pool at your core.
You had seen alphas doing similar things. Scenting unclaimed omegas, testing just how much they could get away with. It was taboo if you were a normal functioning member of society, but when it came to the great families, it was a free game. Never did you think you would have to endure such treatment in front of your family.
“You taste good omega,” Naoya’s teeth scraped against your skin, teasing at a bite, a gasp leaving you. The sensation was both terrifying and strangely intimate. “Like cherries and cinnamon.”
He moved your head again, this time forcing eye contact with you. The hand not wrapped in your hair crossed over your features. He started at the top of your head, tracing the perimeter of your hairline with his thumbs, pressing in slightly at your temple before moving on to your eyes, your eyelids fluttering shut as he brushed over them. Then he took to your cheekbones, running his thumb parallel to the curve of them before sliding down to your jaw behind your ear. He followed your jawline all the way to your chin before his thumb brushed your lips, smudging the lipstick that had been put on you to ensure your attire was appropriate for today's meeting. You could feel his eyes never leaving you, dark and filled with desire and dominance.
“Open.”
Your eyes snapped open, meeting his instantly. He tapped against your bottom lip, a command you couldn’t ignore.
“You’re not very smart, are you?” His tone was sardonic, dripping with condescension. It didn’t matter if you were or weren’t. It only mattered what he thought and that you were an omega.
“Open.” This time, you knew to part your lips.
Naoya’s thumb traced over the ridges of your teeth, pressing in against your canines hard enough that the sharp edges cut the flesh of his finger. Copper explodes on your tongue, the metallic tang filling your senses. He didn’t stop. Instead, he pressed his thumb flush with your tongue, pressing down to force your jaw open wider.
Behind him the conversation continued to drone on, a forgone hum overpowered by the visceral reality of Naoya’s touch. He poked and prodded you with near clinical detachment. If he wasn’t leaking pheromones betraying just how excited he was to get his hands out, maybe you could believe it. A dispassionate facade only worked well if the scent of his arousal didn’t mix with the metallic taste in your mouth that left you reeling.
“Kimura-san she’s your niece right?” Naoya’s voice cut through the dull hum of the background, clear and sharp.
Your uncle lazily glanced over at the spectacle Nayo had made of you. His eyes were half-lidded and uninterested as you sat as still as possible. Your hair was half taken out of its style, no longer held up by the pins and clips that secured it. Now the only thing keeping the rest in place was Naoya’s grip. The lipstick you had so carefully applied was now smeared, and your kimono pushed down from his lapping at your neck like a wild dog.
Your uncle didn’t even speak, just gave an affirmative nod before taking a drag from his pipe. The scent of tobacco makes your eyes sting. His nonchalance was chilling. You were only a bargaining piece for him.
“So nothing changes between us if I pick her, right?”
You saw your cousin's shoulders relax, relief snapping the string of tension in her as she realized she would be free of this duty. No longer forced to marry and mate a man with the reputation of a monster. The chains of fate, instead, were passed to you. The metal pulled taught, the chains left to rust from the blood that you’d spill from your heart as they wrapped tight around it, squeezing.
“That’s correct,” your uncle’s tone was impassive as always. “If you want both, however, we’d need to renegotiate.”
“I just want the one.”
The lock clicked into place, the chains now permanently attached to you. The view out the open shoji screen was so peaceful as you looked over at it. The sky stretched on, endlessly blue with faint spatterings of clouds. Serene and beautiful. A single sparrow flitted by, streaking across the sky. Its wings spread wide as it glided through the air. The birdsong chirped joyfully.
An arrow shot through the sky striking the bird.
───※ ·❆· ※───
The wedding had been a large affair, filled with laughter and celebration, but none you felt privy too. Soft strains of a koto fill the hall. But no one focused on the young omega sitting at the head of the table, kimono splayed out, surrounding you in a vermillion sea. The grandiosity of the fabric and its patterns made you feel ridiculous, like a dress-up doll. Naoya had picked it out. The obi felt too tight against your stomach, digging into your ribs. They had tied it tighter than normal to keep you from eating too much. There was no reason for them to do so, you already felt sick to your stomach. It churned over and over like the waves crashing against the coast, the tide coming in and out.
Naoya was seated on your right, his legs spread wide, thigh hitting against yours. The warmth of his body seeped through the wall of fabric between the two of you. Even like this, it was like you could feel his skin against yours.
He had kept you close since the ceremony ended, scenting you every few minutes. Possession in his every move. Sometimes a low growl rumbled from his chest, warning anyone who might think to approach you.
He had already placed a few small nips near your scent gland as well, edging you out of when he’d actually claim you. Each bite sent a shiver down your spine, the sensation a mix of pain and pleasure that pooled in your core. Your body reacted to him in a way that had never happened before.
“Congratulations Naoya.” It was your uncle, bowing deeply to the two of you. Behind him, your mother also bowed. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of unseen burdens. You knew she regretted bringing you back to the family after your father’s death. That she felt she had sealed you to this fate.
You could see the dark bags under her eyes when she rose. They had been a permanent feature since your father’s passing and you're presenting as an omega, but now they were so much worse. Your neck felt tight, breathing strained, as you looked at her hands and remembered the feeling of them wrapping around your throat. She smelt like baby lotion still.
“Thank you Kimura-san.” You could taste the satisfaction on his tongue.
“Naturally. I’m sure your union will bring about the finest sorcerers of a generation,” despite the congratulations of his words, your uncle's tone was flat as always. Uninterested and just going through the motions.
Naoya brushed his fingers over the shell of your ear, down the back of it, pinching the lop between his fingers. “I’m sure we will.”
The two exchanged a few more words before your uncle and mother returned to their table. Her eyes met yours for a few fleeting moments, filled with sorrow and helplessness. As she walked away, her back slumped, as if the weight of her guilt and regret was physically pushing down on her. You watched her go, the distance between you feeling insurmountable as Naoya’s touch lingered on your skin.
Several rounds of people came around, giving their congratulations until it was time for another course of food. The noise of their chatter and the general crowd sounded so distant like you were hearing it through a glass cupped over your ears. Your own body felt lost to you, afloat and detached. As if you were watching all of this happen from afar, a mere spectator in your own life. The weight of the ceremony pressed down, deep into your bones, making every movement feel laborious. Faces blurred together—smiles, sneers, looks of pity and envy— all merging into an indistinguishable mass. The red of your kimono grew duller as the minutes passed, a vinaigrette appearing on the edges of your vision as the walls seemed to close in on you. The rich, fatty scent of the meat was overpowering. Overwhelming.
You felt Naoya speaking against your skin but could barely register it. It was only when his hand touched the back of your neck that everything snapped into focus again. The tensing was involuntary, your body’s memory reacting for you.
This was the closest to being alone with Naoya you had gotten despite the hall being full. There was no one next to the two of you. No one’s attention on you.
“You’re pretty docile,” Naoya remarks, his voice low.
You look up at him through your lashes, swallowing hard. Part of you wanted to recoil away from his touch. To untie your obi and run out through the shoji. To break through them and flee.
“I know my place.” you pause, determining if it was worth it to test the waters. “What would you do if I was to act out, Alpha.”
“Strike you.” He spoke as if it was natural, obvious as if discussing the weather. His hand tightened ever so slightly on the back of your neck, a reminder of his control. There was finality in his words that you had come to know and expect from the Alphas of the great families.
There was nothing more fitting than a disobedient omega beneath him, a deep-seated belief that it was what they deserved. In their world, an alpha’s omega was theirs to treat and punish as they saw fit. The chain of tradition held fast, a rigid framework trapping you. This was your life. There was no escaping it unless you died. Any rebellion, no matter how small, would have consequences.
“Of course, Alpha. You know best.” It sounded like your voice was coming from another person, made soft and pliant. Your pitch raised slightly. All efforts you could make to seem less threatening and more agreeable. Like you were glad to be under his thumb.
He liked that, a smirk quirking up the side of his mouth. His hand released your neck to trace down your forehead, mockingly soft and gentle. “Well, aren’t you a charmer? If you’re well-behaved, maybe I’ll reward you, Omega, just be the good little bitch you are.”
“May I be so bold?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You may.”
“I would ask of you to allow me to continue to practice my curse technique so that I may be of the utmost service to you.”
The request hung in the air, your heart pounding as you waited for his response. His expression was unreadable.
“I’ll consider it,” he replied, tone dismissive.
“Thank you. Alpha,” you dropped low to present before him, back curved, the words bitter on your tongue. “I will follow your guidance happily.”
His smirk widened into a full-blown, maniacal grin. The shine in his eyes reminded you of teasing death. Cold and unwavering, a chill down your spine. A laugh broke out of him, more of a bark if anything. Wicked in every sense.
“Good god,” he patted the top of your head and pulled you up from your position by your chin. “Keep this up and I might let you give me a son.”
He leaned in to kiss you. His lips were soft against your own. Surprising as you expected them to be rough. It was possessive, a mark of ownership, as the hand on your jaw squeezed down, forcing you to open your mouth.
───※ ·❆· ※───
Being married to him was one thing, but being marked by him was another. Once the mark was made, it’d take years of rejecting it before it could go away. It made divorce, as shameful as it was, look easy. It wasn’t something that you’d ever be granted; your uncle would kill you before permitting it, but it was in the realm of possibility. With the feast ended and the two of you alone in his wing of the house, the full weight of everything came crashing down on you.
You shifted, an uneasy pit in your stomach, the temperature of the room made you feel clammy, the dark green futon pillowing under your weight, as Naoya sat behind you. One hand was up in your hair, undoing the pins one by one. Each dropped into a bowl on the ground, tiny silver pieces raining down, ringing against the ceramic. It seemed he had a thing for hair, taking the strands and wrapping them around his fingers, giving each a slight tug that you could feel at the base of your skull.
His other hand moved to untie your obi, the relief instant as it dropped away. It felt like you could finally breathe fully again, greedy lungs taking in large gulps of air. Your ribs would likely have some bruising from just how tight they’d done the obi for the wedding. His hands crept up the length of your left arm, pressure applied as if feeling your outline, before sliding his hand under the fold of your kimono and grabbing your breast.
"Just relax," he whispered, his breath hot, fanning over your skin. His nose brushed your ear as he leaned in closer, lips nearing your neck. You couldn’t help but to tense.
His teeth sank into your scent gland, and the pain that followed was indescribable. Naoya’s canines were large and sharp. You had seen them every time he spoke or smiled. Pearlescent white panes gleamed in the light, but nothing could have prepared you for the sensation of them piercing your skin. It was like a branding iron searing into your skin, burning the flesh and charring your skin. Your limbs turn to stone, trembling uncontrollably as every muscle in your body tensed, released, and tensed again in waves.
Your skin felt clammy, a cold sweat breaking out across your entire body and your mind struggled to process the sensation. There was slickness pooling between your legs. The mark was spurring on a heat, your body acting in its most primal way.
“Stop it hurts” You cry out, voice wobbling from the fear and pain, body contorting violently, instinctively, trying to escape from him.
Naoya smacks your breast with a force that leaves a handprint instantly against your skin. He bites down harder, teeth sinking even deeper in, the wound tearing open even wider as you writhe around. Finally, a white-hot flash of pleasure begins to course through you, biology taking its hold. It goes from nerve-splitting pain to a warm wash of arousal in a second. Blinking feels like minutes.
He pulled back from your neck, eyes feral, brow furrowed in a savage expression. Blood stains his mouth. It pools around his lips and paints them a brilliant scarlet, before trailing down in a rivulet that snakes past his chin, down his neck, and into the folds of his yukata.
“Never tell me what to do again. Do you understand?” His voice is a growl, low and menacing, as his grip tightens on your breast, twisting it to emphasize his point. As if the authority in his voice wasn’t enough.
You whine, unable to bear his disapproval, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Gasping, you nuzzle against his neck. He smells so good. Spice cloves, sandalwood, and cedar on a winter’s night. “I’ll be good.”
He lowers his head again, lips curled in a cruel grin, fangs bared. His voice drips with a mix of menace and satisfaction as he whispers, “Now, relax.”
This time, you force yourself to comply, doing your best to let your body go limp. It works better than before. Despite the fear you feel towards him, arousal pumps through your veins. A flood of endorphins courses through them, making every touch cause your skin to tingle and send waves of pleasure straight to your core. It makes your head spin and your limbs heavy. Your skin prickles with a heat that feels almost unbearable, making you itch with a desperate need for release.
It's too hard to keep your eyelids open; they are far too heavy, but you don’t trust Naoya enough to close them. What would he do if you closed them? Your blood feels thick like syrup, molasses sluggishly pulsing. A moan escapes your lips, low, breathy, and drawn out, that pitches into a whine as Naoya releases his grip on your neck and licks the wound closed with rough strokes of his tongue. He swirls the tip around each puncture wound, dipping the tip into it before doing so to the next.
“See? If you had just listened, it would have been this good from the start,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, mocking caress. He pinches your nipple sharply. Your head lolls against his chest, too heavy to hold up.
“Oh ho ho,” he laughs, the sound vibrating through your body. “Someone’s going into heat.”
It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as Naoya manhandles you. He tilts your head to the other side. The top half of your kimono is completely off, leaving your skin exposed to the cold, biting air of his room. Sweat beads on every inch of your skin. You struggle to keep your eyes from closing, fighting the overwhelming sensations that flood your body. You feel Naoya’s teeth graze against your other scent gland, the sharp sting of his teeth scraping against the skin but he doesn’t bite down.
Instead, he laps and laps and laps at your neck, his tongue moving in languid, deliberate strokes as if devouring an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Whimpers flow out of you like water from a stream, and your pussy flutters around nothing.
Naoya squeezes you roughly, his hands greedily exploring your body. His touch is rough and demanding, large hands groping at your curves like he’s a man starved for flesh as he fondles your breasts, squeezing your nipples, making them stand erect from the stimulation. He likes you gasps and whines, the fat of your breasts squishing under the expanse of his hands as he toys with them. Likes the heft of them, meaty and heavy, makes him growl low in the back of his throat in approval. He can picture them swelling with milk that would nourish his heir and make them strong. He’d sample the source, suckle straight from your teat, and make sure his heifer was quality.
“My little breeding bitch,” he murmurs, his voice dark.
Naoya’s hand slips down your front, his fingers finding the slick pool of arousal in your pussy. He pumps a finger in, meeting no resistance, then slides in a second easily, your pussy oh so inviting.
“Fuck, you’re ready for me already.” He chuckles, the wet squelch of your pussy sounding out with each movement of his fingers. “Such a desperate little whore. I bet you can’t wait to feel my knot, hmm? Say it.”
Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth, the effort to speak almost insurmountable, speech slurred and your words mumbled. His impatience manifests in a swift, sharp strike to your clit, making you cry out in a mix of pain and anticipation. Through the haze, you manage to speak.
“I can’t wait to feel your knot,” you manage to gasp out, biting the tip of your tongue in the process. It swells fat.
It's been so long since you’d had a heat. Suppressants had been shoved onto you after your first one almost nine years ago. You don’t remember this first stage of preheat being so delirious, so inconsistent, so in control and out of it as you lean back against him and let him fondle your breasts.
His fingers feel divine as they pump in and out of you, accompanied by a scissoring motion that sends shivers down your spine. The feeling is almost enough to distract you from the rough way he's pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. He pulls at them like he doesn’t care if it hurts, like he wants it to hurt, and it does.
Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, your body moving on it as you chase your high. Whimpers fall from your lips, needy desperate cries that only egg on his treatment towards you. He likes you like this, all whiny and under his palm.
With a rough tug, he pushes the rest of your kimono off, leaving you bare and vulnerable against his fully clothed body. His hands are slick with your arousal, glistening fingers curled into you and smearing moisture down his forearm as you shamelessly use his hand for your pleasure. Your knees ache from the position, thighs straining with each thrust of your hips, muscles trembling on the edge of release. It's so close that the edge of your vision goes black as you tilt ever so slightly forward, and then it happens.
Your orgasm rips through you, your whole body locks, walls clenching around his fingers as you come crashing down. A flood of slick spills out, drenching the futon beneath you. The sage green is now a deep forest green, damp and warm to the touch from how much came out of you. It’s hard to breathe, chest heaving as you try to suck in the air.
"Messy bitch. Look at what you've done," Naoya tsks at you, even as you jerk in his arms you can tell he’s less angry and more amused by it. With a push, he sends you forward, your front pressing into the wet spot, his fingers sliding out of your pussy. "Clean it up," he orders, his voice dripping with command.
It takes a long moment to catch your breath, to remember how to be a person and move, but you grab the edge of your kimono to pat dry the area when Naoya smacks the globe of your ass.
“Not with that.”
You stare at the spot for a second. If not the kimono there was only one other thing that could be it.
You begin to kitten lick at your slick. It's egregiously sweet, like a potent concentrate of your scent amplified to an overwhelming degree. The flavor makes your stomach turn, threatening to gag you with its intensity. You’ve no idea how any alpha enjoys the flavor this much.
Naoya's gaze never strays from you as he begins to undress, his movements lazy and relaxed. He’s enjoying the show, reducing you to this. Rising to his feet, he pads across the room to hang his yukata on a nearby stand. He only breaks eye contact with you for the brief moment it takes to drape his garment properly. Your wedding kimono, three times the price of his own, is lying in a pile near you on the floor.
Even with his back turned, you don't stop licking up the puddle of slick. Your tongue scrapes softly against the futon, gathering the lingering wetness to swallow down with a quiet gag. The only sound in the room is your tongue against the fabric and your soft breathing.
A soft, small smile on his face when he looks at you next. His inner Alpha is pleased you’ve kept at your assigned task without being told to. His cocks hard, uncut and dribbling pre-cum, knot starting to swell at the base, eyes going over the curve of your back, the globes of your ass in the air, and the continuous trail of simmering slick dripping out of your needy hole.
He closed the distance, cock bobbing with each step. Dropping to one knee, one hand comes to rest on the meat of your ass, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to push your chest further into the futon. The fabric rubs uncomfortably against your hardened nipples.
For a moment he just sits there, massaging the meat of your ass before his fingers sink in, hard enough to leave bruises in the morning. Then, without warning, he reels back, from the corner of your eye you see his shoulder muscles tense before his arm is launched forward, palm connecting with your ass in a volatile crack that rings out in the room. Pain explodes a hot white.
“Count them,” he orders with a smile as you begin to cry.
"One," you gasp out, the word a struggle to form.
His palm connects again, the blow landing a little higher on your cheek.
"Two."
The next strike comes before you can fully process the previous, his hand falling in a swift, merciless rhythm.
"Three."
"Four." The word is a sob this time, the pain starting to overwhelm.
The fifth smack seems to sting more than the first three, the imprint of his wedding ring starting to dig in. You can feel the metal biting into your skin, a cool counterpoint to the burning heat.
"F-five."
He stops for a moment to collect slick on his fingers. “Fucking filthy slut. I knew you’d be one.” Naoya smears the slick over the burning heat of your ass, his tone approving despite what he says.
"Six," you manage, the word a broken gasp.
The next smack seems to shatter the air, his hand coming down with renewed force.
"Seven."
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, vision starting to blur. But you keep counting.
"Eight."
"Nine."
The final blow lands, his palm cracking down.
"Ten."
You collapse forward, your body spent and trembling. The humiliation of being treated like this, reduced to a mere object, burns through you. What makes it worse is how desperately your body craves him, even as your heartbeat hammers in your ass and tears stream down your face, snot bubbling at your nose. The omega in you wants nothing more than to please him, to make him happy. You need to make him happy, so he'll know you, claim you as his own.
Biology was a curse.
"Do you know what you did wrong?" His voice is low, rough with dominance. Oh, how it hurt to hear him so mad at you. Why was he so mad at you?
Your mind races, trying to answer the question. "No?"
"You came without permission. Are you going to do that again?" There's a warning in his tone, a promise of punishment if you disobey again.
"No." The word escapes your lips, a whispered promise of submission. You whine for him, lower into yourself, pheromones reeking of just how sorry you are.
Naoya's hand tightens in your hair, pulling your chest off the futon, forcing your back into an arch. Your muscles tremble with the strain, too exhausted from the heat to sustain such a position for long. A whine builds in your throat, begging him to finally take you, to knot you, breed you.
"Then prove it."
He smacks your ass again, one last time for good measure, before dropping your hair. You catch yourself on your elbows, presenting yourself for him. Naoya's hands grab your hips, one positioning you to align with the head of his cock, the other stroking his length. After he's gotten you through this first wave of heat, he'll have you choke on his cock, make you take it to the back of your throat and swallow, see what he's working with and what he'll have to train, but for now, he'll start with your pussy.
The tip of his cock feels too big against your hole, even after he's fingered you. Tensing comes naturally as it catches on your entrance, anticipation, need, and fear running through you. The flared tip feels like it's going to split you in two as he begins to press into you. He flares out in the middle, his shaft thicker there, making you moan as he begins to bottom out in you. His size is almost overwhelming, the stretch bordering on pain. If you weren’t in a pre-heat it would most definitely be painful.
He's kind enough to insert himself into you slowly, not wanting to damage your insides and ruin his chances of getting you pregnant. You can feel every inch of him as he slowly rolls his hips for the first time, experimenting with how much he can fit inside you. Moans come like spring rain, a sure thing, as he inserts himself. He pushes into you slowly, relishing in the way you clench and spasm around him. He’s so gentle compared to earlier, it makes your head spin. Your cries echo in the room, music to his ears. Once he's bottomed out, he stills.
A mix of a choked moan and a sob tumbles out of your lips. You can't tell if it hurts or feels so good you've surpassed feeling entirely. Your pussy flutters around him, suctioning him tighter as he pulls out.
"Fuck, you're tight," Naoya grunts, his hands grabbing your hips for leverage. "Beg for my cum, bitch."
His voice is rough like gravel, little pebbles tumbling down your spine.
"Please, fill me," you moan, tears spilling from your eyes. "Please, Naoya-sama, cum inside me. Breed me so that I might give you an heir." The words spill out of you, a desperate plea for him to claim you, to make you his. You can't even find it in yourself to beg him anymore, the words just spilling out. It all feels too much, overwhelmingly full, and yet still not enough. Your body screams for release, desperately for his knot, for the satisfaction that only an alpha can give you.
Naoya slams his hips into you, harder and faster than he has before, his balls slapping against your clit. His pace picks up, your arms giving out as he continues to set a brutal pace, thrusting deep and powerful. Each thrust feels like he's close to hitting against your cervix, but he never does. It feels like your whole body is shaking, like you've been set to vibrate. You don't know when one moan starts and another stops. Vision blurring at the edges, the only thing that matters is the narrow point in the world where your skin meets his. All that exists is the feeling of him inside you, his hand on your hips, the sweat on your skin, the need.
The way that his thick cock rubs against your walls sends jolts of electricity down your spine. Every time he pulls back, you clench down, trying to keep him in you. He's not even fully seated inside of you and your whole body trembles, his cock filling you up. It’s impossibly full, you feel like you’re going to split apart at the seams as your pussy works to milk him.
He smacks your ass again, the opposite cheek. "You're mine, remember that. Nothing but my little bitch to breed."
He fucks you harder, lifting one of your hips to angle himself deeper. This allows him to rub directly against your g-spot, electric shocks firing on every nerve in your body. Every time he pulls back, you clench down, trying to keep him in you. He's not even fully seated inside of you and your whole body trembles. The sensation is overwhelming, each motion pushing you further and further into the depths of your heat.
The room is filled with the sound of wet squelching and flesh meeting flesh, your body now rocking back to meet his every thrust, your breasts jiggling with each thrust. Naoya's thrusts become more frantic, his movements more sporadic. He's close, his knot swelling. The thought of being knotted by him makes you gush, juices flowing over his cock and staining the sheets below. You feel your orgasm building, a tsunami approaching the shoreline. Your entire body is a livewire, humming with tension.
It's then you notice the mirror that faces you. It's huge, covering half the wall, showing everything. Naoya lifts your chest, then hooks his fingers into the sides of your mouth and pulls them taut. It feels like your lips are going to crack with the strain, stings like sand sanitizer in a paper cut. You let out a low moan, drool dripping down the front of your body and pooling on the mattress beneath you. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, there’s an unmistakable handprint on your breast from earlier, and if you could see your ass, it’d be the same. There’s a glow to your skin from your heat, makes you shiny and supple. Makes you breedable.
"You're so much prettier when you smile, omega." His voice is low, rough with arousal.
He lets go of your mouth and just props you up, one hand around your chest to do so. It's you who holds the smile instead, a wild look in your eyes.
Naoya keeps thrusting, and it's like the world around you fades away as his cock stretches your walls, and the edge of his knot catches on your hole with each deep thrust. It's big. Bigger than the toys you've had, bigger than the ones you've heard of, you don't know if it's going to fit. A flicker of fear passes over you, but it's quickly overwhelmed by desire and discarded.
His other hand reaches around and rubs your sensitive clit, flicking it back and forth. You're so close to cumming, heartbeat hammering down in your pussy. Each pass of his fingers sends sparks through your system, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Cum for me, slut. Milk my cock. Scream for your Alpha." His words are a command, a demand for your pleasure.
You cry out, your body giving in to the pleasure, wave after wave of orgasm crashing down on you, your entire body going limp. Naoya pays it no mind, only holds your hips up as you fall limp, using you like a fleshlight. It feels like he's going to break you as he fucks you through your orgasm and finally pushes his knot inside you, your pussy convulsing around it.
A wickedly delicious kind of pain, the type to leave you breathless.
He keeps thrusting, his range limited, his knot locking the two of you together before he finally comes, his breath hitching. Hot ropes of cum paint your insides. It feels like it's too much cum to fit inside you, like it's going to spill out, but his knot keeps it firmly in place. His grip on your hips feels like it's going to break your bones, his nails drawing blood. He grunts for a few minutes, rocking his hips, milking his cock out with your pussy, before finally stopping.
Naoya bends over you and licks the shell of your ear before nibbling it. "You're never going to get away from me. You're mine to use, mine to abuse. You'll never get to leave me." He rocks his hips again, cock twitching inside you. "You won't be alone for long though, pretty girl."
a massive thank you to my beta readers @craftycheetah @rii-bows @lovelyroseybunny and my friend cas who i dm'd weekly about this fic for over a month insecure about writing omegaverse
peter cottontail's getting tail. / frat! gojo x reader
Who the hell throws a costume party in the middle of August?
MDNI
w.c: 2.6k
masterlist / next part
If things ever went right in your life, you’d have left this party a good 45 minutes ago. Or never even been here in the first place.
You’d be peacefully tucked in bed with a good book, face mask on, and a big, fat, juicy glass of Moscato. Freshly washed sheets against your newly shaved legs. Nice ambient lighting that’s warm and cozy. Put on plush fuzzy socks, the aloe-infused ones, so your feet get softer. Being up on the 11th floor, you’d miss the noise from the street as everyone ran about on a Sunday night. Maybe you’d put on a nice YouTube DJ set of smooth jazz to really set the mood.
The perfect way to spend a Sunday evening.
The summer semester is finally over. That sweet freedom of class ending is calling your name. Granted, you’ve got a metric shit ton of tests to grade, courtesy of being a TA. You still have to contend with the fall semester, though, where you will be TAing. Again.
Because god all mighty, your suffering is never truly over, is it? There’s just always something else you need to deal with.
But alas. You aren’t comfy in bed. You’re in an incredibly tight Playboy bunny suit at a party. Worse of all. A costume party. A Frat party. A Kappa Sigma party. During rush week.
The music is too loud in a way that physically hurts. Makes every song they play sound super distorted, too. You think they’re playing Mo Bamba, but you can’t be too sure. Everyone is sweaty, and you can smell every aspect of that. Plus cheap liquor, the distinct burn of Everclear singeing your nose hair. The combination makes your stomach roll.
And again, you must stress; you aren’t drunk enough to be dealing with it.
Especially when another one of your students walks by and asks if you can give them extra credit. One of them whistled at you early before he realized it was you. Then he just begged you not to dock his grade.
Nobara keeps pawing at you, your waist, your arms, your face, trying to get you to dance with her. She gets super needy when she drinks and god is she needy right now. Sisyphean task to keep her off of you.
“Just dance with her and get it over!” Maki yells directly in your ear from her place beside you on the couch.
It hurts how hard you’ve rolled your eyes. Like they’ve come loose in the socket. “ I don’t want to!”
Your voice gets overshadowed by the pounding bass. The music gets a bit louder as it changes to an early 2000s banger that everyone knows and everyone screams about knowing.
“What?”
The bass vibrates your teeth and you can feel them clatter together. It’s a miracle that you can persister with such litter patience but you do what you must.
“I said I don’t want to-”
Maki looks completely lost.
“God! I’m getting a drink.”
That she understands entirely.
“Yuta, give’er your drink.”
“I just got it,” he complains, pouting at her, his bottom lip sticking out slightly. Yuta’s always been an emotional drunk. Soft, clingy, always ready to cry. God, he’s just as bad as Nobara.
“It’s fine. I’ll go get one.”
You stand from the couch before she can argue with you. Maybe you’ll take long enough to get a drink, you can go back and tell them all you’re leaving before it gets too late. You still might be able to watch the latest episode of that show your friend recommended.
Or alternatively, two, or three (maybe four) shots, and you’ll feel like you can tolerate being here and talking to everyone. Enough to blur the edges and bring your patience level back up. Keep you social, fun, and happy. Everyone pushed you to come out with them, citing the fact that they hadn’t seen you for a few weeks.
Hopefully, that communal vodka bottle is still available. If it's not, well, you’re fucked.
Surprisingly, the kitchen is calm compared to the rest of the house. There’s three Freshman girls in the corner reupping on their lip gloss while gossiping with each other. They don’t stay long. One helps the other adjust her boobs in her little red riding hood costume, and back to the dance floor they go with a giggle.
The drinks table is pretty run-through. There's the jungle juice left, who knows what’s in that, and a sad line up of some mixers on a very sticky tabletop. The communal vodka is disappointingly empty. You do know where Kappa Sig stores some extra liquor. Yuji showed it last time you were over and told you if you ever needed some to take it from his stash.
So you’re not doing anything wrong when you take a bottle of tequila from the bottom cabinet and pour yourself approximately two and a half shots into a red solo cup. Bracing yourself, you lift the cup and throw it back. Over the years, you’ve gotten better at doing shots, but that's not to say they’re something you actively seek out doing. Your face puckers on instinct before the liquor settles.
“Y’know, normally I don’t like to share, but for you I’ll make an exception.”
It’s a low and slow voice way to fucking close to your ear that makes you jump.
“For my 7th birthday party, my parents hired a magician. Wish you were the rabbit he pulled out.”
You let out a long breath through your nose, shoulders already tensing in annoyance.
“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath before turning around to face him. “That's incredibly corny.”
White hair, blue eyes, incredibly jacked in a way that feels nearly offensive. Satoru Gojo. Infamous campus player, and member of Kappa Sig.
“It’s not my best,” he lets your insult roll off his shoulders. “I’ll admit, but you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”
It’s hard not to find him handsome. He objectively is. Thick, full lashes, a slight flush on his face, and clearly moisturized lips that his tongue reaches out to wet. Most of his hair is pushed out of his face, held back by a pirate-esque headband that makes his eyes feel even more piercing. A shame you want nothing to do with him or you might have kept flirting with him.
“Hmm.” You muse, crossing your arms, eyeing him up and down before meeting his eyes. “Afraid you’ve missed this one too.”
He looks playfully shocked, a hand against his chest. “What? That’s not possible.”
You shrug at him. Last thing you want to deal with is fucking a whiny frat bro.
The motherfucker gives you a thumbs down. “Boo. Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls.”
“Excuse me?” Your eyes narrow.
“Bleh, that came out wrong,” he owns up to, but doesn’t look like he’s you raise your eyebrows at him. “The super serious type. Always about work or school, never just letting loose and having fun.”
You deadpan, ignoring the tightening feeling in your chest. “We are literally at a party right now.”
“I know, I know!” Gojo laughs, raising his arms in surrender. “But you’re like, super stiff. A board.”
There it is again, that funny little feeling that settles under your skin.
Do you have a stick up your ass? Yeah, that’s what’s been said. But there’s good fucking reasons you do. Full-ride scholarships are reliant on good academic standing. You don’t have the money to fuck it up. So are you going to listen to a random rich boy tell you to “loosen up”? Absolutely fucking not. He’s got a trust fund he can waste. You don’t.
You give him a dry, tight smile and flip him off, shoulder-checking him as you leave the kitchen. Any hope of staying is completely lost as you get back to the group. The noise is just as overwhelming and you don’t have the patience to pretend to mind it anymore.
Hakari and Kirara clock you bad mood instantly.
“You okay?” Kirara’s voice is soft and gentle, something audible over the music.
You know you can’t get anything past her, but still you try. “Yep! Just ready to go home.”
She stangs, tugging on Hikari’s arm who follows.
“We’ll walk you back.” Hikari stretches as he speaks.
“It’s alright guys, I can get back on my own.”
“Nah,” Hikari’s already wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Fuck this place, I’m tryna smoke and watch The Boys.”
There’s some protest from the group as you leave, but most everyone's caught up in their own world to notice the three of you heading out. Not that you’re complaining. If Nobara or Maki had tried to guilt you into staying, you’d probably have had to suffer through another 30 minutes of being there before you got to leave. Once you got outside, Hikari shrugged off his jacket for you to use.
“You go home for the summer?” He’s got a joint lit now, lazily hitting it before holding it out for Kirara to take a hit. When she does, she kisses his fingertips.
“Nope. Thank god. I was the TA for English 202.”
“Your mom still fucking crazy?”
You shrug. She hand wrote you a letter describing all the ways you’re a lazy slut who will never amount to anything tha was delivered three days ago.
“It’s her default at this point.”
Kirara coughs, pulling back from the joint. “You’re always welcome to come spend it with us.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense. You’re like, basically my sister.” Kirara giggles as she says it, hugging you.
“Thanks Kira,” you hug her back. She smells like white monster energy drinks.
The three of you continue walking, talking about random various things with no real meaning until you’re outside your apartment hall on campus. You give Hikari his jacket back and head inside. The security guy gives you a look, which you ignore, and head up to your apartment.
You feel tight. Tense all over. Maybe Satoru was right. Maybe you should let loose and have fun. You could do that after you graduate and find a full-time job with great benefits and a clear path to promotion. Yeah. You’d do it then. Book an all-inclusive resort in Mexico and do nothing but lounge in the sun all day.
You’ve got two semesters left and good prospects for a job already. Ten months from now, you’ll be sipping spicy skinny margaritas with Tajin rims poolside.
Unlocking your door, you throw your keys in the bowl by your landing, kick off your heels, and rip the headband off your head. There’s a pile of dishes in your sink that you need to wash. There's an increasingly unstable mountain of laundry on the clothes chair, curtesy of you and Utahime who’s probably crashing at her girlfriend’s tonight. And you can’t forget the mountainous stack of papers you still have to grade by the end of the week so they can post grades.
Ten months. Then you’ll let loose
───※ ·❆· ※───
When your alarm goes off at 6:45am you contemplate if you’re getting old. You lay there, staring at the white of your ceiling between slow blinks.
You’d had, what three, give or take, beers and your slightly hungover. Just around the edges though. The lights aren’t too bright but they hurt more than normal. A tinge of a headache pricks at the base of your skull but it snothing some Excendrine cant’t handle.
But life waits for no one and you’ve got shit to do.
Routine, routine, routine.
You take your meds with a big gulp from the waterbottle on your nightstand. Even after all this time you swear you can feel the individual shape of them as you swallow. Especially the iron supplement. Nasty chakly bastard hurts going down. You grimace and take another drink of water.
Then you go to your kitchen and throw on the kettle. It feels like a drag to actually get up and moving, body not quiet responding how you’d like. While the kettle heats up, you move your ottoman to the side and set out your yoga mat. Once mat Pilates session late, followed by hot lemon water, and an even hotter shower makes you feel slightly more like a real human being.
By 8:15am you’ve got your hair and makeup done and are out the door.
With a quick pit stop at the student union coffee bar to get an overpriced latte to your liking, you make it to your last every elective credit on Human Sexuality.
While the university is know for its business college and sports teams, it’s got a surprisingly good humanities department. Even though the professor is well known fo being an easy grader, it’s still a good class. It focuses on emotional connection, micro and macro communication, sociological influence, that’s designed to make you think more on how we, as human, get on.
Specifically about how we get it on.
When you last checked the registrrars office there wer 97 enrollments in the class. A good number. Lets you blend in and not take too much focus if you’re a goody two shoes and participate in class. You have enough small discussion heavy seven person seminar style lectures this semester, you’ll take a horde.
You climb the lecture hall steps, going to the the third row. There’s a girl, Sam, who you shared a lab with last semester. The two of you wave, pleasant enough, but don’t seek the other out for conversation. Maybe if there’s group work, you’ll work with her. She scored well in that last class.
Another benefit of sitting up front is the senese of accountability that comes with it. You feel like te professors watching, so you take notes and engage in the material. You pull your notebook out, a nice ball point pen, and set your laptop to the side, ready to search something up if needed.
The room fills gradually, you were about 15 minutes early. Voices layer over eachother, clearly somes students were friends taking the class together. Bags being unzipped, laptops flipped open, cans of energy drinks cracked open. There’s a flash of white in the corner of your eye while the rest of the class finally settles.
Maybe if you pretend not to notice him, he’ll give you the same grace.
Professor Jamie Yamada come into the room with a flourish and jumps right into the lecture like its what she’s been waiting all morning to do. It’s standard first day things. The syllabus, basic ways to reach her, expectations, and the final. A partner project. No biggie, there’s Sam that you know and can work with.
The two of you lock eyes and give a small nod.
“Now, before you get any idea,” Professor Yamada waves her hands tog et everyones attention back on her.. “I’m assigning you all partners.”
Great. There goes that plan.
It’s fine. As long as your partner does their part of the project, an you don’t have to do all of it, you’ll survive. Hell, even if they do a shoddy job, you’ll fix it up and get a good grade. They just need to so some aspect of it do you don’t drown in your other responsibilities and it.
Five pairs are called when Sam’s name and someone you don’t know gets called.
Towards the end she finally says your name.
“And-”
Theres a feeling when you’re in the woods and you can feel a predator watching you. An uneasy thats wired into us be evolution to avoid the dark and scary things. A hold over from when we lacked tools and greater brain power than everything else on the planet. The same unease makes the back of your neck prick, the hair rising. It tells you that danger lurks nearby.
“Saotru Gojo.”
Ah.
Life really never does go your way does it?
If things ever went right in your life, you’d have left this party a good 45 minutes ago. Or never even been here in the first place.
You’d be peacefully tucked in bed with a good book, face mask on, and a big, fat, juicy glass of Moscato. Freshly washed sheets against your newly shaved legs. Nice ambient lighting that’s warm and cozy. Put on plush fuzzy socks, the aloe-infused ones, so your feet get softer. Being up on the 11th floor, you’d miss the noise from the street as everyone ran about on a Sunday night. Maybe you’d put on a nice YouTube DJ set of smooth jazz to really set the mood.
The perfect way to spend a Sunday evening.
The summer semester is finally over. That sweet freedom of class ending is calling your name. Granted, you’ve got a metric shit ton of tests to grade, courtesy of being a TA. You still have to contend with the fall semester, though, where you will be TAing. Again.
Because god all mighty, your suffering is never truly over, is it? There’s just always something else you need to deal with.
But alas. You aren’t comfy in bed. You’re in an incredibly tight Playboy bunny suit at a party. Worse of all. A costume party. A Frat party. A Kappa Sigma party. During rush week.
The music is too loud in a way that physically hurts. Makes every song they play sound super distorted, too. You think they’re playing Mo Bamba, but you can’t be too sure. Everyone is sweaty, and you can smell every aspect of that. Plus cheap liquor, the distinct burn of Everclear singeing your nose hair. The combination makes your stomach roll.
And again, you must stress; you aren’t drunk enough to be dealing with it.
Especially when another one of your students walks by and asks if you can give them extra credit. One of them whistled at you early before he realized it was you. Then he just begged you not to dock his grade.
Nobara keeps pawing at you, your waist, your arms, your face, trying to get you to dance with her. She gets super needy when she drinks, and god is she needy right now. Sisyphean task to keep her off of you.
“Just dance with her and get it over!” Maki yells directly in your ear from her place beside you on the couch.
It hurts how hard you’ve rolled your eyes. Like they’ve come loose in the socket. “ I don’t want to!”
Your voice gets overshadowed by the pounding bass. The music gets a bit louder as it changes to an early 2000s banger that everyone knows and everyone screams about knowing.
“What?”
The bass vibrates your teeth, and you can feel them clatter together. It’s a miracle that you can persevere with so little patience, but you do what you must.
“I said I don’t want to-”
Maki looks completely lost.
“God! I’m getting a drink.”
That she understands entirely.
“Yuta, give’er your drink.”
“I just got it,” he complains, pouting at her, his bottom lip sticking out slightly. Yuta’s always been an emotional drunk. Soft, clingy, always ready to cry. God, he’s just as bad as Nobara.
“It’s fine. I’ll go get one.”
You stand from the couch before she can argue with you. Maybe you’ll take long enough to get a drink, you can go back and tell them all you’re leaving before it gets too late. You still might be able to watch the latest episode of that show your friend recommended.
Or alternatively, two, or three (maybe four) shots, and you’ll feel like you can tolerate being here and talking to everyone. Enough to blur the edges and bring your patience level back up. Keep you social, fun, and happy. Everyone pushed you to come out with them, citing the fact that they hadn’t seen you for a few weeks.
Hopefully, that communal vodka bottle is still available. If it's not, well, you’re fucked.
Surprisingly, the kitchen is calm compared to the rest of the house. There are three Freshman girls in the corner reapplying their lip gloss while gossiping with each other. They don’t stay long. One helps the other adjust her boobs in her little red riding hood costume, and back to the dance floor they go with a giggle.
The drinks table is pretty run-through. There's the jungle juice left, who knows what’s in that, and a sad lineup of some mixers on a very sticky tabletop. The communal vodka is disappointingly empty. You do know where Kappa Sig stores some extra liquor. Yuji showed it last time you were over and told you that if you ever needed some, you could take it from his stash.
So you’re not doing anything wrong when you take a bottle of tequila from the bottom cabinet and pour yourself approximately two and a half shots into a red solo cup. Bracing yourself, you lift the cup and throw it back. Over the years, you’ve gotten better at doing shots, but that's not to say they’re something you actively seek out doing. Your face puckers on instinct before the liquor settles.
“Y’know, normally I don’t like to share, but for you I’ll make an exception.”
It’s a low and slow voice way to fucking close to your ear that makes you jump.
“For my 7th birthday party, my parents hired a magician. Wish you were the rabbit he pulled out.”
You let out a long breath through your nose, shoulders already tensing in annoyance.
“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath before turning around to face him. “That's incredibly corny.”
White hair, blue eyes, incredibly jacked in a way that feels nearly offensive. Satoru Gojo. Infamous campus player and member of Kappa Sig.
“It’s not my best,” he lets your insult roll off his shoulders. “I’ll admit, but you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”
It’s hard not to find him handsome. He objectively is. Thick, full lashes, a slight flush on his face, and clearly moisturized lips that his tongue reaches out to wet. Most of his hair is pushed out of his face, held back by a pirate-esque headband that makes his eyes feel even more piercing. A shame you want nothing to do with him, or you might have kept flirting with him.
“Hmm.” You muse, crossing your arms, eyeing him up and down before meeting his eyes. “Afraid you’ve missed this one too.”
He looks playfully shocked, a hand against his chest. “What? That’s not possible.”
You shrug at him. The last thing you want to deal with is fucking a whiny frat bro.
The motherfucker gives you a thumbs down. “Boo. Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls.”
“Excuse me?” Your eyes narrow.
“Bleh, that came out wrong,” he owns up to, but doesn’t look like he’s that upset by it. You raise your eyebrows at him. “The super serious type. Always about work or school, never just letting loose and having fun.”
You deadpan, ignoring the tightening feeling in your chest. “We are literally at a party right now.”
“I know, I know!” Gojo laughs, raising his arms in surrender. “But you’re like, super stiff. A board.”
There it is again, that funny little feeling that settles under your skin.
Do you have a stick up your ass? Yeah, that’s what’s been said. But there’s good fucking reasons you do. Full-ride scholarships are reliant on good academic standing. You don’t have the money to fuck it up. So are you going to listen to a random rich boy tell you to “loosen up”? Absolutely fucking not. He’s got a trust fund he can waste. You don’t.
You give him a dry, tight smile and flip him off, shoulder-checking him as you leave the kitchen. Any hope of staying is completely lost as you get back to the group. The noise is just as overwhelming, and you don’t have the patience to pretend to mind it anymore.
Hakari and Kirara clock your bad mood instantly.
“You okay?” Kirara’s voice is soft and gentle, something audible over the music.
You know you can’t get anything past her, but still you try. “Yep! Just ready to go home.”
She stangs, tugging on Hikari’s arm, who follows.
“We’ll walk you back.” Hikari stretches as he speaks.
“It’s alright, guys, I can get back on my own.”
“Nah,” Hikari’s already wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Fuck this place, I’m tryna smoke and watch The Boys.”
There’s some protest from the group as you leave, but most everyone's caught up in their own world to notice the three of you heading out. Not that you’re complaining. If Nobara or Maki had tried to guilt you into staying, you’d probably have had to suffer through another 30 minutes of being there before you got to leave. Once you got outside, Hikari shrugged off his jacket for you to use.
“You go home for the summer?” He’s got a joint lit now, lazily hitting it before holding it out for Kirara to take a hit. When she does, she kisses his fingertips.
“Nope. Thank god. I was the TA for English 202.”
“Your mom still fucking crazy?”
You shrug. She handwrote you a letter describing all the ways you’re a lazy slut who will never amount to anything that was delivered three days ago.
“It’s her default at this point.”
Kirara coughs, pulling back from the joint. “You’re always welcome to come spend it with us.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense. You’re like, basically my sister.” Kirara giggles as she says it, hugging you.
“Thanks, Kira,” you hug her back. She smells like white Monster Energy drinks.
The three of you continue walking, talking about random, various things with no real meaning until you’re outside your apartment hall on campus. You give Hikari his jacket back and head inside. The security guy gives you a look, which you ignore, and head up to your apartment.
You feel tight. Tense all over. Maybe Satoru was right. Maybe you should let loose and have fun. You could do that after you graduate and find a full-time job with great benefits and a clear path to promotion. Yeah. You’d do it then. Book an all-inclusive resort in Mexico and do nothing but lounge in the sun all day.
You’ve got two semesters left and good prospects for a job already. Ten months from now, you’ll be sipping spicy skinny margaritas with Tajin rims poolside.
Unlocking your door, you throw your keys in the bowl by your landing, kick off your heels, and rip the headband off your head. There’s a pile of dishes in your sink that you need to wash. There's an increasingly unstable mountain of laundry on the clothes chair, courtesy of you and Utahime, who’s probably crashing at her girlfriend’s tonight. And you can’t forget the mountainous stack of papers you still have to grade by the end of the week, so they can post grades.
Ten months. Then you’ll let loose.
───※ ·❆· ※───
When your alarm goes off at 6:45am, you contemplate whether you’re getting old. You lie there, staring at the white of your ceiling between slow blinks.
You’d had, what, three, give or take, beers, and you're slightly hungover. Just around the edges, though. The lights aren’t too bright, but they hurt more than normal. A tinge of a headache pricks at the base of your skull, but it's nothing some Excedrin can’t handle.
But life waits for no one, and you’ve got shit to do.
Routine, routine, routine.
You take your meds with a big gulp from the water bottle on your nightstand. Even after all this time, you swear you can feel the individual shape of them as you swallow. Especially the iron supplement. Nasty chakly bastard hurts going down. You grimace and take another drink of water.
Then you go to your kitchen and turn on the kettle. It feels like a drag to actually get up and moving, body not quite responding how you’d like. While the kettle heats up, you move your ottoman to the side and set out your yoga mat. Once a mat Pilates session late, followed by hot lemon water, and an even hotter shower, makes you feel slightly more like a real human being.
By 8:15 a.m., you’ve got your hair and makeup done and are out the door.
With a quick pit stop at the student union coffee bar to get an overpriced latte to your liking, you make it to your last elective credit on Human Sexuality.
While the university is known for its business college and sports teams, it’s got a surprisingly good humanities department. Even though the professor is well known for being an easy grader, it’s still a good class. It focuses on emotional connection, micro and macro communication, and sociological influence, which is designed to make you think more about how we, as humans, get on.
Specifically about how we get it on.
When you last checked the registrar's office, there were 97 enrollments in the class. A good number. Lets you blend in and not take too much focus if you’re a goody two-shoes and participate in class. You have enough small discussion-heavy seven-person seminar-style lectures this semester, you’ll take a horde.
You climb the lecture hall steps, going to the third row. There’s a girl, Sam, with whom you shared a lab last semester. The two of you wave, pleasant enough, but don’t seek the other out for conversation. Maybe if there’s group work, you’ll work with her. She scored well in that last class.
Another benefit of sitting up front is the sense of accountability that comes with it. You feel like the professors are watching, so you take notes and engage with the material. You pull your notebook out, a nice ballpoint pen, and set your laptop to the side, ready to search for something if needed.
The room fills gradually; you were about 15 minutes early. Voices layer over each other; clearly, some students were friends taking the class together. Bags being unzipped, laptops flipped open, cans of energy drinks cracked open. There’s a flash of white in the corner of your eye while the rest of the class finally settles.
Maybe if you pretend not to notice him, he’ll give you the same grace.
Professor Jamie Yamada comes into the room with a flourish and jumps right into the lecture like it's what she’s been waiting all morning to do. It’s standard first-day things. The syllabus, basic ways to reach her, expectations, and the final. A partner project. No biggie, there’s Sam that you know and can work with.
The two of you lock eyes and give a small nod.
“Now, before you get any idea,” Professor Yamada waves her hands to get everyone's attention back on her. “I’m assigning you all partners.”
Great. There goes that plan.
It’s fine. As long as your partner does their part of the project, and you don’t have to do all of it, you’ll survive. Hell, even if they do a shoddy job, you’ll fix it up and get a good grade. They just need to do some aspect of it, so you don’t drown in your other responsibilities and it.
Five pairs are called when Sam’s name and someone you don’t know are called.
Towards the end, she finally says your name.
“And-”
There's a feeling you get when you’re in the woods, and you can feel a predator watching you. An unease that's wired into us by evolution to avoid the dark and scary things. A holdover from when we lacked tools and greater brain power than everything else on the planet. The same unease makes the back of your neck prick, the hair rising. It tells you that danger lurks nearby.
warnings: MDNI, angst, p in v, mention of vomit, makeup sex, death (not character), thoughts of suicidal ideation, sappy emotional sex, old man cums quick, Logan yells at reader, smoking, knotting (not a/b/o)
wc: 9k
A/N: I do not know brevity. This was only meant to be 4k max
It’s cold on the ranch now. The first frost came barrelling through, ice crystals hanging on the barbed wire fences and freezing over the troughs out in the pasture. Days on the ranch start early, often before dawn, the first rays of light peeking over the crest of the mountains, painting it pink and golden. He’d step out into the crisp morning air and go to the barn, where he’d feed the animals. The chickens were too loud if he didn’t feed them first, the two roosters crowing till he did, so they went first. After the chickens, it was time for the two horses and the cows. After three years of doing it, he moved with practiced precision. Scattering hay, pouring oats, and spreading seeds are all mindless tasks.
Logan had to venture out on Weston, a reliable but honorary son of a bitch, with an icebreaker to free up the water for the herd. Then, he had to head into the barns and ensure they weren’t frozen. He should pull out the heated troughs, kept convincing himself he’d do it next weekend 27 weekends ago, and now it was necessary. His back ached a bit at the thought. Pulling out all the equipment and placing it was a full day's job with just himself doing it. He was getting a fucking headache just thinking about it.
It’s not that he wasn’t strong enough. He was just old. He was far too old to run a ranch independently with so little help. Each winter felt a bit long as if there was too much work. Maybe he had grown lazier, too, over the years. No more fighting and not working at Xavier’s school; he was just living on the land now. Cattle ranching. Felt like an All-American cowboy when he had on wranglers, flannel, Justin boots, and some hat he had picked up at the tractor supply store a year back. The hat had seen better days, and the ridge was beaten up and dented from all the times he’d fold it in half and tuck it into his back pocket. He didn’t bother with a jacket, be far too warm that way.
The ranch was quiet, save for the sound of cattle and horses. Now, the yellow pasture stretches out from the start of his property line on the road to near the base of the mountains. His little private valley. At first, the quiet made him anxious, like he was waiting for another catastrophe to come and tear it apart. That he’d wake up with someone trying to kill him, and all too often, he’d close his eyes and envision all the torture he’d been through—too much pain and suffering in his life.
The quiet also gave him too much time to think about everything he’d done. Everything he’d lost. He was a man who had known mainly suffering for all his life. Sometimes, he felt he didn’t deserve this peace, this serenity. It was dissonant. He was a fighter, a soldier, a weapon made human to kill and kill and kill again until the only color he knew was red, the only scent he smelt iron, till the collar around his neck pulled so tight it’d break it.
His hands ached, claws threatening to come out as he worked himself up, the sting of vomit on his tongue. The back of his knuckles split open like they weren’t even there, like there was no skin or muscle for the adamantine to cut through. Like it didn’t hurt every time it did.
Weston whinnied under him, tired of lazily trotting around the barn to check for coyote marks. He wanted to gallop around the outskirts of the land while Logan sniffed out any danger to the herd. Didn’t need a cattle dog when he was a glorified one.
“Yeah yeah, asshole.” His spurs dig into Weston’s sides, urging the horse into a gallop. He might as well get the morning round done now.
The horse broke into a gallop, bouncing Logan in the saddle, wind whipping him in the face. For a moment, the noise in his head quieted. There was no constant thought of you, just what he had to do after rounds.
As they reached the fence line, Logan scanned the horizon, senses on high alert. He knew he was never looking for just coyotes or stray animals; he was always searching for something more. A threat that might never come. Some bullshit hopped-up mutant on a vendetta or some power-hungry human looking to use him.
Now, at a canter, the two patrolled the whole property line as he took deep breaths, inhaling the cold air, trying to focus on the present. On the life he had here. Not what he had left behind. But the past is never far behind, and he had so much past to run from. It would always be near him, lurking in the shadows. The ranch could never drown it out, cover it up, and make him forget. Maybe it was just another reminder he could never truly escape who he was, no matter how hard he tried.
“Easy now,” he murmured, pulling Weston to a stop near the far edge of the property. He could see everything from here. It was beautiful and peaceful, but all he could feel was the weight of what he was missing.
Sometimes, he swore he smelt your perfume on the breeze.
“Let’s head back.” Weston turned around, ready to run the way back toward the barn. This routine was the only thing that kept him sane. The work. The responsibilities. Barely enough to keep him busy but not enough to keep him from sinking too far into the darkness in his thoughts.
He’d gotten lazy the past week and fallen behind on the hay maintenance, so he’d need to buck it today. Move it all from being covered under some tarps to the hay barn. Move them all one by one. He was glad that 150 pounds felt like nothing to him in times like that.
The chicken coop also needed a roof repair. The last storm did a number on it. Logan bought the supplies the last time he was in town. It just meant stripping the old one off, resecuring the waterproof liner, and hammering the steel roof. Maybe he’d add some more insulation next weekend in preparation for the winter.
Today was going to be a long one.
───※ ·❆· ※───
A knock on the door echoed in the ranch house, slicing through the quiet thrum of the fridge kicking on and the TV volume on low. He wasn’t expecting company as he stopped mid-swig of his beer, brow furrowed. The neighbors knew by now to leave him the hell alone and had enough run-ins to steer clear of him unless it was an emergency. There were no ranch hands due to arrive until next Monday.
His boots thudded with heavy steps as he rose from the couch and walked over. The tips of his claws cut through his skin, the metallic ring soft as he reached the door.
He grabbed the handle, ready for it to be blown off the hinges by someone knocking it down.
“Logan, it’s me.” That's a voice he’d recognize anywhere, unmistakable and achingly familiar. The one he longed to hear to the point it drove him crazy. The one he dreamed of every night, of all the terrible things it had said to him because of what he’d done. Heard it in his sleep and his waking hour like a fucking ghost haunting him.
“Can you open the door already? I know you’re in there.”
He blinked as he did, trying to grapple with his emotions brought to light by the reality of you standing there.
“What?” his voice cracked. “What are you doing here?”
You looked so sad, a deep sorrow in your eyes—the kind that had been there when the two of you had argued the night before he left. It made him feel like he missed something crucial like you had lost a part of yourself—one that settled deep in your bones and moved in your muscles and ligaments.
“Charles told me where you were.”
His throat felt painfully tight, as if the words were squeezing his neck. He didn’t expect this- hadn’t expected you to ever ask Xavier where he was and come see him.
Neither of you moved, the door half-open as he stood blocking it.
“You ain’t supposed to be here.” His tone was gruff. He had been smoking more since coming to the ranch, trying to dull his brain.
Your voice was steady but filled with so much sadness it made him want to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Plead with you to transgress his sins. Go to confession and tell all his wrongdoings. “I needed to see you again.”
He looked out into the driveway, seeing nothing but emptiness.
“Did you fly over here? You don’t even have your suit on.”
“It’s fine,” you said with a shrug, “it’s dark out anyways.”
He stared at you. The porch lights set a soft, warm glow on your skin, the panes of your face made clear. You looked beautiful, mesmerizingly so, as you stared up at him.
“You gonna let me in or not?”
“Don’t get comfortable,” he grumbled, his tone softer now that you were closer. He opened the door wider, letting you walk past him.
He had the fire going, for which you were grateful. Flying without your suit always left you frigid afterward, especially since Logan had taken to living in the middle of nowhere nestled in the Rocky Mountains. You had always been jealous Storm didn’t have to deal with that.
The ranch house Logan was living in was quaint. It was a three-bedroom, two-story house built in the 1880s that the previous owners renovated in recent years to feature modern amenities. The floors creaked as you walked, clearly still the original hardwood. He hadn’t done much decorating. It was clear that Charles had been the one to decorate the place for him.
He wasn’t ready to see you. Ready to talk about why he left you in the middle of the night four years ago.
You quickly found your way into the living and dining room. Logan had left pocket doors open in these two separate rooms. Sitting on the couch, you could see through to the kitchen. A large pot was on the gas stove, the flames flickering on low. It smelled like beef stew.
Logan lingered by the entrance to the living room off of the entry space, unsure of what to do next. Watching you settle into the beat-up couch made him feel a mess of relief and anxiety. He was glad to see you were okay. Your hair was shorter, and you must have cut it after he left at some point. Grey hairs were coming through at your temples.
“It’s, uh, good to see you.” Having his eyes on you like this made you feel small again. Like he was leaving you all over again.
Logan nodded, swallowing hard. “You too.”
You smiled at him, and it hurt. Cut him like a thousand glass pieces over and over again. He was getting sandblasted and healing through it.
He walked into the kitchen, trying to distance himself from you and his feelings, and stirred the stew. “I wasn’t expecting company,” he commented his back to you.
Your hands wrung together automatically, anxiety creeping up your throat. Maybe it was a mistake to come here and see him again when he had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do to you the night he left. “It’s fine, I don’t need to eat.”
The wooden spoon clatters against the rest, and he puts it down harshly, making you wince. “Nonsense. I can hear your fucking teeth chattering from here.”
“I’m fine, really. It's just wind chill.”
“Just take the damn food!” Logan bellowed, his hand slamming down against the counter, breathing heavily. “Just take the damn food.”
You were silent for a moment, reeling. He’d never been like this with you before. “Okay.”
Logan closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and pushed it out of his mouth, trying to steady himself. He didn’t mean to lash out at you, to snap, but just seeing you again put him in confrontation with his past and his own feelings. It was more than he could handle. He grabbed a second bowl from the cabinet, ladling the stew between the both of them. Even after all this time, he took care to give you more potatoes than beef and half his carrots.
“Come sit at the table. Don’t want soup on the damn couch.”
You moved quietly, always did. It unnerved him when he first met you. Your mutation lets you float more than walk and never hear any footfall when you move. He sat across from you, and you could finally get a good look at him. The years had never been kind to him, but he seemed older now than ever. The past three had been the worst of his life. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and the wrinkles on his face seemed more pronounced.
The silence between you was thick with unspoken words, cut only by the scrapping of metal spoons against ceramic bowls. The sound echoed in the quiet house with the TV now shut off.
As you finished up your food, he looked antsy. His left leg bounced up and down, hand strumming on the table.
“Thank you for the stew.” you pipped up, breaking the silence.
“Yeah, well, you look like you needed it. " Despite all these years, he still cared for you and loved you. It was evident to you.
You both sat there momentarily, the silence returning but now filled with different tension. The possibility of reconciliation hurts more than anger.
“Why did you come here?” he puzzled. “After all this time, why now?”
You tapped against the bowl, inconsistent drumming on the sharp ceramic cutting against his ears. “I needed to see you.”
“Bullshit, what do you want”
“Jesus, Logan,’ you finally snapped, lightning crackling as you did. He acted like the wounded party when he was the one who had left you. “Am I not allowed to want to see you?”
You didn’t mean for it to happen. Far past the age that your powers slipping up due to your emotions should be embarrassing. Static electricity builds up around you.
“You left,” you continued, to reel in your emotions, to keep them in check. “You left me without a word, without an explanation, and now you’re demanding an answer as to why I'm here? Do you have any idea what you did to me?”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as he looked to the side. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t have this conversation with you. Not now. The night he left, you felt like he was ripping out his own heart, running from his feelings and the truth about the world around him.
It was like he was on autopilot as he stood from the table, knocking his chair off balance as he went. Like a bull in a china shop, that’s how he moved. He could hear you talking and feel the vibrations in the air, but none of the words meant anything. You were begging him to just sit down and talk to you, a pleading whine in your tone.
But he couldn’t.
Just like the last time he saw you, he walked out the door with nothing but the clothes on his back into the night down the porch steps.
The screen door slammed shut as you walked out after him, your body trembling with the intensity of your emotions, your hair standing on end from the static. He never told you what was wrong or why he did what he did. He just left. Tears blur your vision as your back hits the siding of the house, sinking down.
“Logan!” you yelled, calling out after him, voice breaking. “Please just talk to me!”
He didn’t turn around. His figure grew smaller, illuminated by the porch lights flickering from your lack of control. It felt like your heart was breaking again. The ache of his absence, familiar and painful, made all the more unbearable by seeing him again.
───※ ·❆· ※───
“I’m staying here till you talk to me.”
When he finally came back to the house, knowing all too damn well, he had to take care of the ranch, that was the first thing you told him. He didn’t like it but found it hard to argue with you and Charles. It was impossible to change Charles’ mind; he knew you were too stubborn to leave. So he let it happen.
Letting you sleep in the guest bedroom across from his was easier. It felt like he slept better since you had shown up. Even if you woke him up in the middle of the night, the floorboards creaking in protest under your weight as you went pee around 4:15 a.m. every night.
He’d lie in his bed, now fully aware of the space in it next to him, listening to the sounds of the house. The gentle rise and fall of your breathing, the ticking of the clock downstairs, the wind outside. He would never admit it, but you being there gave him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years. The night terrors that plagued him endlessly seemed to ease. For the first time in a long time, he could close his eyes without fear of being swallowed up and spit out by the past.
During the day, you had a tentative routine with him, and he woke up earlier than you did. It had only been a week since you had shown up. You had left at one point to fly back to the school and get some of your belongings. Every morning, you’d go out to the chicken coop, collect the eggs, and make breakfast. It was nothing fancy, some variation of a bread product, eggs, and a protein. Sometimes, it was pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Other times, it was steak and eggs. Today, it was omelets.
You’d help out in other ways, too. Go out and move the steer to a different part of their sectioned-off pasture. You were faster at de-ice the troughs, flying, and whatnot, so he let you take over that job. It was hard work, and your muscles ached like they hadn’t for a long time.
Logan had to admit it’s helpful having you on the ranch. He’s got a greenhouse and some therapy project Charles talked him into, but that’s been looking worse for wear. The weather pattern changed the past couple of weeks, and there’s been an inversion that has left the valley with no direct sunlight. All the plants inside had started to wilt and were on the path to dying, not that he cared. He’d survive without some tomatoes. Then you threw open the door, solar energy pouring out from your palms, and they’d perk right up. You had that effect on plants, hell, people too.
Something about you, even if you didn’t have your mutation, would have made you shine as bright as the fucking sun to anyone. All wild curls and big smiles, a helping hand to those in need—just one of those people who made the world a better place by breathing. You always said you were just doing your part, but god, there was so much good, so much sweetness in you. If he took a bite, he’d even get a cavity. Seeing you wrapped up in an old wool sweater of his, bent over coaxing a plant back to life, made him feel so ashamed of himself.
“The plants in the greenhouse look a lot better this week.”
Some of the leaves crunched underfoot, but most of them were soggy in the mud as you walked over to the steer barn where he was working. One of the steers had a rock impacting his back hoof, and he had to get it out. Logan had just finished spraying it with salicylic acid and wrapping it as you walked in.
“Like I said, you don’t need to be doing all that.” He grumbled, standing from the stool and leading the cow back to the enclosure.
Where he spoke dissent and anger, you heard what he really felt. Fear. He was still that little boy in his father's manor.
“It’s not a problem.”
It hurts to be this close to him and not have him, to know that things could just be better if he were honest.
You'd cook him dinner in the evening, sit at the old wooden table, and comment about the school. About what you’d been up to. You steered away from the elephant in the room. It was best to talk about the mundane things. Sometimes, you’d slip and tell him something more personal than you meant to. He didn’t add much to the conversation because he hadn’t been doing much since leaving you, but he’d chime in about the animals. About the fox that kept creeping around the chicken coop.
Logan still had moments of withdrawal, times when he’d just disappear from the ranch, and you wouldn’t see him till the morning. It was hard on you, a reminder of just how much had changed between the two of you. You used to come home to him after a day of teaching and collapse into his arms on the couch. He’d offer you a sip of his beer, something dark and hoppy, and you’d taste it and declare it’s gross. Logan had told you one day, he’d find a beer you liked, and he’d stock the fridge with it. The closest you’d gotten was some Mangocart IPA that he told you was meant for 17-year-olds, and you told him to go fuck himself.
Healing wasn’t a straight path forward. And healing couldn’t start until you cut out the festering parts. You can never go backward, but you must go forward while looking at the past.
The two of you sat on the porch tonight, twilight hues, deep indigo taking over the sky, and the stars coming out. The first night you were out here with him, you couldn’t stop staring at them. Had a whole thing about them since they charged up your mutation, but he just thought you looked gorgeous. Older but still gorgeous.
That was another thing that scared him. You are aging. He didn’t know how long he had left to live, hell, if he could even die. Some wounds should have killed him many times over, but they never did. They never do. But he's seen you bleeding out and broken after a fight with Magneto, a laceration so severe you had to self-cauterize the wound on the spot and passed out multiple times while doing so. You were getting older, and he was staying the same.
You were 24 when the two of you first met. Your parents were good folks, never held any bias towards mutants, and helped you learn to control your powers and keep yourself hidden from the government when they were still rounding up mutants. The only reason you got found out was because of Cerebro and Charles. With so little training, it should have scared him how strong you were back then. A few years with Charles, and you were deadly. Deadly, but a pacifist.
The air was cold. You could see your breath as you rocked in the rocking chair he had out there. Wafts of pungent tobacco hit your nose as he lit up a cigar. He had stopped when you lived together. You looked over at him, feeling the weight of his eyes on you. As soon as your own met his, he looked back out into the night sky. The silence was heavy.
“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly.
“Miss what?” he drew another drag from his cigar.
“The school. The kids. The…purpose.”
“I think about the students daily. It was good work. Important work. But…” Logan trailed off, searching for the right words. What were the right words to say without telling you everything? “It got complicated.”
You nodded, understanding the unspoken part of his statement, drawing your knees to your chest. “It’s still important. And the kids still need you.”
After all this time, you still wanted him. Despite every wrong he had done to you and all the harm he caused you. The most pathetic part of him was ready to take your kindness, love, and care and bathe in it. Draw you back into the bottomless pit of his life and ruin you like he had all the others.
You saw him clench his jaw. A twisting wave of guilt and self-loathing ate him up. A man made to destroy and he was afraid to destroy you too.
“The kids will be fine without me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, they’ve been fine without me so far.” He shot back, but there was a hollow note in his voice. There wasn’t any gumption behind it.
“They’ve managed, but that doesn’t mean they’re fine. You gave them something no one else could, Logan. They relied on you, they needed you-they need you.” You corrected gently, reaching out to touch his thigh. He was always so warm.
He took another drag, blowing the smoke away from you. “They’ll move on. They’re better off without me.”
“They didn’t move on, and they aren't okay without you.”
Logan looked down at your hand on his thigh, his expression a mixture of pain and something else. Something so soft, buried deep beneath the layers of hardened exterior. He didn’t pull away, but you could see his temptation rising.
“I’m not me without you, Logan. Please just talk to me.” Your grip tightened, the denim rough under your fingers, and you begged him to let you in again. To tell you why he left you, why you haven't heard from him since.
He needed to keep you safe from himself.
“You should leave.” Standing from his chair, he threw open the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him as he walked over to the living room.
You rose after him, chasing him into the house, your heart pounding in your chest. The floorboards cracked up the both of you, echoing in the house. He moved with a desperate, frantic everything. His broad shoulders tense as if he could outrun the conversation you were about to have.
“Why won’t you let me care about you!” You cried out, voice breaking, trembling with the weight of the emotions you've been holding back. He didn’t stop, didn’t turn around, but kept going, and your words spilled out like a damn bursting. “I am begging you to let me in, to let me love you, to stop pushing me away like you do every time! You left me. In the middle of the night, you left. I woke up, and you were gone. And all I have ever asked of you is to let me love you.”
From behind, he looked like a man barely holding together as he reached the living room.
“I don’t want you to.” he ground out. Each word hurt to say, and he hated lying to you.
“We both know that's a lie, Logan. I’m not stupid. I know you love me. Just please let me in. Why won't you let me in?”
“Because I don’t want you to wind up fucking dead!” His voice reverberated off the walls. “Everyone and everything I have ever loved is buried six feet fucking deep, and I don’t want you to join the shithole graveyard that is my life.”
Logan’s voice cut deep through the room, his shoulder hunched as he leaned over the back of the couch. The sob was settling in his chest as he tried to keep it at bay. He didn’t want you to see him crying. It was like he could see you now, lying in that grave, another name added to the long list of people he’d killed or gotten killed.
“You think leaving me is protecting me? You think that by pushing me away, you're saving me?” You hated being an angry crier, the tears welling in your eyes. “I’m already in this. I’ve been in this for years. You leaving didn’t save me—it fucking broke me.”
“I just,” his breath was shaky, knuckles white against the couch as the wood splintered from his grip. “I can’t lose you too.”
You stepped closer, a hesitant hand hanging in the air a moment before it made contact. Slipping over his back, meeting your other hand in the front as you hugged him from behind.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, voice soft and thick with sadness. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I’m not letting you leave this time.”
He shook his head, tilting it backward to keep the tears from falling. “You don’t understand. I keep telling you that I’m cursed, that everyone who gets close to me, everyone that I love,” the crack in his voice hurt you, “ends up dead. And I can’t let that happen to you.”
“You’re not cursed,” you mumbled into his back. “You’ve been through hell, but you deserve a chance at happiness and love.”
His shoulders shook as the sob he had been holding back finally broke free. He crumples against the back of the couch, wrenching at his waist as his head meets his hands. You went down with him, following the curve of his back with your front, holding him tightly as he cried.
“I’m here,” you cooed into his ear, your tears cresting down your cheeks. “I’m here, baby.”
“I don’t deserve you.” he choked out between sobs.
You tightened your hold on him, wishing that the pressure could soothe his aches and worries and make him feel whole again. That it would wash away all the suffering he’s been through and wipe it from his mind, even if you knew that pain was part of what made him him.
“Yes, you do. You deserve love and happiness and to find that with me.”
“I’m just going to hurt you again, like I have before.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me-”
“God dammit, I’ve killed people,” he stood up straight to face you, his voice jumping in volume, shaking you off balance. As you stumbled, he reached out, a hand on your hip to steady you. “I’ve killed so many people that it’d take them years to find all the bodies that I’ve fucking piled up in my 230 years of life. I am a fucking mess of a man who is so goddamn broken, and I don’t want to drag you down in the mess that I have made.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting around your face as he did. His beard was grown out, the greys now outnumbered the black, jaw trembling as he spoke.
“And just when I think I can start to be okay without you in my life, you show up, doll, and it ruins all that progress I made, if I even fucking made any in the first place. Make me realize just how damn much I need you. And how much I am so fucking scared of losing you because I can’t take it if I do.”
You reached up, hand cupping his face against the scruff of his beard. “I know that I’ve always known the life you lived before meeting Charles, and it doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the thought of you shutting me out and living out here on your own till you die. You’re not this terrible monster you think you are. Yes, you’ve done terrible things, but you’ve also done so much good in the world. You’ve saved just as many lives as you’ve taken.”
His eyes softened, tongue darting out to wet dry lips that stuck to his teeth.
“I can’t change who I am. I can’t be someone you deserve.”
“I’m not asking you to change.”
His other hand met your hip, both of them squeezing them tightly as his body shook. “I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t,” you promised. It was easy to promise that to him. As much as he needed you, you needed him. “You and me, we’ll get through this, and all that's to come.” You wrapped your arms around his neck.
For a long while, he just stared at you, listening to your heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, looking for any doubt or lie in what you said. Fearful you’d sweep the rug out from under him and leave. He couldn’t find any indication of the sort. All he could see was how much you loved him, how much the distance between you had hurt, and how badly you wanted him to let you in.
Logan let out a shaky breath before pulling you into a kiss. His facial hair tickled your face as your lips met. It was intense as his lips moved against yours, his hands sliding down to your ass to pick you up and hold you. You could feel all his longing, desperation, and the despair he had been holding back. His lips were chapped from working outside, not caring for for himself like he should be, but you didn’t mind.
It sent a shiver down your spine, having him so close after so long. He was so warm against you. Your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Logan groaned as you did, parting his mouth enough that your tongue could meet his.
The kiss deepened. You could taste the salt of his tears mingling with your own. His grip on your ass tightened, pulling you flush against his body like he was afraid you might disappear. His mouth moved hungrily against your own tongue, nearly forcing yours into submission as he held you close. He felt like a man starved.
You matched his intensity, trying to pour all your love and care into the kiss, your lips moving together in a way that felt both familiar and new. Hoping that enough of your love could spill into his cup and fill him so full it didn’t matter what spilled out his cracks. There’d be more poured in every second. A rediscovery of what the love between the two of you had been.
The two of you have to part far sooner than he liked, your lung capacity smaller than his own. His eyes were still wet with tears as he watched you, your chest rising and falling as you gulped down the air.
He leaned in towards you, placing a small kiss on your forehead as he rested his head against your own, moving your ass to rest against the back of the couch. You had changed your conditioner; it smelled like honey now, but no matter how fragrant it was, it couldn’t cut through the smell of you to him. You smelled like home.
“I’m sorry, doll.” his voice was a murmur against your scalp, heavy with regret. If hammer home the point, he’d bend nail after nail into soft wood, splitting it down the middle with how much metal he’d drive into it, just how sorry he was.
“I forgive you.”
Somehow, he gripped you tighter.“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“I know you will.” you pulled away from your position tucked against his chest to look up at him. “Kiss me again?”
He compiled without hesitation, his lips finding yours so tenderly. It was slow, deliberate, a melting of his body with yours. A promise, shared understanding, a soul tie that bound the two of you together.
Pulling away, his eyes met yours, and all he could see was love.
“You gonna take me to bed or what, big boy?”
Logan moved quickly up the stairs, taking two of them at a time. The promise of having you again was all the incentive he needed. He missed you. The way you felt under him, the way your pussy felt against his dick. How you fluttered around him every time he angled just right, how you smelt. He'd been jacking off to the thought of you for years now, and finally getting to have you again was like a fevered dream.
It wasn’t graceful the way he swung open his door and tossed you on the bed. You bounced a few times, mattress springs creaking as you did, before propping yourself up with an eyebrow raised, questioning him. No doubt he’d never hear the end of it; could hear you nagging him now. “A spring mattress? Logan? You’re made of metal. You can't have a spring mattress. You know this.”
You raised a finger, curling in towards yourself, beckoning him closer. He was a dog on a leash for you, moving like a well-trained animal. If they’d found you during Project K, he would have listened to every command they gave. Hell, he’d roll over right now if you told him to.
His knees enclosed your legs as he crawled over you, dog tags slipping out from his white tank top and dangling in your face. You smelled like him. His body wash and house, mixed with your fruit conditioner. Underneath it all, he could just smell you. The salt on your skin, the heady scent of your arousal. Logan lowered himself, tucking his head into your neck, and took a deep breath, groaning at the smell of you.
“Need you logan.”
That was something he’d missed. That pitched whine in the back of your throat you got when you were all horny and needy for him. Your voice turned raspy and low, caressed his ears so smoothly, and it made him want to purr like a fucking cat. The cadence just scratched an itch in his skull, setting his nerves on fire.
With a low growl, he cradled your face in his hands, thumbs tracing over your cheekbones, relishing the heat coming off your skin. The little bumps and scars that crossed your skin felt like home to him, a map he’d always know how to read no matter how many years passed. He leaned in, lips meeting yours, and it just felt right. It always felt right. He was stupid for trying to run from you all this time.
Your fingers laced in his hair on the nape of his neck, fingernails scraping his scalp. He groaned low, wanton, animalistic, your tongue meeting his own in a warm, wet dance. Logan devoured your lips, his hunger for you impossible to sate. It was messy, desperate, the way he clung to you. Grabbing your waist and lifting you closer to him, you felt like a feather to him, all soft flesh and curves against his hard angles.
He pulled away from the kiss, moving along your jawline and neck, stubble brushing your skin, making it more sensitive than it already was. Not stopping at your neck, he continued down over your collarbones and the expanse of your chest, all the skin he could access in the v-neck you wore. His fingers tugged at the hem of your sweater, pulling it over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra, perfect fucking nipples already perking up for him.
Logan leaned forward, his lips closing around your nipple. You gasped, back arching off the bed, the cool metal of his dog tags stinging against your skin. His tongue swirled around your nipple, fingers digging in at your waist before he pulled away with a pop, your chest heaving. You always looked so beautiful coming under him, over him, beside him, any position in which your naked body was near his and your flesh met in sinful desire.
“Oh,” his voice was ragged like he had fought all his battles and wars at once. “Oh god, doll…”
Testament and faith could be read about in books and studied. The Bible could teach you of Jesus’ preaching, but true faith, true trust in the unknown, could never be read about. It had to be felt and experienced. Logan slid to his knees, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed as he went. The fabric of your leggings felt too thick, separating him from his worship. He could smell you through them, through the lace of your panties. Heady, musky, a whine rumbles through his chest as his face falls against your thigh, nose pressed against the fast of your pussy. He breathes in deep, savoring your scent, his mouth watering like he can taste you.
“Doll, please,” he begged, opening his bloodshot eyes, his voice needy. “Let me taste you?”
“You don't have to ask, Logan,” you replied, smiling. “I’m yours, always yours.”
Logan hooked his finger into the waistband of your legging and panties, tugging them down in one swift motion. The cold air of the room met your skin as he did, but you didn't have long to think about it as he parted your legs, and his hot breath made contact with your pussy. His mouth hovered above for a moment, just wafting in your scent, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Fucking love the smell of this pussy.” he murmured to himself, a low growl, before he dove in, tongue parting your folds.
Wet muscle slid between you so easily before swirling around your sensitive clit, teasing it. His hot breath ghosted over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers flew to his head, trying to find purchase in his hair as he went. Logan was ferocious. He went from your clit to your hole, delving inside you, trying to taste every inch of you. He grabbed your hips, tilting them upwards, making you squeal as he opened his mouth wider on you. Working himself into a frenzy, growling, the vibrations amplified by his adamantium skeleton. It rumbled through you, low and deep, like the base setting of a vibrator.
He takes a second, not quite remembering the perfect rhythm for you right away, but he gets to it quickly. Starts playing with your pussy like a fine-tuned machine the way he has you gushing in minutes. Your wetness coats his tongue, and that engine is firing.
Each stroke, each flick of his tongue on your clit brought you closer to ecstasy. The stars might power you, but he’d have you see them tonight. He devours your pussy like a man starved, primal hunger driving him. You couldn’t fight back, not that you wanted to. All that you could do was let him keep going. Let him take you to the edge. Push you past it. Over it. Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your chest so hard you feel it in your temples.
You push his head back, abdomen muscles flexing, a thick line of spit and arousal connecting Logan’s mouth to your pussy. His pupils were blown wide, eyes unfocused, hungry. A red, ruddy color spread across his cheeks. He felt hard enough to cut steel with his length, rutting against the bed. They move on their own accord, desperate for friction. There’s a growing wet spot of precum at the front of his darkening blue jeans.
“Cum for me, doll, please, I need to taste it.” That low vibration of his voice made you whine, hips bucking against him.
Logan spread his tongue flat and mercilessly kept going at your clit. Your moans grew louder, fingernails digging into his scalp as he manhandled you around like you weighed nothing. He gripped your hips tighter, tilting them further, ensuring he had better access to your pussy, before taking your clit in his mouth and sucking on it. An involuntary squeal came out of you as the added pressure made your back arch.
The suction made your stomach drop, and your toes curl. He kept swiping his tongue side to side, little pulses of suction in time. It left you writhing and gasping. One of his hands released your hips, moving so that he could slip two fingers into your wet hole. You were so soaked he met no resistance, walls clenching around his digits as he slid them in, desperate for something to clamp down on. The pads of his fingers brush against your G-spot, and the lights of the room glow brighter as you begin to lose control. You’re so close so quickly it feels like you can’t breathe from how overstimulating it was.
You push his head back, abdomen muscles flexing, a thick line of spit and arousal connecting Logan’s mouth to your pussy. His pupils were blown wide, eyes unfocused, hungry. A red, ruddy color spread across his cheeks. He felt hard enough to cut steel with his length, rutting against the bed. Your vision blurred, light filling your eyes, your only point of focus in the world, his mouth on your sensitive pussy.
“Taste so goddamn good,” he licked his lips, breaking the strand before diving back in. Your legs shook, thighs clamping down around his ears. You were so close, you could taste it. Logan picked up the pace, his tongue rapidly flicking over your clit, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering hole.
The room was filled with sloppy, wet sounds of Logans eating you out mixed with your cries of pleasure. He presses your pussy harder against his face, moaning as he does. You clench around him, body drawing tight like a bow as your release nears, his fangs scrape on the fat of your pussy lips. It's like you leave your body for a minute, your ears ringing and your heart pumping. Every nerve in your body is lit up.
Logan reaches up to grope at your breasts, and with a pinch of your nipple, you cum with a loud moan that startles the cows, the lightbulbs exploding as you do. Your body trembles and shakes, juices gushing onto his palette like a tall glass of iced tea after a long day of work during the summer, and his thirst is quenched, but his appetite is only hungrier. You felt like you were melting, pleasure pouring out of you.
“Fuck,” you sound winded, “I haven’t had that happen since I was 24.” Your smile shows crow's feet, crinkling comforts near the sides of your eyes as you smile, really smile at him for the first time this week.
“Getting old, kid.”
“Oh, shut up!”
He ducks to the side to dodge the pillow you throw his way.
“You want to keep going?”
“With you, I don’t ever want to stop.”
His eyes go all soft at the corners, caught up in his feelings. “Promise you won’t ever have to again.”
“Good.”
He picks you up and places you up on the center of the bed, grabbing the pillow you threw at him to place under your hips for support. His clothes come off, and his blue Wrangler jeans drop to the floor with his tank top and boxer briefs. The dog tags stay on. He knows you’ve got a thing for them. They glint in the dim light, steel catching your eye.
Rough, calloused hands slide up your legs, starting at your ankles, and he kneels between your legs on the bed. He folds you nearly in half, hooking your knees over his shoulders, his hip meeting yours. You feel the curling wisps of his pubes tickle against the back of your thighs. Always been a hairy guy, told you it's how he was so warm all the time. It makes your stomach flutter.
Logan leans down, capturing your lips against his own in a kiss before lining up his pre-cum soaked tip with your entrance. He eases into you with a hiss, your walls squeezing him tightly. The length was never an issue, he was only about an inch and a half above average, but it was the girth that made your jaw go slack and droll pool out the sides as he fucked you. The stretch is delicious as he slides inside you.
The first inch yielded a slick gushing sound from your pussy, while the second made you gasp, and the third had your walls tighten around him, taking his and your breath away. The stretch felt so good with how fat of a cock he had. One that felt so much girthier than you’d ever imagine it to be. His cock twitched, heavy, inside you, his pulse beating in time with yous.
“Jesus, princess, you’re squeezing me so tight. Relax,” he rolled his hip about halfway in and still meeting resistance. Relax.” It came out like a pant. Fuck you were so tighter, like a vice around him. He wanted to take it slow, cherish you, show you how much he’d been missing you, but he was an old dog, and he wouldn’t last that long with how bad you were squeezing him.
Your hands gripped the sheets, nails cutting the threadbare cheap cotton ones he’d been using for all these years. “Too much Logan.” You could barely breathe, let alone get the words out.
“You can take it, doll, remember?” he groaned, finally sliding in, flesh meeting yours in a wet slap. Your poor little hole stretched to the max as you whimpered. “See? You can take it.” Logan emphasized each word with a thrust of his hips.
He felt his control slipping, thrusts starting to pick up, super strength coming into play. It coiled deep in his belly as he buried himself to the hilt inside you. “Feel so fucking good. Oh fuck. You’re so perfect, perfect little pussy.”
Logan’s hands move to grab your breasts, pushing them together. He plays with your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and index finger. His pace is brutal, and the position allows him to hit that perfect spot on your gummy walls that has you seeing stars. He’s all grunts and whimpers, silver tips eclipsing the skin of his knuckles. It gets to the point he wants to go faster, the need to cum inside you far too great, and he lets go of your tits and balances himself on the bed.
The base of his cock swelled, his knot beginning to grow. This was the part you missed the most. The way he’d stretch you out so good on his dick, only to then slip his knot inside you and stretch you even further.
“Ain’t gonna last much longer, doll.”
You moan, reaching down to play with your messy clit. It’s so wet between your legs it’s hard to find any purchase, and the sensitive nub slides back and forth so easily. The bed creaks, the wood floors groan, and the bed frame slams against the wall. He’s getting rougher by the second, his knot starting to press against you.
“Give it to me, I’m ready.”
Logan thrusts forward, his knot sliding in with a satisfying pop, your words spurring him on. He pulses, cock swelling impossibly large before he cums. Thick, hot white ropes paint your insides as he stutters and groans, nearly growls, dropping to his elbows and forcing your knees to your chest. His hips don’t stop moving, still rutting up into you as you play with your clit. You just need a little bit more to push you over the edge.
His voice is gravely in your ear as he careens over you, half squishing you with his weight. “I love you.”
It’s the emotion of the moment that makes you cum. Tears in your eyes and love in your heart. Love is a lot like faith, blind trust in the unknown. A bishop can train his whole life, be a theologian, a scholar of the bible, know all of his god’s teachings inside out, and have less faith than a man who’s lived through hell. Putting your trust into the unknown and praying that good comes back to you. You felt like you were finally home, like that piece of yourself you’ve been missing for years is clicking back into place.
Logan didn’t know romance. He was gruff and awkward, snappy at the random way things. But he stood on the outside when you walked along the street, never let you carry anything, and opened every door for you. Never bought you flowers because he hated the local guy who sold them. But he picked them for you daily on his runs. Didn’t ever wash your laundry, but he folded every piece of clothing you owned and hung up all your shirts, all of it, just because you mentioned hating folding clothes to him once.
He’d never be able to admit to you how much you meant to him fully. When you came into his life, he was close to ending things. There had been so many dark, endless days that only he remembered now. Horrors beyond human comprehension were his burden, shadowing his every waking moment until you came walking into his life.
There’d be a conversation in the morning that probably would rise into an argument. He’d likely storm off, and you’d be there waiting, telling him to get therapy, and this time, he would. This time, he’d go talk to a shrink about the mess in his head and sort it out for you, for himself. This time he wouldn’t fuck it up and leave you in the middle of the night. He’d have the difficult, uncomfortable conversations that activate his fight or flight.
You were soft under him as he lifted off of you, still unable to pull out due to his knot. He rotated the two of you so you were on top, your chests pressed together as he lazily traced your spine.
Ten months till you graduate and can catch a break. Between being a TA, your family being insane, social obligations, and your academics it'll be a miracle if you don't drop dead from stress before graduation. You've just got 3 elective credits left to take in a class with a professor known for being an easy grader. Except now you've got a group project with a whiny, rich fratboy who wants nothing more than your attention and in your bed.
Reader traits: senior at university, is a TA, rough home life with messy family relationships, strict with self, no nonsense, reader needs a massage
Tags: grumpy x sunshin, eventual smut, yearning, university au. frat au, forced proximity, there was only one bed, more to be added
